So.” An Darling turns

awey. “I’m sorry,” sheu says.

Darling goes to see the wrecks

She thought there’d be something more, but these emptyhungry shapes are just the wantneed of stars. They gulpcatchswallow

the orange flameglowflickerflare of the gas giant that colours all of Orcadia. They gulpcatchswallow her covetously staring face.

Noor sets the skiff to drift and leans back in her seat, eyes closed. The wrecks slideslinkdream by.

“What are they?” asks Darling, and the archaeologist barkcoughwarns a laugh. “Exactly,” says Noor.

“Exactly.” Darling is vexed. “But surely—I mean—they must—” “Look,” says Noor, not opening

her eyes. “There is no known substance which can form constructions this vast or regular, and no

sign of a life that made them. So.” And Darling turns away. “I’m sorry,” she says.

Olaf Lighter hishan his bairn tae sleep

The sang is aald an the week by

wis the bairn cheust takkan twatree steps:

a hairdly-human knitch o need,

but waakan. The bairn’s een is clossan

an unner the sang is Olaf’s quaistions:

Will thay tak tae the Wheel’s ducts,

smoo roon labs o a night, clim

as possessed o a tail, dore tae be taen

oot i’the yoles, lairn the hidden

neuks o the staetion an naems o the Lights?

Like him, his mither an hers, langsyne,

pure mixter-maxter staetion fock,

makkan a piece taegither, sharan

the bit thir gotten, no kennan grund?

Or will this bairn be somtheen new?

Ten year an thay’ll be gittan as taall

as thir room is wide, an lairnan grand

astrometry an polietics.

The polietics thir gotten here

is cheust enogh tae dael thir maet

an finiesh a teullyo ithoot a body

murdert. Thir ae planet tae meisur.

The only subjeck Olaf enjoyed

at the skeul wis histry. He kens the warld

is noo expandan faaster again,

an that new speeds tak newer warlds,

channels tae sype Orcadia whill aa

that bides is histry, staetion gaen

tae bruckalaetion, voyd hulks.

So mibbe this bairn’ll waant tae brak

the next speed barrier, or the next?

In this peedie bunk, draeman

o cities, draeman o meanan more.

Or draeman a love fer a dwynan piece?

Whit wan o this futurs is bruckit mosst?

Olaf the Lighter lulling his child to sleep

The song is old and last week the child just took a few steps: a hardly-human bundletruss of need, but walking. The child’s eyes are closing, and under the song are Olaf’s questions:

Will they enjoyexplore the Wheel’s ducts, hidesneak into food laboratories at night, climb as though they had a tail, demandpesterbabble to be taken out in the boats, learn the hidden nooks of the station and names of Lights?

Like Olaf, his mother, and hers, a long way back, a very diverse mix of station people, making a placedistancepartwhile together, sharing the littlepiece they have and not knowing groundplanets. Or will this child be something new?