|Product dimensions:||5.40(w) x 8.40(h) x 0.70(d)|
|Age Range:||12 - 18 Years|
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By Dee Garretson
Month9BooksCopyright © 2017 Dee Garretson
All rights reserved.
When a civilization comes close to extinction, what emerges out of the ashes? On Fosaan, music did not, and art has turned to survival craft. Perhaps if I record what I know, some in the future will understand us better. The coming of the Earthers may be the end of us, and I do not want our memories to fade to ash. I may be giving myself too lofty a title, but for now I shall sign my musings, — Erimik, historian of the Family
A flash in Fosaan's sky distracted me from my work for a moment. If I hadn't known better, I'd have thought a large ship just entered the atmosphere, but none were scheduled to land.
The flex wall rustled behind me. "Piper?" I said, not looking up from the display slip. One more minute and I would have the depiction of the snake- like creature completed, right down to the exact interlocking star pattern on the skin and the red speckling on the forelegs. Duplicating the vivid greenish yellow color would be trickier, but I had imaged it so there'd be a reference when I got down to mixing colors.
It was pure luck I had found a dead one on the walkway to study. I didn't know what happened to the other deceased animals on Fosaan, but if the shrieks and howls that came from shore were any hint, I could guess. I'd just have to make sure I got rid of the thing before Piper got home. My younger sister hated seeing anything dead.
"Piper?" I turned around, but no one was in the unit. The rustling sound had moved into the kitchen.
Magellan squawked and flapped her wings from the window ledge, "Intruder Alert! Intruder Alert!"
Since the parrot said the same thing at every sound she didn't recognize, I wasn't too worried. "Mags, relax. It's probably just an olon." I got up and grabbed the stick I always used to shoo away the tiny nuisances. If I let one in, a whole flock of them would follow, perching on every available surface, chittering and staring as if expecting me to put on a show for them. Me, Quinn Neen, whose talents, such as they were, did not include entertaining anyone or anything. It was even worse when they brought in their latest catches from the sea, treating the floating living units like their own picnic area, dropping bones all over the floor.
Now that Mags felt like she had done her guard job, she lost interest. Balancing on one leg, she examined a talon on the other. "Beautiful toe," she declared.
"Yes, you've told me before," I said, knowing I'd never be able to convince the parrot a talon was not the same thing as a toe. I wasn't sure she grasped the concept of "beautiful," but she applied it more frequently to herself than anyone else. Leaving the bird to her talon inspection, I pushed aside the divider to get into the kitchen. No olons. No more rustling noise either, just the faint splash of the waves rocking the walkways that connected the individual living quarters. A gust of wind brought in the briny scent of the water, sharper smelling than the oceans of Earth. It overpowered the pine scent I had set on the room control, which I liked to use as a reminder of the pine forest reserve my grandmother managed on Earth. Another gust rattled the beads Piper had attached to her favorite house bot, but there were no other sounds. Maybe an olon had come and gone.
I turned to go back when a flash of white caught my eye. Startled, I dropped the stick and then tripped over it. A girl, a Fosaanian girl, stood clutching a wafer loaf to her chest, a cloud of long shimmery white hair quivering. In fact, all of her was shivering. She was soaked, water dripping off her. I could see her wet footprints all over the kitchen. Her silvery eyes held mine and I couldn't think of a thing to say. I wasn't usually so speechless around girls with incredible eyes, but I'd never encountered one I didn't know in my own quarters.
"What are you doing?" I finally managed to croak, even though it was obvious she was taking the loaf, or more accurately, stealing the loaf. Fosaanians never came out onto the Earthers' floating compound.
"I'm sorry," the girl said, putting the loaf back on counter and edging to the door.
"No, wait!" I didn't mean to shout, but my words came out too loud. The girl froze like I had issued an order, though I could tell she was ready to bolt. "It's okay," I said. "I mean, if you're hungry, take it." Picking the loaf up, I held it out to her, hoping it would convince her to stay for a little while. She would be the first Fosaanian I had talked to, if I could get her to talk. The small population of Fosaanians, the descendants of the few who had survived the planetary apocalypse, kept away from all of us Earthers, except for the ones who worked at the supply depot or who delivered the iridium sulfide. None of those could be called the least bit friendly.
She didn't take the loaf, but she didn't run either. Instead, she stood there looking around the room, clearly curious.
"I have an even better idea," I said, trying to come up with one. "How about I fix us both something to eat? I'm hungry too." The girl was too thin, but then all the Fosaanians I had seen were skinny. I assumed it was a Fosaanian physical trait that went along with their long fingers and thin necks, but now it occurred to me that if she was here to steal food maybe they weren't getting enough to eat.
