Title Page

Taeble o Contents

The Fock

Wan

Astrid docks

Inga Lighter an Øyvind Grower waatch Astrid come in

The visietor, Darling, leuks fer a piece tae bide

Astrid an Darling settle in

Olaf Lighter an Eynar o the Hoose speir at the new teknolojy

Higgie the Codd at her screens

Astrid sketches Orcadia

The pieces Darling’s been

Inga an Olaf at the lighteen

Øyvind Astridsfaither, wirkan

The arkaeolojist at the Wrack-Hofn

Astrid gangs tae kirk

Darling gangs tae view the wracks

Olaf Lighter hishan his bairn tae sleep

Gunnie Margitsbairn nyargs at thir mither

Øyvind Grower an Eynar o the Hoose tak an eveneen class

A alt-arkaeolojist visits wi Noor

Higgie the Codd clocks aff

Astrid meets the visietor, Darling

Twa

Darling an Astrid waatch a Lightstoor

Inga raeds a airticle aboot the Lights

Higgie the Codd seeks expert advice

Eynar snecks up

Darling an Astrid tak a waak trou the wynds o Meginwick

Thay spaek aboot Mars

Inga an Olaf spaek bisness

Astrid casts back tae a pal fae the college

Darling jacks the news

Noor needs a drink

Øyvind’s notions

Astrid lairns Darling a new dance

Astrid taks Darling haem fer dinner

Young Brenna at the Ting

Noor an Eynar spaek eftir the Ting

Darling’s body

Astrid canno draa yet

Gossip is Orcadia’s craesh

Gunnie Margitsbairn canno keep a secret

Noor draems

Darling catches wird fae haem

Inga taks her yole oot

Astrid taks Darling tae a meun

Tree

Astrid shaas Darling her wark

Inga is waantan pey

Darling peys Olaf fer a hurl

Astrid speirs her faither fer advice

Darling gies Eynar the tael

The Dance

Gunnie an Brenna imajin futures

Astrid, oot

Darling meets Margit Lighter fer bisness

Eynar pits oot a advert

Stoor

Notes and Thanks

The Fock

ASTRID, a artist, comed haem tae Orcadia

INGA, her mither, captain o a lighteen yole

ØYVIND, Astrid’s faither, a maet tekniecian

DARLING, a visietor fae Mars

NOOR, a xeno-arkaeolojist

EYNAR, a steward o the Hoose

OLAF, a lighter wi Inga

HIGGIE, a sisadmin at the Light refinery

MARGIT, a lighter wi her awn yole

BRENNA, a young radiecal

GUNNIE, a junior tekniecian, an bairn o Margit

Ither Orcadians: ASLAUG, AUGA, DAGMAR, ERIKA, ERLEND, INGRID, KARI, SIGURD, TORSTEN, UNN, an plenty more, an thir bairns.

The People

ASTRID, an artist, come home to Orcadia

INGA, her mother, captain of a lighting boat

ØYVIND, Astrid’s father, a foodmeat technician

DARLING, a visitor from Mars

NOOR, a xeno-archaeologist

EYNAR, a landlord of the local bar

OLAF, a lighter with Inga

HIGGIE, a systems administrator at the Light refinery

MARGIT, a lighter with her own boat

BRENNA, a young radical

GUNNIE, a junior technician, and Margit’s child

Other Orcadians: ASLAUG, AUGA, DAGMAR, ERIKA, ERLEND, INGRID, KARI, SIGURD, TORSTEN, UNN, and many more, and their children.

Wan

Wan

Astrid docks

The chime o the tannoy is whit taks her back,

fer hid isno chaenged, nae more as the wirds

summonan her tae the airlock: her wirds,

at sheu isno heard fer eyght geud year.

Sheu waatched the Deep Wheel approch, gray-green,

hids Central Staetion tirlan yet

anent the yallo yotun, peedie

bolas teddert aroon hids ring,

pierheids trang wi yoles, wi glims,

an fund the gloup atween ootbye an in

clossan slaa – but only noo,

wi this soond, deus sheu ken whar sheu is.

Sheu leuks aroon the ither fock,

tryan tae mynd wha’s uncan, an wha’s

whas bairn, an wha’s gien a naem fae sheu left,

an whas naem sheu shoud mynd yet.

An Astrid leuks tae anither body,

stannan at the vizzie-screen:

taall, pael, reid hair ravsie,

Martian style, gappan at the sight.

