« Welcome, Oliver! We’re so glad you’re here! » The words are spoken by a handsome man, bearded and professional in appearance, who is offering his hand to help me out of the water. I blink the moisture out of my eyes, seeing my own reflection in a mirror. Nearby, I spot another man kneeling near the edge; he barely raises his glance to acknowledge me before returning his rapt attention to the depths. How strange.
This isn’t the only strange thing: I’m not sure where I am or what is going on, and I say so. The bearded man hands me a thick, comfortable robe. « We’ve prepared a dossier that explains everything, » he says. « But first, why don’t you come sit by the fire, maybe have a little to drink or eat. How about some tea? »
I nod in assent. I know what tea is, but I don’t think I’ve ever had any. « Do I have amnesia? »
« Not exactly, » says the bearded man. « It’s complicated. But it’s going to be fine. It will all get straightened out, trust me. We’ll explain what’s going on, and before you know it, you’ll understand everything and be ready to take your place in our society. »
He seems trustworthy and kind. I just feel like I’m forgetting something important.
He leads me into a cave where there’s a fire with nearby seating. Another man is already in repose, wearing the same kind of robe that I have, drinking tea. He has red hair hanging just above his shoulders, wavy, curling up at odd angles. There’s something about him that makes me feel the wind is blowing, even though it isn’t. His features are handsome but vague. I close my eyes, and it’s hard to remember them. The same is not true of my other companion, who seems vivid, larger than life.
« This is Cyrus, » he introduces. « He’s your hatchmate. Cyrus, Oliver. Oh, I forgot to introduce myself. I’m Tarlach Tadgh. I’m your therapist. »
Therapist? Maybe I can’t remember because I have a mental dysfunction. Was that pool some kind of water treatment? Perhaps this is one of those underground salt spas – it would explain the robes and the tea.
Tarlach places a steaming cup of liquid on a stone table next to my seat. He then hands me the dossier – an enormous folder of documents. I can see that Cyrus has one also. « I’ll be back soon with the third member of your group, » Tarlach says cheerfully.
Cyrus looks at me with an expression I can’t quite read. Sympathy? Despair? « What does it say? » I ask, indicating the dossier.
« You’d better read it for yourself, » he says faintly. « I don’t know what to make of it. I wouldn’t believe it, except somehow I know… » He shakes his head and returns to reading the documents.
I open the folder. It’s full of documents printed on polybond. It occurs to me that this is very strange. Why not a datapad? I resolve to ask Tarlach upon his return.
The first page proclaims, in bold, cheery script, “Welcome to Existence!” Below it, the text continues:
“You are a Cu’enashti emanation, a member of a collective entity. This document includes a section on the nature of the Cu’enashti, another on the unique circumstances surrounding this, the Ashtara Grove, of which you are a member, and finally a short overview of the history and society of the Ashtara grove. But first, the priorities. Read and memorize them. They are the most important thing in life!
- The well-being and preservation of Tara and Ashtara until
- They evolve to the point of mutual union and
- Re-create the universes to serve their pleasure and
- Protect and encourage all sentient beings who will join them in their empire.”
I don’t understand at all. Is it a religion? The rantings of a megalomaniac? The word “Tara” sends chills down my spine. I feel a mixture of fear and desire – it must be some sort of a god. Maybe this is an indoctrination.
Tara. The word feels good. Maybe it is good. Anyone who serves you tea can’t be evil, right?
Tarlach returns with another man in a fluffy bathrobe. He’s a scrawny youth who seems like he’s had a tough life. He’s trying to look strong, but he’s not. He’s afraid. I try to smile reassuringly.
« This is Pallav, » says Tarlach. « Pallav, these are Cyrus and Oliver. »
« Tarlach, » I say haltingly, « is there some reason this isn’t on a datapad? »
Tarlach looks startled. « Actually, there is, » he says. « Unrecognized emanations can’t use datapads inside of the pleroma. »
« Oh, » I mumble, nodding, continuing to smile. In other words, I’ve been cut off from all communication with the outside world until I can earn their trust. This is either a mental hospital or some type of political reprogramming. I gaze again at my seated companions – was it hatchmates that Tarlach called them? Pallav would fit equally well as a juvenile delinquent or a dissident. Cyrus…I don’t know what to make of Cyrus. An eccentric, perhaps an artist, equally likely to be mental or political. There’s also that other man, the one obsessively staring into the water. One way or another, he’s clearly been broken.
