by Lavie Tidhar
—written and entered by: OrchidVenom3
ENTRY 9 (22.20 hours)
We cannot sleep. Morituri36 is sitting beside me. For once he's looking down instead of up. Even he can smell the beast's scent now. It's right down there.
The dragonflies are going mad around here. We can see the plant just starting to glow about a mile away, to the north. By the night, it'll be glowing like a small planet. But the creature is below us. Right at the base of our tree. I hope we make it through the night without a fight. Doing battle in the dark is the worst kind of fighting.
ENTRY 10 (20.14 hours)
It's a moth! With a large, hairy, robust but streamlined body, thick fuzzy black antennae with what looked like metallic balls on the ends, and a large coiled proboscis. But it's wingless, the size of a large car and with six strong insectile running legs. And it uses its proboscis like a flexible spear!
It came after us just after dusk while we were looking for a tree to sleep in. Out of nowhere, you just heard the sound of branches snapping, and leaves getting crushed as it rushed at us from behind. Within moments, it speared me in the thigh and my husband in the upper arm. We'd be dead if it weren't for our quickness and how good we've become at climbing trees. I guess I have to thank my husband and his stupid illness. We've bandaged each other up. At least some of the bleeding has stopped, my husband's wound was worse than mine. So far no sign of poisons from its proboscis.
The moth's body shape tells me that this thing's relatives clearly used to be fliers. It's been following us for days and now, as we close in on the plant, it has become aggressive; it's guarding something. I can guess what it is.
We could kill it. My husband and I have certainly killed larger, more dangerous beasts. But killing it might eventually cause what it protects, the M-CPU, to die. The death of centuries of information. No. We'd rather die. So, instead, we're stuck in a tree a mile from the plant.
There's a problem. My waters just broke. No, not now. Not now!
ENTRY 11 (20.45 hours)
We're in another tree. About 200 feet from the M-CPU. Like everything around here, it's infested with dragonflies. Their hard bodies smack against my face like hail. The wingless moth is below, waiting, angry, protective. We're about to climb down and make a run for it. I hope my husband is right. Otherwise, we're dead.
The M-CPU's smell is overly sweet, syrupy, and thick. I've vomited twice up here. The labour pains drown out the pain from my leg. They are getting stronger and faster, too. Can barely control my muscles when the contractions hit. If they get any worse I won't be able to help myself, I'll fall right out of this tree. A terrible way to die. A terrible way for an unborn child to die. I hope my husband is right.
ENTRY 12 (21.26 hours)
If I focus on talking into this portable, I will not die.
We're cornered. But we are lucky. We made it to the plant. Dragonflies are everywhere. Their metallic bodies shine in the plant's light. They make soft tapping sounds when they hit the plant's screen. Oh, the pain. My husband was right, bless his always-sharp mind. The wingless moth indeed is guarding the M-CPU. And thus, now that we are close to the plant, the moth fears we'll harm it. If we don't move, the creature will not attack. It is not stupid. It can reason. Otherwise it would have killed us both by now…soon there will be three of us.
My body does not feel like my own.
The…M-CPU is as tall as my husband. He can look right into the flower head, which is a bulbous monitor with large soft periwinkle petals framing it. There is indeed a slot right below the head, where the green stem begins. The moth is a pollinator. Morituri36 says that below the disk is a tube that goes deep; only the proboscis of this wild creature could fit down there. It is a most unique but not an unheard-of pollination system. But there are deeper things at work here.
Maybe the moth will leave come dawn when the plant goes to sleep. But the night has just begun. As the flower opens wide, so do I. The baby will be here soon. Why do the gods create this kind of pain when bringing life into the world? Why?
ENTRY 13 (23.41 hours)
I was screaming when she came out screaming. My husband wasn't there to catch her; I wanted him to stay near the M-CPU's flower. So our daughter landed on the cloth he'd spread. Morituri36 laughed with joy. A blue dragonfly landed on her for a second and then flew off. I had to lean forwards and pick her up. I cut my own cord. She is in the crook of my arm as I hold this portable to my lips and record these words. A beautiful thing.
The moth has backed off. Could it be that the gift of life was enough to stop this intelligent beast in its tracks? Or does it know what my husband is doing? Our storage drive fitted perfectly into the port just below the flower head.
The flower is fully open now. It is sometimes good to be a man. My husband can stand up and watch as we wait for the download to be complete. I can only lie here in the mud and listen to what he tells me as I slowly bleed to death.
ENTRY 14 (00.40hours)
"Are you all right?" he keeps asking, with that look on his face. Don't look at me like that, Morituri36. Like I'm going to disappear at any moment. The moth looms. I've washed our daughter with the last of my husband's water. She seems happy and angry, sleeping, trying to suckle and crying. Normal. Amazing.
Just tell me what you see! I'm talking to Morituri36. Doesn't he think I want to know? As if I am not an explorer, too. Giving birth can't change that fact.
Morituri36, you know the portable can only record one voice. Here, take it. It's better if you just speak into it.
