there will be nothing next year, or later, when the Lights are rareunusual, and the shipping, and everything we need to waitstaylive.

We’re working while we can.” Quiet, but hard. Olaf’s tea is cold. “It’s not that bad,” he says, but it is.

Astrid casts back tae a pal fae the college

The cast sheu gits by slow packet is pangit

wi sarcasm. Whit like is sheu noo i’the inner

wylds? Is sheu been reprogrammed yet

by the spacers? Deus sheu mynd whit like is the taste

o a gress-fed staek? Whit like is the yird o Mars?

Whit like is the smell o caller air? The bizz

o her jack pluggid in tae civiliesaetion?

Hoo tae dance? The election, the sit-in, the mairch?

Her social credits is plumman the reid; jeust whit

deus sheu think sheu’s deuan? Whan wad sheu come haem?

Astrid gans intae the lens o her caster

an sends afyoag o a laagh tae the funs, hersel,

her haem, an yaps aboot the tarf an retro

chairm o astro-industrial arkietecture

an hoo the yotun’s yallo swaalls her braeth.

Sheu smiles an lees aboot the space o space,

an hoo sheu’s deuan that grand a wark oot here.

(Her slaet bides teum yet; the vacuums atween

the biggeens o Deep Wheel Orcadia fill

o traffic, industry, mynd, wirds and waith.)

An than sheu says, “Listen,” an records the deep

mum o Aikeray’s injines, the bed an baet

o aa her life. An than sheu says, “Thoo

shoud come,” if only tae insense hersel

thir onytheen here that sheu coud ivver share.

Astrid casts back to a friend from art school

The message she receives by slow packet is fullbursting with sarcasm. How is she doing now in the inner wilds? Has she been reprogrammed yet by the spacers? Does she rememberknowreflectwill how a grass-fed steak tastes? How Mars’ groundworldsoil feels?

How freshcleanhealthy air smells? The buzzbustle of her jack plugged in to civilisation? How to dance? The election, the sit-in, the march? Her social credits are plumbing the red; just what does she think she is doing? When would she come home?

Astrid staregazeyawns into the lens of her caster and sends a big laugh at the jokegames, herself, her home, and talknagbarks about the harshbitter and retro charm of astro-industrial architecture, and how the gas giant’s yellow swellwaves her breath.

She smiles and lies about the space of space, and how she does so much work out here. (Her slate waitstaylives emptyhungry still; the vacuums between the structures of Deep Wheel Orcadia are full of traffic, industry, memorythoughtmeaning, words and flotsamstrays.)

And then she says, “Listen,” and records the deep hummumblewhisperword of Aikeray’s engines, the bed and rhythm of all her life. And then she says, “You should come,” if only to convinceimpress herself that there’s anything here that she could ever share.

Darling jacks the news