Tarlach sighs. « Have some more tea. If you keep reading, it will make sense. »
I turn to the next page. It’s entitled, “A Description of the Cu’enashti Species.”
“There are many universes, and myriad forms of life exist in them. Perhaps the most unique of all is the Cu’endhari, a species which evolved when beings from one universe, the nul-universe (NU), were exposed to beings from another, the universe in which you will live, known to trans-universal geographers as Universe Prime (UP). Cu’endhari begin life as accumulations of nul-energy, which eventually develop proto-consciousness as they gain clout. Clout exerts pudge, which causes more energy to accumulate and creates more clout. The concepts of clout and pudge are similar to, but not the same as the concepts of mass and gravity which operate in UP.
Three separate forms of life have evolved in NU. The first, called the Cu’ensali, is eminently adapted for life there and only manifests in UP as a result of unhappy accident. The second, the Cu’enmerengi, are curious, playful and individualistic. They thrive in UP and will usually tend to migrate from NU whenever possible. The third is the Cu’enashti. You are a Cu’enashti.
Cu’enashti are driven by an overwhelming impulse to mate. Everything else is secondary. When still located in NU, a lone Cu’enashti will immediately seek for companions to incorporate into its communal entity. As it grows larger, life in NU becomes increasingly more intolerable. It will feel claustrophobic, rootless, terrified. The second phase of its life is about to begin.
When the Cu’endhari migrate into UP, they do it by forming a symbiotic bond with a kind of tree which grows on the planet Dolparessa. This tree is called the Cu’endhari nau’gsh (Pseudonau’gshtium somniare) and although its fruit is often improperly called an apple, it has its origins in the Prunus species of Earth. These trees also seem to have a rudimentary sentience and are eager to bond with the nul-entities. However, the process has not ended for the Cu’enmerengi and Cu’enashti. The curiosity of the former and mating instinct of the latter will eventually lead them to experiment with animal existence. The Cu’enmerengi simply mimic a humanoid form, but the Cu’enashti go through a far more elaborate bonding process with a human entity designated “The Chosen.” Because this human is used as an anchor point for all their thoughts and perceptions, the Cu’enashti gains a great advantage over the Cu’enmerengi in that it retains certain abilities particular to trees and nul-entities which are not possessed by humans. Without the presence of the Chosen as a focal point, the Cu’enashti would go mad, unable to process the enormous amount of data available to its tree or its pure energy form, called, prosaically, the mothman.”
I look up from my reading. It’s utter insanity, and I can’t pretend to understand a word of it. Cyrus is staring into the fire. « It’s true, » he says, « about the universes. I can see them. I can see where the boundaries between them are weak, and how it’s possible to travel through them. »
Then we are in a mental hospital. I sip my tea with trembling hands.
« This is fucking bullshit, » says Pallav, tossing the dossier on the floor.
Ah, I understand now. This is a test of our responses. It seems that Cyrus’ tenuous grasp on reality has been loosened further by the absurdity of the text. Pallav, on the other hand, has been provoked into frustrated hostility.
I will be patient. Tarlach did say that I could be made into a functioning member of society. I’ll just drink my tea quietly and show him I’m ready for rehabilitation.
Tarlach returns with another man in a fluffy white bathrobe and a pair of wire rimmed glasses. How strange – perhaps he suffers from some genetic instability which keeps him from having his eyes repaired? Or perhaps he has lived outside of the law for so long that he lacked access to proper medical facilities. « This is X’khaim. He’s the last of your hatch, » Tarlach says.
« This is moronic, » says Pallav. « If we’re supposed to be trees, then why did we come from eggs? »
« That’s in the second part, » says Tarlach. « Anybody want a scone? »
Soon we’re on a hovertrain, heading up to a place called Pleroma’s End, a place where nobody has ever been before. It seems to be the prevailing theory that our hatch will be able to fulfil our quest achievements more easily if we go someplace unexplored. I’ll take Tarlach’s word on it. I’m taking his word on everything else. It’s just that we seem to have been born with some innate sense of logic, and the quest achievements are absurd.