"The food, it is not for me," the girl said. "My little sister, she had an accident and some of her teeth were damaged. It's easier for her to eat soft food ..." Her voice trailed off, and she clutched her hands together.
"You can take it. We have plenty. I'll find some other stuff too." I grabbed a carryall and opened the storage cabinet, looking for soft food. "Why doesn't your sister just get replacement teeth?"
Her eyes widened. "You can replace teeth?"
"Sure, people do it all the time." I had two replacements already, from running into a low bulkhead when I was trying to get some exercise during the long dull journey to Fosaan from Earth.
"How much do teeth cost?"
"I don't know." I found some milk bars and added them to the carryall. "Not much, probably." I'd never even thought about it.
"If it costs as much as wafer bread, then it would be too much." She sounded angry.
"Maybe not. I have a friend up on the space station in charge of inventory," I told her. "I can ask him if they have some extra teeth. They probably do."
Her eyes narrowed and she took a step back. "What would I have to do for them?"
"Nothing," I said. I was struck by how suspicious she sounded. "My friend, Gregor, he isn't too strict about things. Giving you some teeth for your sister isn't going to break the budget of the station." I knew Gregor would actually be pleased to do something that was outside the rules. He took so much pleasure in breaking military protocol, I sometimes wondered why he had signed up for more service after the mandatory enlistment was up.
An olon flew in and perched on a stool, folding its wings into small pleats and settling down like it intended to stay. I recognized it from its abnormal markings. Most olons had a bright green streak under each eye, but this one was missing the streak on the left. It was also the one who seemed to have an uncanny knack for knowing when food was out. "You're not getting any of this," I said to it. "Don't be lazy. Go find your own food." It hooted at me.
At the noise, Mags hopped into the room and then flew up and landed on the counter, flapping her wings and screeching, "Intruder Alert! Intruder Alert! Dog! Dog!" She hated the olons and "dog" was her word for anything she hated.
The olon just gazed at the parrot, not moving. "Easy, Mags," I said, "It's 'olon'. 'Olon.'"
"Dog!" Mags flapped her wings threateningly. "Man the weapons!" My father had taught Mags the weapons line, and he and I thought it hilarious, though my mother wasn't crazy about the parrot threatening any guest the bird didn't like. When the olon didn't move, Mags added in some incoming missile sound effects to indicate she was extremely displeased.
"Calm down, Mags." The olon didn't appear perturbed at all by the parrot. It sidled to the edge of the stool, its attention totally focused on the wafer loaf.
"Your creature talks? You communicate with them?" the girl asked, her amazing eyes widening.
It took me a moment to answer; I was so caught up in looking at her. "Uh, no, I sort of communicate with Mags, but I just talk to the olons. They don't understand me. It's a habit when I'm by myself." Now she would think I was strange. I'd only started talking to myself once we'd arrived. There were fifteen other younger Earthers onplanet and an assortment of scientists who came and went to the orbiting space station for their shifts, but we often got tired of each other. I spent most of the time working on my own projects.
The girl eyed the olon. "I've never seen one without two markings on the face," she said. "I did see one once with double markings, but never just one."
"I'd like to see one like that." I was intrigued that she had noticed. Most people didn't pay much attention to them. When I had first observed the marking and pointed it out to my friend Lainie, she had pretended to be interested, but the way she smiled made it clear she was just humoring me.
The olon hooted once more and then flew back out the window, like it had given up on the possibility of a handout.
"All clear!" Mags announced, using another of the military phrases my father favored. She began to preen herself. "Beautiful feathers."
"Quinn!" Piper shouted from the walkway. The bells my little sister wore in her hair jangled crazily as she ran into the room. "Quinn, guess what? The shuttle landed but nobody was on it. Not mom, not anybody. Nobody knows why." Piper skidded to a stop, noticing the girl. "Why is a Fosaanian here?" she demanded, her eyes wide.
"Um ... She was out swimming," I said, not wanting to explain the conversation about the bread. There were never simple explanations for Piper. Everything always led to another why. "I invited her in," I added.
"Hello," Piper said, moving closer to the girl and sniffing the air. "You don't smell. My friend Lia says Fosaanians smell."
"That's rude, Piper. I'm sorry," I said to the girl. I had heard the same rumor, that Fosaanians smelled like the sulfur permeating the atmosphere.
"I said she DIDN'T smell." Piper glared at me. "It would be rude if I said she DID. What's your name?"
"My name is Mira," The girl answered almost in a whisper.
Piper reached out and patted Mira on the arm as if she was some shy creature. "Mira is a pretty name. Mine's Piper. How old are you? I'm seven. Why do you have that funny mark on your face?"
