Isaac is still raving; none of us can make any sense of it. Gwion is right; food is the more important priority. Suibhne gave us a picnic basket, but with eight hungry men, it didn’t last long.
Isaac says he doesn’t have to eat. I hope he comes back to his right mind before he dies of starvation.
Maybe we shouldn’t have listened to Suibhne. One minute I was shivering naked next to a pool, staring at the reflection of a large-boned man with a stubbly beard and thick, tied-back copper hair – that was me – the next I’m accosted by a rather disarrayed individual, shoving a bundle of clothing at me and telling me that I need to get on a dirigible as quickly as possible. It didn’t occur to me to disobey. Even though he was decidedly odd, he seemed to have some authority. He seemed to know what was going on – unlike any of us.
I think Gwion was just so happy to see the airship that he didn’t question.
I’m a straightforward man. I’m more the type who would rather make things with his hands instead of think too much about them. For example, I don’t really want to think about how we ended up in this situation. I feel like I’ve been out of circulation for a long time. Bottled up. Now the sun feels good on my face, the wind in my hair. I feel a kind of kinship to the men around me although I have no idea how we ended up in this situation together.
Alexander is the first to spot the agricultural complex. I help Gwion with the buoyancy compensation adjustments as we descend. When we’re finally close enough, docking droids plummet off the sides, impaling themselves deep in the earth before their spidery arms extend upward to grab the mooring ropes. I can’t help but admire the efficiency of the design. Once the ship is reasonably stationary, Gwion lowers the ladder, and we climb down, Gwion, Prem, Alexander, Isaac, Dominic, Varen, Ishan and me.
An odd creature wobbles slowly towards us. If the droids were designed efficiently, this biological construct is completely absurd: bottom-laden, flippers instead of arms, a beak poorly capable of managing its squawking speech. The creature only reaches up to Isaac’s knees, but addresses him saying, « I’m the supervisor here. »
« We were hoping we could get some food, » Gwion replies. « Do you sell your produce? »
« Yes, but it isn’t very tasty, » it says, gesturing for us to follow with its bizarrely flattened, fingerless appendage.
« It’s a silk farm, » says Prem, raising his hand, where a caterpillar is crawling.
« That’s a blue angel moth, » says Isaac. « I didn’t know those made silk. »
« The best silk! » says our peculiar host. « It’s time-consuming, delicate work. When the moth is fully developed, we have to unroll the cocoons by hand. Otherwise, the moths will damage the silk as they emerge. We mostly use agri-bots. Penguins aren’t any good at this kind of labor. »
I can see why.
« I thought the cocoons were supposed to be thrown into boiling water, » says Gwion.
There’s a moment of utter horror. A moth flaps peacefully by. « But Gwion, » says Isaac shakily, « that might, you know, hurt them. »
Gwion lifts his commander’s cap back, brushing the thick brown hair out of his eyes before he resettles it on his head. « Well, this definitely seems like a better idea. I just remember how it’s usually done. I seem to remember random things, like our host is a Gentoo penguin, the best kind for delicate craftwork. »
We enter the main building. On the wall hang samples of the silk, a truly luxurious weave. « Our production has fallen behind, » laments the penguin. « Several of the bots are broken, and I’ve been waiting forever for the replacement parts to arrive. We get them from the State of Repair, and they are always held up at the customs and immigration point between the states of Mind, Matter and Amazement, so we expect it to take a while. But lately, there’s something bad brewing in the State of War, and it’s impossible for shipments to get through at all. »
One of the broken bots is propped against a wall. I give it a quick inspection. « It’s a simple mechanical problem. Some loose connections. You could rig up a temporary fix with an old-fashioned soldering iron in a few minutes. »
« I have a soldering iron, » says the penguin.
« Then why don’t you fix it? »
« I don’t have prehensile digits. »
Ineffective design. « I’ll tell you what, » I offer, sensing an advantage. « I’ll fix the droids for you in exchange for dinner. »
« Fair deal, » says the penguin. « I hope you like fish. »
Prem has wandered over to the racks of bobbins where the silk is being reeled. “Crepe” and “organzine” are almost full, but there is nothing on the one marked “tram.” « It’s a real problem,” says the penguin. “Get it – a ‘reel’ problem? » The penguin laughs a birdy, barking laugh. « But seriously, you need organzine for woof and tram for weft. The reeler is one of the broken bots, and so we can’t throw any more tram. All we’ve been able to manage lately is a rough weave. »
« I wonder if Quennel knows about this, » murmurs Isaac, fingering the shining threads.
