sheu wis fower year sailan curves

closser tae the galactic centre.

Sheu kens, noo, hoo faast is faast,

an still, an hoo the staetion, spinnan,

pinned sicweys atween planet an starn,

the tree o thaim a godless grand

an trig triangle, faast an still,

is noo an aye the only rest.

Astrid takes Darling to a moon

They step into a brokenrubbishruined dome, all the plasticpolymer taken from the roof and most of the struttoilstrains as well: lifted back to space to construct more bolas and wheels when the station was growing. Darling leans into Astrid – touching through seven layers of spacewalk clothes – and looks up at four moons. Or is it down? “I see why they gave up building here. It’s gorgeous but I’m sick already. It’s all too fast.” “Faster than what? People move faster on Mars, relative to the centre.” “But then I couldn’t see! And I stayed on the ground.”

She wrapcoverbundles her arms round Astrid’s waist and kicks off into space. They fly a good placedistancepartwhile. Their tethers stretch. Darling yelllaughroars. Astrid, quiet, flies them down. “Don’t,” she says. “People die that way.” “But we—” “Just know, people die. Just know. Now watch.” Orcadia turns into view, and the gas giant, and five, and six more moons. The turntwistwhirlspinning mathematics is far more than Darling can comprehend, for all she was four years sailing curves closer to the centre of the galaxy. She knows, then, how fastfixed is fastfixed, and stillfixedsecretsilent, and how the station, spinning, pinned a specific distance between planet and star, all three making a verygodless greatbig and neatbriskcomplete triangle, fastfixed and stillfixedsecretsilent, is now and always the only rest.

Tree

Tree

Astrid shaas Darling her wark

“It’s beautiful!” says Darling. “Bonnie,” sheu says,

cooriean in, giean a smuthick, no seean

the artist’s teum leuk. “The yellows and greens,

the way you’ve caught the planetary winds.

How small the station seems in the corner. So much

feeling.” Astrid canno spaek. Sheu spaeks:

“A’m no feelan hid.” Darling laaghs.

“You might not know it but I think you are,

somewhere. Honestly, this is fantastic.” The artist

wheenks an graabs her claes, waantan layers

atween her spacer skin an Darling’s scunneran

enthusiasm. “Thoo disno unnerstaan.”

Darling sees the ranyie noo, stairts

tae compriehend the scael o hid, her piece

in hid, the fear o hid. “Tell me?” But Astrid’s

buskid an oot the doar, laevan her slaet.

Astrid showpasses Darling her work

“It’s beautiful!” says Darling. “Finepretty,” she says, snugglenestlehuddling close, giving Astrid a kisscaresscuddle, missing Astrid’s emptyhungry look. “The yellows and greens, the way you’ve caught the planetary winds.

How small the station seems in the corner. So much feeling.” Astrid can’t speak. She speaks: “I don’t feel it.” Darling laughs. “You might not know it but I think you are,