*Voice recognition detects Morituri36, a male, husband to Treefrog7, Greeny Explorer number 439, 793 days in Jungle, approximately 600 miles north of Ooni, 24.44 hours*
*Allowed*
My wife is crazy. She cannot properly describe the situation we are in right now, as I speak. The trees creep in on us like soldiers. She can't see them, but I can. Every so often, I see a pink frog with gold dots sitting in the trees just watching us. Treefrog7 doesn't believe me when I speak of this creature. It is there, I assure you.
But neither the trees nor the frog is our biggest threat. Treefrog7 is truly amazing. It is not that she just gave birth. That is a miracle in itself but a miracle most women can perform. No. It is that we have been stalked and hunted by this beast that our explorer ethics prevent us from killing and still this woman can concentrate enough to blast a child from her loins, even as the creature stands feet away, biding its time for the right moment to spear me in the heart and her between the eyes and then to maybe make a meal of our fresh and new healthy daughter.
But Treefrog7 wants me to talk about this plant that led us to our certain deaths. The M-CPU of legend and lore. The One Who Reaches. The Ultimate Recorder. Bushbaby42's obsession. How old must this M-CPU be? Seven, ten thousand years? Older than the plant towers of Ooni? I believe it's a true elemental with goals of joining its pantheon of plant griots.
My wife looks at me like I'm crazy…but who knows. You look into its head and how can you not wonder? Look at it, surrounded by purple sterile ray florets the size of my arm and the width of my hand. Its deep green stem is as thick as my leg and furry with a soft white sort of plant-down. No protective spikes needed when it's got a giant moth guarding it.
It's deep night now. And everything's colour is altered by the brightness of the flower's head. An organic monitor is nothing new. It is what we know. We Ooni people have been cultivating the CPU seed into personal computers for, what, over a century? It's how the CPU plant got its name. And explorers have seen plenty of wild CPU plants here in the Greeny Jungle. Lighting the night with their organic monitors, doing whatever it is they do. But an uncultivated M-CPU? How did Bushbaby42 find it? And where is she? We've seen no sign of her. Treefrog7 and I will not speak of her absence here.
So back to the M-CPU's head. What do I see in it? How can I explain? It is a screen. Soft to the touch, but tough, impenetrable, maybe. But I wouldn't test this with the moth looming, as it is. And I would nev
er risk harming the M-CPU.
The plant's screen is in constant flux. There is a sort of icon that looks like a misshapen root that moves around clicking on/selecting things. Right now, it shows a view of the top of a jungle. It cannot be from around here because this jungle is during the daytime. There are green parrots flying over the trees.
Now it shows text but in symbols of some unknown language. A language of lines branching off other lines, yes, like tree branches, roots, or stems. The root-shaped cursor moves about clicking and the screen changes. Now it's a star-filled night sky. A view of what looks like downtown Ile-Ife, not far from the towers. There are people wearing clothes made of beads, south westerners. I know that place. My home a minute's walk from there!
The screen changes again. Now…most bizarre, the sight of people, humans, but as I've never seen them. And primitive-shaped slow-moving vehicles that are not made of woven hemp but of metal. There are humans here with normal dark brown skin but most are the colour of the insides of yams and these people have light-coloured hair that settles. My wife looks at me with disbelief. It's what I see, Treefrog7. The legend is true. The M-CPU can view other worlds. Primitive old worlds of metal and stone and smoke but friendly-enough looking people. Now there are more symbols again. Now an image of a large bat in flight. The roots of a tree. The symbols. A lake surrounded by evergreen trees.
My guess? This is the plant thinking, and it is deep thought. Back to my wife.
*Voice recognition detects Treefrog7, Greeny Explorer number421, 793 days in Jungle, approximately 600 miles north of Ooni, 01.41 hours*
ENTRY 15 (01.41 hours)
I feel better. It's been about two hours. Baby's fine. My bleeding has stopped. The moth is still there. Watching us. The download is almost done. I can stand up (though it feels like my insides will fall out from between my legs) and see the monitor for myself now.
It just showed something I've never seen before…a land of barrenness, where everything is sand and stone and half-dead trees. Where could this nightmarish place be? Certainly not Ginen. It's almost 2am. In a few hours, we'll know if that moth actually sleeps.
Field guide entry (uploaded at 01.55 hours)
Wingless Hawk Moth:
The Wingless Hawk Moth is an insect of the taxonomic order Urubaba, which includes butterflies and moths. It is the size of a large car, has a robust grey furry body with pink dots, pink compound eyes, and hearty insectile legs for running. Its antennae are long and furry with silver ball-like organs at the tips. Its proboscis is both a feeding and sucking organ, and a deadly jabbing weapon. It is the pollinator of the M-CPU. It makes no noise as it attacks and is known to stalk targets that it deems hostile to its plant for days. Nocturnal.
—written and entered by: TreeFrog7/Morituri36
ENTRY 16 (02.29 hours)
I'm having a catharsis as my husband and I stare into its monitor and it stares back. I am looking into a distorted mirror. We are gazing into the eye of an explorer. It is like us.