As if reading my mind, X’khaim says, « I really can’t understand the relationship of these achievements to, well, anything. It seems unfair that our lives are controlled by something so random. »
« Human life is pretty random, » says Cyrus. « If you get born at the wrong place and time, you end up with a life of poverty, disease and misery. If you get born in the right place and time, your life is tacos and champagne. And it used to be even worse. It used to be that nobody could do anything about bad genetics. Now, if you’re born in the right place, disease, ugliness and stupidity are practically eradicated. »
« But we’re only partially human, » says X’khaim.
« According to Tarlach, right now, we’re more human than anything, » I reply. « He says that once we’re able to connect with the grove, everything will come clear to us. »
X’khaim regards the list of quest achievements in the appendix of the dossier. « By getting high with Jane Austin and Nikola Tesla? » he asks.
« They probably have something interesting to say when they’re buzzed, » says Pallav. « The real problem is that they’ve been dead for over a thousand years. »
« Maybe we’ll need a holographic simulation, » says X’khaim.
« Or a séance, » suggests Cyrus.
« But neither one is within our power right now. Why don’t we concentrate on the achievements which could have some remote possibility of being accomplished? »
The conductor’s voice comes over the PA: « Next stop, Pleroma’s End Station. »
The four of us disembark. It’s surprisingly cold. Really, really cold. « The information we had about Ophionia didn’t mention that it was below freezing, » I point out.
« We’re farther north than Ophionia, plus the city is on the ocean, which might tend to moderate the weather, » says Cyrus.
« That isn’t it, » says X’khaim. « Ophionia isn’t cold. There’s no reason – that’s just how it is. »
« Ophion is your tree, isn’t it? » I ask.
X’khaim nods. « I’d actually like to go there if we can. It might help me to make more sense of this. »
« I don’t see why not, but let’s look around here first. »
Pallav has wandered over to a tourism kiosk. Red lettering floats above the projector: “Wonders of the Pleroma, part 37: The Pleroma’s End.” The holographic image shifts to the view of a mountain peak. Then it pans suddenly into nothingness. Real nothingness. Not white, or fog, or blackness. Nothing.
« See the boundary of your existence! » a recorded voice proclaims. « Then recover from your existential angst by getting nova’d at the Ice Bar! »
I watch it for a while. Frankly, it is a little disturbing.
X’khaim is staring at the list of quest achievements again. « I thought I remembered that, » he says. « The Ice Bar is one of the achievements. »
In the distance, I hear a bell. We’re quite close to some trolley tracks. Despite being literally at the end of the universe, there seems to be a good mass transportation system.
A cable car comes into view. The destination sign reads “Infinity.” It is painted bright turquoise, trimmed with ornate Victorian molding, carved faces, leaves, cupids. Inside, the ceiling of the car is decorated with an image of Venus rising from the foam.
« Impressive, » says X’khaim, « but why a cable car? Why not an electric car, or even a hoverbus? »
The conductor – a penguin in a turquoise military jacket, rings the bell and the car begins to move again. « Efficiency is not needed here, » says the penguin. « Character is needed. »
The car begins a steep ascent, the penguin smoothly operating the grip lever, demonstrating a surprising amount of upper-body strength for a flightless waterfowl. From my knowledge of penguins, they should be clever creatures, but not of any advanced sentience. Nevertheless, this penguin seems far wiser and in greater control than any man I’ve yet to meet.
It’s hard to tell how long it takes for the car to get to the top of the mountain. Not a single one of us has any time sense. That was in the dossier – only musicians can keep time. There’s at least some twisted logic behind that.
It doesn’t seem like a very big mountain, as mountains go. It’s more like the foothills for a mountain range that doesn’t exist yet. We descend from the car and walk down to the viewing area. There’s a safety railing, and beyond that, nothing. We stare into the distance. It isn’t quite distance, though. The concept of distance is irrelevant when nothing exists.
« Whoa, » says Cyrus. « I don’t think there are any universes there at all. »
« I wonder what would happen if we jumped off? » Pallav muses. « Would we be annihilated? »
« I don’t want to find out, » I reply.
For a moment, all is silence, except the sound of the penguin cranking the sign to display the destination “Ice Bar.” It occurs to me that under any other circumstance, the creaking noise would be annoying, and a holo display would be much easier to use. But staring into nothing is enough to make you forget about anything real, and silence would make it worse.
The pleroma is absurd, but there is an intelligence creating it.
« Can we go now? » asks Cyrus nervously. « There’s nothing to see here. »
We pile back into the car. « That ice bar sounds better and better, » I remark.