The girl jerked back like the question shocked her. I didn't understand her reaction, and after she didn't respond, I said to Piper, "It's a tattoo." I didn't think much about it because the small three-sided red mark on her check matched the ones on the two Fosaanians who worked at the station.
Mira's lack of response didn't stop Piper. "Why do all the Fosaanians have white hair? It makes everyone look old." Piper moved closer like she was going to touch Mira's hair.
"Piper!" Time to distract my sister before she did anything embarrassing. "What about the shuttle?" I asked.
"It landed without anybody on it, and nobody at the supply depot can talk to the space station. Is it true Fosaanian babies are born with black hair and then it turns white?"
Piper's jumps in topics were hard to follow, and it took Mira some time to answer. "We all have white hair all along," the girl said.
"That's strange." I was puzzled, not about the hair, but about the shuttle. There were always communication problems between the depot and the station because of the weird atmospheric components on Fosaan, and because of the frequent volcanic ash that spewed into the air from a nearby island, but I couldn't think of a reason why the shuttle wouldn't have anyone on it. "Maybe everyone decided to stay for a double shift. Mom said they were having problems with the newest version of the MIbots."
Piper shrugged. "Mick didn't say anything."
"What's Mick doing about it?" I asked. Mick ran the depot, with the help of a few Fosaanians and some ancient bots he refused to replace. He was good with supplies and machines and bots, not so good with other people.
"He sent the second shift up. They're supposed to report back." Piper twisted her finger through her own hair, and the bells jingled softly. I knew the hair-twisting meant Piper was nervous.
"I'm sure they will," I said to reassure her. I was about to go back to talking to Mira when I realized there was something odd about Piper's last statement. "How are they going to report back if the link isn't working?"
"I don't know. Do all Fosaanians have such curly hair? I wish I did."
"Piper, stop with the questions. You're being nosy. Why don't you see if you can get Mom on the comm here?" I suggested.
"Okay." Piper darted out of the kitchen, and too late, I remembered what I had left on the work table.
Piper's shriek came a second later. "Quinn! Disgusting! It's dead! Get it away!"
"Sorry, Piper," I said. The Fosaanian girl was edging for the door again. "Wait, don't go yet. Maybe you could help me with something. It's in here." I didn't want to let her go so I gestured towards the other room and walked out of the kitchen hoping she would follow me. She did, stopping in the doorway. I heard a sharp intake of breath.
When I turned around, the girl was staring wide-eyed around the room. "How is this possible?" she said, reaching out her hand to touch one of the holographic pine trees.
"Oh, I forgot," I pointed at the scene setter on the table. "I had the scene set to be a pine forest. I really miss one I used to go to on Earth, so I like to set that surrounding when I work."
"I didn't know such things existed," Mira said, kneeling down to touch the stream that ran around the chairs. I turned the sound up so the faint murmur of water came from it. The girl's hand went into it and touched the floor. "This is amazing! It looks so real. I smell something strange too."
"I've got it set to pine forest scent. I can switch it to something else if you like, flowers, or a camp fire. Do you want to see it snow?" I changed the scene to snowfall and immediately drifts appeared, covering most of the furniture. Holographic snowflakes fell from the ceiling, which had changed to the gray of a winter sky.
Mira lifted her hands out and smiled. "It's cold! I have heard of snow, but I didn't know it was cold."
"Excuse me," Piper said, standing by the work table with her hands on her hips, her face screwed up in disgust. "Does anyone besides me care that there is a dead thing here?"
"It's okay, Piper." I said. "It can't hurt you. I meant to get rid of it before you got home." I switched the snowfall back to the forest. The falling flakes were too distracting most of the time.
Piper stomped her foot. "Why do you have to drag stuff inside to depict it? Why can't you just image things like normal people?"
"There's no challenge to imaging it. Anybody can do that. Depicting objects sharpens a person's power of observation." I'd heard one of the tests to get into the reconnaissance corps training program measured how well the applicant could observe tiny details. "Besides, I needed to scan its measurements so I could record them." We'd had this argument many times and I didn't get why Piper couldn't understand. It wasn't like I kept the specimens around forever, though sometimes to tease her I pretended I'd accidentally lost one in her room. She fell for it every time.
The Fosaanian girl got up and walked over to the table, stepping around a moss-covered boulder that wasn't really there. She looked down at the creature. "You didn't kill this, did you?" she asked.
If I had been the type to lie, I would have told her I caught it barehanded as it ran past me. I was a terrible at lying though. "No, it was already dead when I found it." I switched the room back to normal.
"I thought so. Most beings don't survive getting close to an anguist."
"I didn't know," I said, somewhat pleased I had managed to study something so lethal. "It's called an anguist?"
Excerpted from Station Fosaan by Dee Garretson. Copyright © 2017 Dee Garretson. Excerpted by permission of Month9Books.
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