Øyvind can only reply, “I ken.”

Inga reads an article about the Lights

The swearing brings Øyvind running from the kitchen. “Bastards! Shit-for-brains! Fuck!” He puts a gentle hand on her back and leanhangs over the screen.

The article she’s reading is about a submission to the Federal Council on the theoretical basis and structural possibility of

extra-corporeal photon network consciousness, and the push for further study. The bigproudconceited headline is white: CAN LIGHTS THINK?

“Can they fuck!” says Inga, and, “I don’t fucking care if they’re fucking conscious! or fucking dancing! or fucking fucking! Fuck!” Øyvind, carefulwatchful, squeezehugpressthirsts

her shoulder. “I know,” he says, and she, “There’s juice in the drives and that’s foodmeat on the table and it’s hard enough to land a decent haulcatch of Light without fucking

studies and xenobiologists and armchair philosophers and Fermi fucks!” Inga’s weeping now, and Øyvind’s fingers squeezepressbruise

her tremblingjerking arms in comfort. “Alone,” she says. “Can’t they see we’ve always been alone? Will always be alone?” And Øyvind can only reply, “I know.”

Higgie the Codd seeks expert advice

“Thoo kens aboot this things,” sheu says tae Noor,

as the arkaeolojist gans at the wracks.

“Pardon?” says Noor, than, “No. I’m not a psychologist,”

pittan Higgie’s biss up. “Hid wisno me braens.

A’m no gyte. Hid wis somtheen ither,

somtheen scientific, like thee ships.”

“We don’t know they’re ships,” says Noor, wishan

sheu wis wi thaim noo, “and I don’t see what

they have to do with dreams of ancient swordsmen.”

“Hid wisno a draem! If hid wis a draem,

whit wey is me doars hammered, me screens smashed?

He cam fae nopiece, an back tae nopiece he gaed

an I waant tae ken hoo.” Noor shrugs. “I’ve been with you here

for over a year, and can’t tell you anything real

about my own work, let alone armoured men

appearing from the ether. But,” sheu adds,

sofnan, seean madram turn tae pickloo,

feelan hid fillan her crampit, caald offiece,

no waantan tae aye be awey oot the edge o the Wheel,

“You’ve mynded me on about reports of not

unrelated incidents on other

inner stations. Distance, isolation,

collective realities, et cetera.

I’ve got some papers here.” “A’m tellan thee,”

says Higgie, thight, “hid isno a braen thing.

Hid’s a time thing. Thoo keep thee paepers,

an tell me whar tae raed aboot time.” Sheu’s siccar

wi a dizzen decades o haadan an spaekan her mind.

So Noor swipes ower the naems o enogh paepers

in speculative temporal mechanics

tae keep the injineer occupyd,

tae keep her, Noor lippens, fae coman back fer weeks,

an burns a few o thaim tae her awn slaet

tae ameuse hersel whan sheu’s notheen tae deu.

Higgie the Coder seeks expert advice

“You know about these things,” she says to Noor, as the archaeologist staregazeyawns out at the wrecks.