an noo hid’s tretty year gaen,

an thir listenan tae this bairn

fae the bairn toons o Tau Ceti

wi a croose reid face

lairn a class o adults

reputaetional capietal,

brandeen niches, rare

haaf aathenticity . . .

Eynar taks notts noo,

as geud as Øyvind’s fae skeul.

Thay canno leuk at each ither.

Eftir, whan that Brenna,

maed up like a Martian,

tries tae tise thaim tae

her teum raedeen grup –

“Revolutionary Thowt

in Pre-Stellar Eart,”

says sheu, keen as tae cut –

thir gled o the antic distraction

(tho thay jentle refuse the lass),

fer than this twa taal men

dinno hiv tae blether

aboot the peedie chairs,

or age, or wirk, or Light,

or whit lot o credits

this haep o dirt is warth.

Øyvind the Grower and Eynar the Landlord take an evening class

They went to school together as children, and now it’s thirty years later and they’re listening to this child

from the child towncities of Tau Ceti with a smugmerrypleased face learnteach a class of adults

reputational capital, branding niches, rareunusual deep space authenticity . . .

Eynar takes notes now, as good as Øyvind’s were at school. They can’t look at each other.

Afterwards, when that Brenna, adornedhappyinvented like a Martian, tries to coaxcajole them to

her emptyhungry reading group – “Revolutionary Thought in Pre-Stellar Earth,”

says she, keen enough to cut – they’re glad of the amusinggrotesque distraction (though they gently refuse the girlwoman),

because then these two tall men don’t have to talkchatramble about the little chairs

or age, or work, or Light, or how manymuch credits this heap of mudshitrubbish is worth.

A alt-arkaeolojist visits wi Noor

“It’s simple,” he says, his wide blue een

bright, skrankie haands puskan.

“When you look at it right. They’re not

wrecks. Not broken. They are—they are

a message we don’t know how to decode.”

Noor freesks an sibbles her tea, tuinan

her lugs tae the Varday module’s meusic.

“Why else would they be here, in the path

of our expansion? Ready for us

to find? For us? Why else would the doors

have been left open?” The metal cruin:

solar plants, atmospheric

regulaetors, gravietaetional

spin. “And who, well, who else?

There’s no one else, no contact, no trace—”

Whanivver sheu gaed tae a surface noo

sheu coudno sleep until sheu’d fiegured

whit wis missan an tirled the soond

o her pod tae injine. “—so it must be us!”

His face is pride an revelaetion.

“It’s either us in the past or us

in the future. And really, you know, that’s the same,

I mean—” Noor taks his tagsie slaets,

leuks trou his hoppless calculaetions,

trou her feet, trou the deck,

trou the plies o Varday’s skin,

trou the quiet wracks haaden

in tow, tae the haaf an deeper yet.

Whit soonds sheu’d find oot thir, whit waves.

An alt-archaeologist pays a visit to Noor