ENTRY 17 (05.25 hours)
My baby is beautiful. She is so fresh and I can see that she will be very dark, like me. Maybe even browner. Thank goodness she is not dada and that she has all ten of her fingers and toes. Think of the number of times in the last eight months that I've been poisoned, touched the wrong plant, been bitten by the wrong creature, plus I am full of antibiotics and micro-cures. Yet my baby is perfect. I am grateful.
If we ever make it home, my people will love her. But the wingless hawk moth is still here. The sun rises in an hour.
ENTRY 18 (5.30 hours)
The M-CPU shows pictures and they are getting closer to where we are! Pictures of the sky over trees. Symbols. Clicking. The jungle at night. More symbols. I can see our backs! What! The moth is coming, but slowly, it's walking. It is calm, its proboscis coiled up. But what does it want? Download is done. What…the M-CPU's monitor shows two eyes now. Orange with black pupils. Like those of a lemur but there is nothing else on the screen. Only black. Just two unblinking…Joukoujou, help us, o! Now I see. Don't come looking for us! Don't…
*Voice recognition detects…Unknown*
*Hacked Allowance*
They will never die. No information dies once gathered, once collected.
The creatures' field guide is thorough but incomplete.
I am the greatest explorer.
I am griot and I will soon join the others.
End of Appendix 820
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BongaFish35 Pinging Morituri36…
KolaNut8 Pinging Morituri36…
MadHatter72 Pinging Treefrog7…
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The Slows
Gail Hareven
Translated by Yaacov Jeffrey Green
A writer and journalist of considerable reputation in Israel, Gail Hareven won the prestigious Sapir Prize for literature in 2002 for The Confessions of Noa Weber (her first novel to be translated into English, in 2009) and is the author of several novels and collections, including an SF story collection where The Slows first appeared (it was first published in an English edition in The New Yorker).
The news of the decision to close the Preserves was undoubtedly the worst I had ever received. I'd known for months that it was liable to happen, but I'd deluded myself into thinking that I had more time. There had always been controversy about the need for maintaining Preserves (see B. L. Sanders, Z. Goroshovski, and Cohen and Cohen), but from this remote region, I was simply unable to keep abreast of all the political ups and downs. Information got through, but to evaluate its importance, to register the emerging trends without hearing what people were actually saying in the corridors of power was impossible. So I can't blame myself if the final decision came as a shock.
The axe fell suddenly. At six in the evening, when I got out of the shower, I found the announcement on my computer. It was just four lines long. I stood there with a towel wrapped around my waist, reading the words that destroyed my future, that tossed away a professional investment of more than fifteen years. I can't say that I'd never envisaged this possibility when I chose to study the Slows. I can't say that it hadn't occurred to me that this might happen. But I believed that I was doing something important for the human race and, mistakenly, I thought that the authorities felt the same way. After all, they had subsidised my research for years. Eliminating the Preserves at this stage was a loss I could barely conceive of, a loss not only for me and for my future—clearly I couldn't avoid thinking about myself—but for humanity and its very ability to understand itself. Politicians like to refer to the Slows as being deviant. I won't argue with that, but as hard as it is, as repulsive and distressing, we have to remember that our forefathers were all deviants of this kind.
I confess that I passed the rest of the evening with a bottle of whiskey. Self-pity is inevitable in situations like this, and there's no reason to be ashamed of it. The whiskey made it easier for me to get through the first few hours and fall asleep, but it certainly didn't make it any easier to get up in the morning. As if to spite me, the sky was blue, and the light was too brilliant. As often happens in this season, the revolting smell of yellow flowers went straight to my temples. When I pulled myself out of bed, I discovered that the sugar jar was empty, and I'd have to go to the office for my first cup of coffee. I knew that at some point during the day I would have to start packing up, but first I needed my coffee. I had no choice. With an aching head and a nauseating taste in my mouth, I dragged myself to the office shed. I opened the door and found a Slow woman sitting in my chair.
Despite the security guards' repeated instructions, I tended to forget to lock doors. Our camp was fenced in, we all knew one another, and the savages entered only during working hours, an
d then only with permission. How had she sneaked in?
Years of field work had taught me how to cope with all sorts of situations. "Good morning," I said to her. I didn't even consider reaching for the button to call the guards. True, there had been occasional attacks in other camps but, for all sorts of reasons, there had been none in ours to date. Besides, as I always said, the people most likely to be attacked were the policemen and the missionaries, not me, so I had a logical justification for bending the rules a little.
The savage woman didn't answer me. She leant over to pick something up from the other side of the desk, and immediately I became afraid. The fear spread rapidly from my legs to my chest, but my brain kept working. So the rumour was true: they had got their hands on a cache of old weapons. To them, perhaps we were all alike after all—policeman or scientist, it didn't matter much from their point of view. But then the woman turned back to me: she was holding a human larva strapped into a carrier, which she lay on the table.