« It’s a quest achievement, » says X’khaim. « The one who drinks first gets it. »
We don’t need this to turn into a dispute. We’ve been led to believe that the achievement will give us a great personal advantage, but it should be an advantage for the group as well. And if I understand correctly the nature of Cu’enashti life, a quarrel would be very counterproductive. « Scissor-Paper-Stone? » I suggest.
I play Cyrus first and beat him. X’khaim beats Pallav, so I face off against X’khaim.
« Paper! » he exclaims in shock. « I thought for sure you’d take scissors. »
« It’s a matter of strategy, » I explain. « I was guessing that if we really are trees, we’d have a subconscious aversion to pruning. That would bias us in favor of scissors to win. But since you’re a logical thinker, I knew you’d take rock, figuring you’d beat me. »
« Strategy never entered my mind, » says Cyrus. « I just did it randomly. »
« I figured you would, » I replied. « That’s why I used scissors against you. »
The ice bar is spectacular. Enormous blocks have been carved into seats, walls, sculptures. The design is organic, with leaves and fruit carved in relief or pressed into the molding. The blocks are illuminated with nul-energy, which, although seeming warm to the touch, won’t melt ice in its raw form. It’s a neat trick. As each of us sits at the bar, the barstool glows with our pseudo-color – silver for X’khaim, kelly green for Pallav, dark violet for Cyrus and martini olive for me.
« It’s something, » says Pallav, putting his hands on the freezing cold bar. « It’s solid. »
« It’s uncomfortably cold, » I reply. « Right now, that’s reassuring. »
Fortunately, the first round of drinks is on the house, as a consolation for confronting the end of everything. « Martinis all round, » I announce. « Dirty martinis, with extra olives. »
I take the first sip. It is quite refreshing, perfectly mixed. And then a voice announces:
“His Excellency Oliver Demasline, Ambassador Plenipotentiary of the Skarsian Matriarchy. 64th to emanate, 15 in the color scale, resonates to 47. 1.724 meters tall, cock size 16.5 cm when erect, apparent age 35. Mediator. Totem is Olea europaea, the olive, fixed star is Er Rai, the shepherd. Esoteric symbol is the Archimedean solid truncated icosahedron. Dessert is citron nau’gsh sorbet with caramelized Kalamata sauce. Function is creative release, proto-conscious tendency is entanglement, designated Olive. Blazon is or, within a bordure engrailed martini olive, an olive branch bendwise, martini olive.”
And then there are vines in my veins, sap and blood and blue electricity. I’m so much more than I thought I was. We’re so much more than we suspected. Except…
Pallav, X’khaim and Cyrus seem to recede and flatten like cardboard. They’re like dolls, like androids. When Tarlach first saw me, was he mocking me? Did he feel sorry for me? How could he not? I didn’t know anything.
I feel a nudge, a hand that guides me towards a knot spinning into my wood. This is the thing they call a chatburl, and it’s Tarlach, speaking directly to my soul. Our trees are connected at the root, our sparks dance in the mandala. In a very real sense, you are me.
It’s true. It’s true for all of them. The dossier was just words, a truth I couldn’t make sense of until I’d experienced it for myself. “Cu’enashti are driven by an overwhelming impulse to mate.” What a pale and shallow way of putting it! We can’t be alone. We need to join with, share ourselves with something – each other, a tree, a human. Tara.
There’s something touching me, a muffled sound in the distance. It’s saying, « Oliver, are you okay? » It’s Pallav, shaking my shoulder. It’s because I’ve collapsed face-forward onto the frozen bar, and the tears streaming down my face are turning into frost, and I won’t stop laughing. He’s worried about me, but I can’t even feel the cold anymore. The pleroma is mine; it won’t hurt me.
But it can hurt Pallav. His hand is cold, so cold. « Bartender, » I gasp. « Another round of martinis – and also a round of hot spiced nau’gsh ciders. »
« I’ll put it on your tab, Your Excellency, » says the penguin.
« It must’ve worked? » asked Pallav.
I nod stiffly. What the hell do I say to him? « It’s…it’s not much like the orientation manual, » I tell him.
« Did they lie to us? » asks X’khaim.
