And later, after tea becomes spirits, knowing her actiondecisiongames are watched by every lighter in the House, choosing not to rememberknowreflectwill, seeing the meaning of the flamesparklight in Darling’s eyes, caring that she does not care, she laughs at the shockchancestrike of the invitation and follows the woman.

Their touch is stumblestammering joy, fumblefiddling, messdirtconfusion, searchfinding, error, laughhiccuping, delight. They both know the moves and must unlearn them now for this new personbody’s walls, windows, doors. Astrid tastes a stinkpuffsnortnonsense of Mars again, and Darling, discovery. Their tongues drink.

Then later, when the lamps brighten to morning, with Darling still asleep, Astrid dressprepares and looks from porthole to bedbunk, from the seatimetide to Darling’s hair, and asks of the gods, who do not exist, if they have both found what they want, or need, or not, or if they have created it, or if it ever matters.

Twa

Twa

Darling an Astrid waatch a Lightstoor

Darling is greetan. “I’ve never,”

sheu says, “I’ve never . . .” An Astrid

kens, but canno decide,

seean the stoor o Lights,

the whips, the reid rivan

an gowd glisks, the skyran

dancers ower the curve

o a roilan warld, the dillan,

the braeth, the lithy, the paece,

the dunt as the planet-braid

linkwark o Lights, taegither,

sweys in a stark straik

ower the lip o sight,

whither o no tae say,

“Aye, but I mynd whan I

wir peedie thay wir more.”

Darling and Astrid watch a Lightstorm

Darling is weeping. “I’ve never,” she says, “I’ve never . . .” And Astrid knows, but can’t decide, seeing the stormstrifestrainspeeddust of Lights, the gustdarttwistattacks, the red wrenchripbreaking and gold glimpsegleampuffthrillscares, the gaudyshining dancers over the curve of a roiling world, the dimfadedying, the breath, the lullgappath, the peace, the shockchancestrike as the planet-wide linkwork of Lights, as one, swerveswingsways in a thickviolent streak, over the edge of sight, whether or not to say, “Yes, but I rememberknowreflectwill when I was little there were more.”

Inga raeds a airticle aboot the Lights

The swaeran taks Øyvind runnan

fae the kitcheen. “Bastards! Shite-fer-braens!

Fuck.” He pits a jentle haand

on her back an hings ower the screen.

The airticle sheu’s raedan’s aboot

a submission tae the Federal Ting

on the theoretiecal basis an

structural possiebility o

extra-corporeal photon network

consciousness, an the push

fer furder study. The bigsy heidline’s

white: CAN LIGHTS THINK?

“Can thay fuck!” says Inga. “I dinno

fuckan care if thir fuckan conscious!

or fuckan dansan! or fuckan fuckan!

Fuck!” Tentie, Øyvind trists

her shudder. “I ken,” he says, an sheu,

“Thir jeuce i’the drives an that’s maet on the taeble

an hid’s haird enogh tae land a daecent

haal o Light ithoot fuckan

studies an xenobiolojists

an airmchair philosophers

an Fermi fucks!” Inga’s greetan

noo, an Øyvind’s fingers bris

intae her dilderan airms in comfort.

“Alaen,” sheu says. “Can thay no see

wir aye been alaen? Will aye be alaen?”