Sheu coud been a student fae college, but no

like Astrid, at waants tae waatch her an kinno

disno: sheu’s ferfil bonnie an warld-like

fer Mars, but here i’the ramse poly

habitats o inner space,

sheu’s a aafil queerie sowl.

The visietor leuks aroon an grins

at Astrid, at leuks awey, no kennan

whit wey tae meet incoman joy.

The jaas o the transport appen, a gant

thrumman the bonns o the ship, a kord

whan the gangwey connecks. Astrid’s taen

a peedie an weyghty life on her back,

an whan sheu steps intae the airlock

sheu catches the grief o whit will come

if the pairts o her canno find thir piece.

Astrid docks

The chime of the tannoy is what brings her back, because it hasn’t changed, and neither have the words summoning her to the airlock: her words, which she hasn’t heard for eight goodlong years.

She watched the Deep Wheel approach, grey-green, its Central Station still turntwistwhirlspinning againstaboutbefore the yellow gas giant, little bolas ropemoormarried around its ring

pierheads fullactiveintimate with boats, with gleampointlights, and found the chasmcleft between outside and inside closing laxslowly – but only now, with this sound, does she know where she is.

She looks around the other folk, trying to rememberknowreflectwill who is strangerweird, and who is whose child, and who’s taken a name since she left, and whose name she should still rememberknowreflectwill.

And Astrid looks at another personbody, standing at the viewing screen: tall, pale, red hair roughabundantunkempt in a Martian style, gapingfoolishmindless at the sight.

She could have been a student from college, but not like Astrid, who wants to watch and also doesn’t: she’s veryfearfully finepretty and healthynormal for Mars, but here in the roughcurtbitter plasticpolymer

habitats of inner space, she’s a veryawfully strangequeer soulperson. The visitor looks around and grinyearns at Astrid, who looks away, not knowing

whathowwherewhy to meet incoming joy. The jaws of her transport open, a yawngasp thrumming the bones of the ship, a chord when the gangway connects. Astrid’s brought

a little and heavymeaningful life on her back, and when she steps into the airlock, she begins to feel grief about what will happen if the parts of her can’t find their placedistancepartwhile.

Inga Lighter an Øyvind Grower waatch Astrid come in

Inga is thinkan, whit wey tae explaen

the staetion noo? That scant the lighteen,

that scrimp the tithes. Øyvind is fashan

at whither or no her vooels’ll come haem.

Inga rubs her clippert heid

an thinks: Varday is tint the haalage,

Aikeray the traed, an only

the kirk is ivver fill, fer prayan.

Øyvind birls a pod in his lang

fingers an waatches the ship link

intae Meginwick’s muckle dock,

a cathedral o girders an stances appenan

intae the haaf. Inga coonts

the yoles. Øyvind mynds on his years

on the Mars–Orcadia shippeen reute

an whit he kens o surface life,

whit he can share noo wi his dowter.

An whan the airlock appens an Astrid

is eyght year aalder an jeust the sam,

her spacer fock is waitan, still.

Øyvind shifts an appens his airms.

Inga says, “Buddo,” an lifts her bags.

Inga the Lighter and Øyvind the Grower watch Astrid come in

Inga is thinking about whathowwherewhy to explain what the station is like now. So scarceshortsmall the lighting,

so meagrestunted the tithes. Øyvind is fussvexworrying about whether or not her vowels will come home.

Inga rubs her shorn head and thinks: Varday has losemissfailed the haulage,

Aikeray the trade, and only the church is ever full, for praying.

Øyvind whirlrushdancespins a pod in his long fingers and watches the ship glidetrotrestconnect

into Meginwick’s greatbig dock, a cathedral of girders and platformsites opening

into deep space. Inga counts the boats. Øyvind rememberknowreflectwills his years

on the Mars–Orcadia shipping route and what he knows of planetary life,

what he can share now with his daughter. And when the airlock opens and Astrid

is eight years older and just the same, her spacer folk are waiting, stillfixedsecretsilent.

Øyvind changedodgemoves and opens his arms. Inga says, “FriendChildLove,” and lifts her bags.

The visietor, Darling, leuks fer a piece tae bide

“J-Just to look,” sheu says, catchan the poynt

o the yolewife’s quaistion. Sheu wis been raedan aboot

the Wrack-Hofn’s mistry, aboot the yoles

landan thir haal o Lights, aboot the stoor

i’the gowden tide, aboot the paece o distance,

aboot a uncan wey o spaekan, o wirkan,

o pittan up wirds, o bidan, belongan, an waantid

tae leuk. But noo sheu’s speiran the first body

sheu saa i’the bay fer the first directions, an habbers,

fer the first time no kennan hoo tae explaen hersel.