« No! No, it’s not that, it’s just… everything we need to know is communicated instantly, with so much more detail – detail down to the molecule. And the nuances! I’m so sorry. I can’t explain. But you’ll know. You’ll know! As soon as possible. Every one of us is needed. I can feel I and I like a vast, four-dimensional web, and there are holes, cold, empty places which yearn for fulfilment, where only your light will do. And I and I’s n’aashet n’aaverti, which isn’t an emotion like love, but a fact, solid, like a mountain or a universe. »
Cyrus and X’khaim are staring at me like I’ve gone mad. Then Pallav says, « I’m glad that you have a bar tab. First absolute nothingness, and now this. That calls for more than two martinis. »
But we don’t stay long. The others are starting to feel chilled; reality is creeping back for them. X’khaim pulls out a map. « It changed, » he says. « Pleroma’s End and the Ice Bar appeared. »
I nod. « That’s how it works. The explorations of recognized branches are immediately charted. »
« We should be able to get a train to Ophionia, » he continues, « if that’s still all right with everyone. »
« Why not? » says Cyrus. « It’s not like we have anywhere special to go. »
The cable car is waiting for us. Everyone follows me, accepting me as their leader. They’re a bit wobbly from all the martinis.
« I understand now, » says X’khaim, climbing the step heavily. « This is solid. Its antiquity lends a sense of authenticity. And it helps to have a driver. »
The hovertrain to Ophionia is different – sleek and modern and fast. It isn’t long before the combination of fresh air and alcohol make Cyrus and Pallav and X’khaim drowsy. They fall asleep, but I don’t. I realize that I’ll never sleep.
I close my eyes anyways. Tarlach has shown me the location of the great burl, and I can hear the incessant chatter of the other branches, even though they are far away in New Merenis. Later, I’ll talk to them myself, but for now, it’s enough to listen.
We’re nearing our destination. X’khaim is the first to wake, yawning and scratching his head. It’s funny how differently we’re dressed. He looks all business: he still has those wire-rimmed glasses; now he also has a silvery-gray salaryman’s jacket over a black shirt with a neatly knotted black silk necktie. Cyrus is bohemian, wearing a black shirt with sleeves that blouse at the wrists and a spotted violet waistcoat. Pallav looks like he didn’t put a second’s thought into it – an old canlar[1] jacket, a t-shirt, rugged cargo pants.
The truth is that none of us put a second’s thought into it. My clothes are traditional Mediterranean, baggy cotton trousers and shirt with an elaborately embroidered vest. I feel tied to the history and culture of the region. Why is that? It was decided, but not by me. It was decided by all of us, by I and I, the Mover, Self. I was a tiny spark of life, a tendency plucked from nothingness and used as a seed to grow a man.
« I wonder if there was any point in coming here, » X’khaim mutters. « I’m not even going to be able to get into my own residence. »
« I’m pretty sure I can open the door – in the past, recognized branches have been able to access the unoccupied apartments in the Ashvattha Palace and the Yggdrasil Tower. »
Our conversation stirs Pallav and Cyrus. Cyrus is awake almost immediately; Pallav stretches his lanky form. Yesterday, they seemed so beautiful to me. Today, they hardly seem real. I want to go home, go back to New Merenis. I want to be with the other branches who vibrate in my mind like crystals in the power grid. But I can’t say this. It would be the ultimate betrayal of my companions, my hatchmates.
I have to stick this out with them.
Cyrus points out the window. We can see Ophionia in the distance. Unlike any of the other trees in the grove, it doesn’t manifest itself in the pleroma as a unified edifice. It’s a tree which keeps on putting out suckers from the roots, and every time it does, a new building pops up at an unexpected angle. Around the central plaza are ten structures. From the memories of the other branches, I recognize the homes of Benbow, a pyramid with a boat sticking out halfway up the east side, and Vassali, a tower which is both leaning and changing orientation, so that the top is offset a full right angle from the base. That is, if you can grant a place that has never been occupied the appellation of home.
But six more residences have grown since the last time emanations set foot in Ophionia: a smart, professional-looking office building which towers above the others, a rectangular structure which glitters in the sun with the flash of silver and diamonds, a rustic stone house with a central rotunda and attached airship platform, a Tudor-styled building large enough to house a small factory, a windowless tower of black carbon fiber complete with turrets and a drawbridge, and, disturbingly, a complex composed of several log cabins – natural wood, not synthwood. There are two other structures barely poking from the ground, uncoiling their lintels like freshly budding leaves.
« Which one is yours? » I ask.
