Below, there are often large mammals in the wild, fat and slow. Their bellies rock from side to side as they hear my rapid whistling descent from above, trying to run. Not so much where I bound now, in the land Bo chooses to remain. In mine I’ve often seen the waddling black and brown creatures once consumed by The Others, even bred. Field could tell me what they’re called, but the truth is they’re ugly and I have no interest in them, so I never ask. I accept the truth of my assembly. I was not constructed to be scientific, or curious. I was made for a love of inanimate organics. This is my qualia. The pursuit of experience in this field, nothing more. That has been Banked, I’m sure. It’s the reason I don’t know why I pursued the creature in my garden. The flash of urge was just that: bright, momentary. When it left me, I was blinded, startled.

For my final few bounds, the land gains definition. Small black dots on flat grey. From my heightened view they resemble blight on an otherwise featureless stem. They grow and recede, grow and recede, becoming more distinct with every descent, almost magically forming flat-roofed buildings, observation decks, concrete walls, patches of grass and high fencing. When flowers begin to take shape below my feet, I smile. I land in a final explosion of earth, and there it is, by the tall, partially opened gate, waiting.

We take to the observation deck, as is our custom, on the roof of Building One. There are four warehouse spaces, each built to house various breeds of organic life. This main building is dedicated to sections of flowering vegetation. Building Two houses bacteria farms. Three is where trees are cultivated. Four is empty, for now. Bo prunes fuchsia while I watch, spraying them with liquids. The sol has passed its optimum point, and is already falling. The change in temperature is one degree, will likely drop a further two by the time the star descends for the evening. The night will be cool with a touch of welcome rain.

Bo has its back to me. The snips of its tools are the only sound. There are no creatures for miles and the insects have gone elsewhere. They will return when we are inside the building, after they deem it safe. I’ve seen them do this from our windows.

‘Why speechless?’ Bo says, without turning from the vegetation.

‘I’m not sure.’ In reality I sensed it didn’t want to be disturbed. Track previous days and you’ll see there are many occasions when I’ve spoken aloud only to receive no answer. ‘You seem busy with your organics.’

‘You should be celebrating, no? On your daymark? Isn’t that traditional?’

‘Not for us,’ I say, even though I know its response. It scoffs loudly. I try to ignore what I hear.