“Ir ye?” says the wife, no askan. A din-faced

stuggie body, her snackie haands is deep

i’the wires o her craft. “Ye’ll waant tae spaek tae Eynar

o the Hoose. Whit ye’d caa wir bar. He’ll sort ye.

Tell him Margit sent ye.” Like Eynar, Margit

kens the guff o traed. Sheu poynts the wey.

Darling’s waatchan the fock on the pier fae the transport –

twa aalder fock tae meet yin ither lass,

at disno seem tae ken whar sheu’s comed an aa –

an Margit waatches wha hid is haads whas ee.

“Thir,” sheu says, an looder again, “That wey.”

Darling tries tae gaither Martian manners.

“Thank you so so much,” says Darling. “I’m Darling.”

Anither first: sheu blushes, seean Margit’s

edge o a smirk an hearan Margit’s “Ir thoo.”

The visitor, Darling, looks for a placedistancepartwhile to waitstaylive

“Just to look,” she says, catching the point of the boat worker’s question. She has been reading about the Wreck-Havenharbour’s mystery, about the boats landing their haulcatch of Lights, about the stormstrifestrainspeeddust in the golden seatimetide, about the peace of distance,

about a strangerweird way of speaking, of working, of praying, of waitstayliving, belonging, and wanted to look. But now she’s asking the first personbody she saw in the hangar for the first directions, and stammers, for the first time not knowing how to explain herself.

“Is that so?” says the woman, not asking. A sallow shorttoughbutch personbody, her cleverquicksharp hands are deep in the wires of her craft. “You should speak to Eynar at the House. It’s what you’d call our bar. He’ll help. Tell him Margit sent you.” Like Eynar, Margit

knows the stinkpuffsnortnonsense of trade. She points the way. Darling’s watching the folk on the pier from the transport – two older folk to meet that other girlwoman, who doesn’t seem to know where she’s come either – and Margit watches who is holding whose eye.

“There,” she says, and louder again, “That way.” Darling tries to gather Martian manners. “Thank you so so much,” says Darling. “I’m Darling.” Another first: she blushes, seeing Margit’s edge of a smile and hearing Margit’s “Is that so.”

Astrid an Darling settle in

Astrid aets wi her fock. “Thoo’ll wirk?”

speirs Inga ower the protein soup.

“A’m here tae draa,” says Astrid. “Tae wirk

at me art. A’m needan ideas fae haem.”

“Yass,” says Inga, “grand that. Thoo’ll tak

a job or twa fae the rotas forbye.”

Øyvind touches Astrid’s airm.

“Hid’s grand thoo’re haem. Thir plenty time.”

Halfweys roond the staetion, Darling,

breeksed wi sailan, pangit wi hopp,

sits i’the Hoose wi a plaet o maet.

Eynar teuk it tae her, sportan

a apron an a smile. Sheu tryd

tae speir him aboot his fock an the staetion:

he nodded an brustled back tae the bar.

Sheu waatches the fock an aets her maet.

Astrid spaeks aboot the journey,

aboot whit her pals in Mars is deuan.

The wirds is lood in thir peedie quaaters.

Inga an Øyvind’s speuns rudge.

Darling notts a plan on her slaet

o whit sheu waants tae see; she hopps

a smoosie body will ask whit sheu’s deuan.

Naebody deus. Sheu dights her plaet.

Eftir, the both o thaim lie i thir bunks

on conter airms o the Wheel, birlan,

askin thirsels if thir maed a mistaek,

askin thirsels whit wey is a haem.

Astrid and Darling settle in

Astrid eats with her folk. “Will you work?” asks Inga over the protein soup. “I’m here to draw,” says Astrid. “To work on my art. I wantneed ideas from home.”

“Yes,” says Inga, “that’s goodbig. And you’ll take a job or two from the rotas as well.” Øyvind touches Astrid’s arm. “It’s goodbig that you’re home. There’s plenty of time.”

Halfway around the station, Darling, knackered from sailing, fullbursting with hope, sits in the House with a plate of foodmeat. Eynar brought it to her, sporting

an apron and a smile. She tried to ask him about his people and the station: he nodded and bustlecrackled back to the bar. She watched the people and ate her foodmeat.