« I’m not too sure, » says X’khaim. « Maybe the office building? »
The closest is the Tudor. Pallav hops up onto what seems to be a staircase growing out of the ground. He climbs to a level where he can look into a window. « It’s huge inside. I can see all these giant copper vats and pipes. Also, there are bins of grain. I’d guess it’s a brewery. »
He sounds enthused. It’s too bad, because I’ve taken a more direct route to the front door, confirming that this doesn’t belong to X’khaim. « There’s a plaque here that says, ‘Moth and Lamp Public House: Poole of Seachange, Proprietor.’ » I’m curious, tempted to enter, but my gut says that if it isn’t an emergency, it’s not right without Poole’s permission – and he hasn’t even emanated yet.
We head towards the office building, crossing over a granite walkway. « Very slick, » says Cyrus.
« Maybe a little too slick, » X’khaim replies. « Rigid – I don’t feel comfortable here. »
Too slick indeed. The words “Templeton Court” are spelled out in a central flower planting. I glance over to X’khaim, looking for direction. There’s a tension in the air – we’re all trying not to look at the building made of murdered trees.
« The airship seems too retro, » he says. « And the tower…it’s so dark, and I’m more… » He indicates the glittering structure.
« Seriously? » says Pallav.
For the first time, I look at it closely. I’m surprised. « I thought it was platinum and diamonds, but it isn’t. It’s made of S-plat 45 connecting wire and crystalline memchips. Also, that shimmer isn’t the sun. There’s a current of nul-energy running through the building. The entire house is a data storage and retrieval system. »
Incongruously, the house is surrounded by shocking blue daffodils. Upon our approach, the technoceramic walkway is shot through with changing patterns of blue light. The doorway is between two rectangular cascade fountains also radiating blue light. This time, the sign on the door reads, “Central Library.” Below it, “X’khaim of Seachange, System Administrator.”
« Are you a librarian? » Pallav asks.
« Not really, » says X’khaim. « But it makes sense for the sysadmin to live here. This building is analyzing and storing the overwhelming amount of detail in the grove’s sensory input and funneling the relevant material to the branch library. »
« I think a librarian is more like Darius’ job as archivist, » I suggest.
I place my hand on the door, and it opens. But when X’khaim enters, lights go on, devices hum, applications begin to glow. « Did you do that? » Pallav asks.
« X’khaim did. His glasses are datahuds. »
« I can operate all the equipment in the house by glancing at the icons, » he confirms. « But it’s crude; a chip would be much easier. »
« It’s heretical to be chipped. » That much was very clear from the orientation dossier. Maybe X’khaim forgot. Human memories aren’t much good.
« I said a chip would be easier. I didn’t say it would be legal. You know, those heresy laws are stupid. » He heads towards a staircase leading to the second floor.
« Not as stupid as you might think, » I reply, following him. « Clive Rivers had his chip removed when he realized that Tellick was using it for deep-level conditioning. If Rivers wasn’t so resistant to brainwashing, he’d be completely inundated with propaganda by now. »
My companions stare at me curiously, and I realize I’ve said too much. « Who is Clive Rivers? » asks Pallav. « I don’t remember him from the dossier. »
« Pallav, please trust me. Someday, you’ll find out for yourself, and it won’t make you happy. Enjoy the bliss of your ignorance for now. »
X’khaim leads us through the data center down hallways of black or white illuminated by glowing tubes and panels of silver and opalescent blue. 36th Century Tron Revival, Driscoll chatburls.
Then we take a hilift to the second floor, X’khaim’s personal residence. The furniture is streamlined, geometric, much of it inset with blue LEDs. There are datawalls in every room, the eating area, lounge, bathroom, even inside of his sleeping pod. It’s really a bit overboard, since he could probably access most information through his datahuds. The amount of environmental control he has in the bedroom, with its color therapy adjustable lighting and pressure-temperature sensitive mattress; in the bathroom with its cryotherapy, dry sauna, whirlpool tub and intelligent shower/sterilizer units is certainly impressive. But just looking at it exhausts me, makes me want to lounge in a courtyard under olive trees, feeling the ocean breeze on my face.
X’khaim puts his hands in his jacket pockets and grins in satisfaction. « Perfect, » he says. « It has anything I could want. »
If you say so, bud.
[1] A kind of synthetic fabric, rip, projectile and laser resistant – trans.