« Why is it glowing? » asks Gwion.
« Treating it with nul-energy makes the silk more durable, » replies the penguin.
« That’s what Suibhne did to the ballgown, right? » says Isaac. « Why he could bring Canopus into the pleroma? »
Dominic and Alexander share a concerned glance. « Don’t mind our friend, » says Alex. « He’s a little… »
« Guys, this is important! » says Isaac. « Ailann says it’s probably why we’re here. »
I’ve been minding my own business, concentrating on my project. There’s something ever so satisfying about watching the flux sizzle, the solder melt and drip into the join. « I think that takes care of this first one, » I say loudly. « Let’s get it back to work. » I activate the bot, which carefully takes a cocoon between its fingers, locates the loose end and threads it on a bobbin. Then it begins to unwind the cocoon, ever so slowly.
« We don’t want to make the moths dizzy, » says the penguin.
« Helping a larva become a moth, » says Isaac. « Some might call it holy work. It really makes me miss my beehive – although I’ve never actually had a beehive. »
« But you have plenty of bees in your bonnet, » mutters Prem.
« Even with the agri-bots, that seems to be a remarkably time-consuming process, » says Gwion. « How much do you actually produce? »
« Enough, » says the penguin. « It’s a luxury product. Our biggest customers are the Sultana of Celadon and that Suibhne – he’s a rather strange fellow. » The penguin addresses Isaac. « Why don’t you take a bolt as a sample to your friend Quennel? This repair work is worth more to me than a few fish. Speaking of which, it smells like dinner’s ready. We’ve got those little sardines from Eden grilled with Tuscan caper sauce. »
Dinner is delicious, and we’re all feeling so much better with our stomachs full. While we eat, the work continues, until the bobbin is full, and the tram-throwing bots begin to spin the yarn.
« Not all of the process is slow, » says the penguin. « We can make up for lost time on the manufacturing end. I’ll bet we’re back in production by the end of dessert. »
Fortunately, there’s no fish in the dessert, chocumber-covered cookies filled with chocumber crème. I watch as one of the droids takes down a few of the reels of crepe. Deftly, the threads are wound into the loom. « Let’s do cyan, » says the penguin. A button is pressed and then, at amazing speed, the thread is dyed by a nanoprinter the moment just before it is woven into the fabric. « It allows us to do incredibly complex weaves to order. »
A length of silk spills out of the machine and is wound around a dowel almost instantly. But there’s a ringing in my ears, a strange voice, saying:
“Javor Astigar, Keeper of the Flame. 74th to emanate, 54 in the color scale, resonates to 271. 1.766 meters tall, cock size 16.43 cm when erect, apparent age 35. Firesmith. Totem is Acer rubrum, the red maple, fixed star is Alhena, the brand. Esoteric symbol is the Etruscan letter 
. Dessert is blown sugar nau’gsh filled with nau’gsh foam. Function is adjudicative resistance, proto-conscious tendency is flame, designated Maple. Blazon is vermillion, on a pale or, a flame, proper.”
The world turns inside out. Isaac is laughing, and another voice I don’t recognize says #75: “Participate in a harvest.”
I don’t understand what’s happening to me. There’s too much at once, and I feel like I’m drowning. Water isn’t my element. My element is fire. Firesmith. I could make things, beautiful and useful things, things of glass and metal.
« Yeah, but just because you’re fire, it doesn’t mean you can diss the penguins, » says Isaac.
Of course. The penguin is efficiently designed for water. No wonder I didn’t understand.
« Javor, are you all right? » asks Gwion.
How do I tell them? Isaac isn’t insane, just airheaded and very bad at explanations. And then something is being pushed at me hard by an emanation called Whirljack. Tara has been arrested in the city of Noir and probably needs our help.
Tara.
I have an unlikely ally: the penguin corroborates our story. « From the moment I saw him, I could tell Sir Isaac was working for management, » he says. « It’s weird about Sir Javor, though. One minute he was nothing, then poof, executive class credit line. »
« Doesn’t Isaac strike you as a little…flighty…to be in charge? » asks Gwion.