Astrid speaks about the journey, about what her friends on Mars are doing. The words are loud in their little rooms. Inga and Øyvind’s spoons gratehackrattle.

Darling notes down a plan on her slate of what she wants to see; she hopes a nosy personbody will ask what she’s doing. Nobody does. She cleanwipes her plate.

Later, both of them lie in their bedbunks on oppositeopposing arms of the Wheel, whirlrushdancespinning, asking themselves if they’ve made a mistake, asking themselves whathowwherewhy a home is.

Olaf Lighter an Eynar o the Hoose speir at the new teknolojy

“Whit wey deus hid wirk?” asks Eynar, pooran

a beer. “A’m no sure,” says Olaf,

“but yin arkaeolojist, ken, ach,

whit’s her naem, telt hid like this—”

The jimpit yoleman taks twa glesses

an a pock o nuts an steers

this subtle injines trou the warp

o time, noo rings o spirit on

the binkled aluminium bar.

“The drive maks a pock, see,

o hyperspace tae win trou,

tae exceed relatievistic constraints.”

“Ya, but,” says Eynar, “I thowt hid wis

more ontolojiecal restrictions

as teknolojiecal limits. Whit wey

ir thay avoydan catastrophic

temporal paradox, eh?” Olaf

taks a drowt o his ael an says,

“Ya weel. Best kens. An best kens

thay maan, fer hid’s bad enogh tae loss

the laast bit o the laast bit

o wir shippeen ithoot messan wi fuckan

multiversal anomalies

an aa.” An Eynar, no drinkan, says,

“A’ll drink tae yin,” lukkan ower

the empty poly chairs an taebles,

Olaf’s grayan hair, an weyghan

the wirth o his bisness, the size o his saeveens,

the price o a ticket tae Ross or Mars

or Proxima Centauri Twa,

an runnan the nummers again, an wipan

the trails o the hyperdrive fae the bar.

Olaf the Lighter and Eynar the Landlord question the new technology

“Whathowwherewhy does it work?” asks Eynar, pouring a beer. “I’m not sure,” says Olaf, “but that archaeologist, oh, you know, what’s her name, told me it was like this—”

The smallslenderneatdainty boat worker takes two empty glasses and a packetpocket of nuts and steers these subtle engines through the warp of time, now rings of spirit on

the bentdented aluminium bar. “The drive makes a packetpocket, see, of hyperspace to reachtravelachieve through, to exceed relativistic constraints.”

“Yes, but,” says Eynar, “I thought the problem was more ontological restrictions than technological limits. Whathowwherewhy can they avoid catastrophic

temporal paradox, eh?” Olaf takes a draught of his beer and says, “Yes well. Gods know. And gods know they must because it’s bad enough to lose

the last bit of the last bit of our shipping without messing with fucking multiversal anomalies as well.” And Eynar, not drinking, says,

“I’ll drink to that,” looking over the empty plasticpolymer chairs and tables, Olaf’s greying hair, and weighing the worth of his business, the size of his savings,

the price of a ticket to Ross or Mars or Proxima Centauri B, and running the numbers again, and wiping the trails of the hyperdrive from the bar.

Higgie the Codd at her screens

Aence sheu wis a packer: whan the Lights cam in

sheu wirked the spectral refractors, prismatic acceleraetors,

containment dykes, brissan somtheen skare an lowse

intae somtheen birnable. No a coorse wark –

buttons an levers, mosstleens – sheu jeust needed care

an the canny gy o timeen. But sheu an her pals wis aye

tae loss the unavoydable race wi aatomaetion.

Higgie wis lucky: sheu wis keepid on at the skeul

tae ken the maths tae tak the coarse tae qualiefy

fer maintenance, so sheu wis the body lukkan eftir

machines lukkan eftir Lights, an than the body

lukkan eftir machines lukkan eftir machines.

Thir aalder noo, an only Higgie bade tae be

a elder. Dagmar’s maed a faimly on Wolf; Kari

teuk a Martian job in maet; Torsten deed

an naen o them ivver spaek aboot hid; Higgie, back

croppenan more wi ivry year, dellt wi codd

an solder intae machines, missan the clashan, thinkan

in script an circuit. Sheu monietors: here at the plant,

by screen, an eftir, i’the back pew o the kirk. Sheu maks

peedie adjustments: wha sits whar, whit wirds is needed,

whan tae apply comfort an whan tae chide or spaek

a truth. Sheu isno alaen. She kens sheu disno sing

in tune, but at the plant an wi her screens sheu sings.