« Compared to Suibhne? » says the penguin.
Our course of action isn’t clear. There’s a faction led by Whirljack, who thinks that we need to deploy immediately in Tara’s aid, and another with Tarlach, who advocates working on the quest achievements. Marius isn’t thrilled by the thought of having sprouts underfoot., and X’khaim points out that we could accomplish two objectives by going after Templeton, since there’s a “Locate a lost companion by using a zeppelin” achievement.
But Tara.
Still, I’ve no way of going south without the dirigible.
« The Silk Superhighway goes straight into Noir, » says the penguin. « There’s a bus that passes through here daily. You’ve got credit. »
It’s finally decided that we’ll split; I’ll lead the rescue team to Noir, and Gwion, the dirigible captain, will lead the search party. The others draw lots: Alexander and Dominic want to stay together, so when Alex draws my straw, Varen and Ishan agree to accompany Gwion. Headquarters wants them to take Isaac, but they refuse, so he goes with us. It’s partly pride – they want to accomplish their achievements without help – but I have to wonder how much Isaac would help anyway.
We head out to the bus stop, saying our goodbyes. Then Prem spots a taxi, which looks like an even better idea, so he goes running out to flag it down. Then I hear:
“Prem del Shambhah’d, Ipsissimal Aromeister. 72nd to emanate, 66 in the color scale, resonates to 317. 1.777 meters tall, cock size 16.79 cm when erect, apparent age 31. Perfumier. Totem is Nau’gshtium commonalis, the common nau’gsh or Dolparessan love-apple, fixed star is Addar T’Rasinn, place of flowering. Esoteric symbol is the Minchiate trump Innamorato, the lovers. Dessert is Rose of Dolparessa, phyllo squares filled with ashta, nau’gsh rose water and nau’gsholi. Function is adjudicative inertia, proto-conscious tendency is adoration, designated Love. Blazon is rose madder, within an orle argent, a cross bottony rose madder, fimbriated argent.”
#32, “Hail a cab.” It was that easy. But this only confirms that we made the right choice. It was so easy for Prem because we’re going to rescue Tara. It was easy because of n’aashet n’aaverti.
Geez, the poor guy looks like he’s been hit by a hovertrain. For what it’s worth, Isaac and I try to help Prem get his bearings while Dominic and Alexander fill the trunk with samples of fabric requested by Quennel.
Soon we’re on our way. If I weren’t so worried about Tara, I would have enjoyed the scenic drive; a large portion of the State of Nature is – you guessed it – a nature preserve. The foliage is blue-green, and animal life abundant – I spot a flock of tiny dinosaurs foraging on a hillside and witness a small antelope-ish creature – it looks a bit like a grenstag, but smaller and rich blue – get picked off by what is clearly recognizable as a common squirrel. It’s odd – a little disturbing – to see so many herbivores.
« This is Skarsia, » says Dominic. « It’s how it was before it was terraformed. You can still see some of this wildlife in a few biodomes open to tourists. »
« So the Flaxxshi didn’t bring those vicious herbivores to Dolparessa when they skarsiaformed it, » I muse. « Probably wise, as they’d want to protect their nau’gsh orchards. »
« I think it’s more like they deliberately brought the vicious carnivores, » Alex replies, « to keep other sentients from messing around with the rip into the nul-universe. »
Dominic smirks, nudging Alex in the ribs. The two of them seem inseparable. I used to envy that friendship before I found out what true companionship meant.
« They remember what it was like before, » says Isaac.
Before what? What is there to remember?
There is a long awkward silence. « There’s nothing for you to remember, » says Quennel. « You were in a jar. All of us, the Canopus emanations, were kept in jars. We never had a chance to bond like the other sparks. »
But that isn’t quite true – it couldn’t be. There was a choice. I saw something, said something.
« Tara’s Destiny, » says Nash.
I do remember! I remember what I said: Worth everything.
Warmth spreads through my chest, my limbs. Now that I understand n’aashet n’aaverti, I understand why I was chosen from so many. I understand why I, of all the branches, was given the responsibility to do the thing which is anathema to wood: to carry, to play with fire.
Tara is worth everything, even that.