Higgie the Coder at her screens

Once she was a packer: when the Lights came in, she worked the spectral refractors, prismatic accelerators, containment wallfieldbarriers, squeezepressbruising something clearbrightcut and loosefree into something burnable. It wasn’t roughhardnasty work – buttons and levers, mostly – she just needed care and the skilledwisemagicalcautious sensecompetence of timing. But she and her friends were always going to lose the unavoidable race with automation. Higgie was luckyblessedhappy: she’d stayed at school to know the maths to take the course to qualify for maintenance, so she was the personbody looking after machines looking after Lights, and then the personbody looking after machines looking after machines.

They’re older now, and only Higgie waitstaylived to be an elder. Dagmar made a family on Wolf; Kari took a Martian job in foodmeat; Torsten died, and none of them ever speak about it; Higgie, back bendcramptwisting more with every year, delved with code and solder into machines, missing the noisegossip, thinking in codeprogramscripture and circuit. She monitors: here at the plant, by screen, and after, in the back pew of the kirk. She makes little adjustments: who sits where, what words are needed, when to apply comfort and when to chide or speak a truth. She is not alone. She knows she does not sing in tune, but at the plant and with her screens she sings.

Astrid sketches Orcadia

Sheu trails a finger ower her slaet i’the curve

o her planet, than wi a canny swirl bleums

hids swaalls o yallo an corkalit. Wi shairp

stroks, the airms o Central Staetion skoot

atwart the screen, an peedie tigs an picks

mairk oot the eydent piers o Meginwick

i’the corner o her careful composietion.

An lukkan oot the peedie vizzie-bell,

doon the taing o Hellay, airm o the kirk,

the dammer o the Deep Wheel surroondan her,

Astrid feels hersel faa, an lift, an faa.

Liv oot, sheu dights the natralism fae

her slaet, an stairts ower again, abstrack,

wi only the nirt o the thowt o coman haem

an odd gittan seean that peedie odds:

black lines fer the starns, blue dubs

fer the tides, green aircs fer the grand skail

o wheels an airms an bolas gaithered roond Central.

Mindan her lessons fae college, sheu follows sense

intae shape, an shape intae color, an noo sheu’s closser

tae the grace ootbye, but closser maks more o a ranyie.

Again her dightan liv. Again a blenk.

Astrid steeks her een an haads the device

tae her chest, sam as her braethan wir liftan Orcadia

tae the surface. But the screen bides skarpy,

an the view bides stamagastan, an Astrid

settles back tae waatch an braethe an mynd,

her fingers restan jeust abeun the slaet.

Astrid sketches Orcadia

She trails a finger over her slate in the curve of her planet, then with a skilledwisemagicalcautious swirl blooms its swellwaves of yellow and scarlet dye. With sharp strokes, the arms of Central Station jutthrust acrossover the screen, and little taptwitchteases and tapchaptakes mark out the constantindustrious piers of Meginwick in the corner of her careful composition.

And looking out of the little viewsurveystudyaiming-bubblebell, down the promontory of Hellay, arm of the church, the shockstunconfusion of the Deep Wheel surrounding her, Astrid feels herself fall, and lift, and fall. Palm flat, she cleanwipes the naturalism from her slate, and begins again, abstract, with only the crumbknot of the thought of coming home

and growing strangedifferent from seeing so little difference. Black lines for the stars, blue poolpuddlemuds for the seatimetides, green arcs for the goodbig scatterspreadspill of wheels and arms and bolas gathered round Central. Rememberknowreflectwilling her lessons from college, she follows sense into shape, and shape into colour, and now she’s closer to the graceglory outside, but closer makes more of a writhingpain.

Again her cleanwiping palm. Again a blankblink. Astrid shutdarkens her eyes and holds the device to her chest, as if breathing was lifting Orcadia to the surface. But the screen waitstaylives barethinbarren, and the view waitstaylives bewildershockoverwhelming, so Astrid settles back to watch and breathe and rememberknowreflectwill, her fingers resting just above the slate.

The pieces Darling’s been

Fer her coman o age she asked o her faithers

a week’s resiedential on Aald Eart.

Nae Ball, nae press confrence, nae giftid

Executiveship, nae ship, even,

tho aa her brithers wis taen the sleekest

o sublight racers. Thay naeraboot

imploded, but sheu wis inherieted airts

an negotiated the week as traed

fer a simmer wirkan at senior manajment.

Mars simmers is ower lang.

That wis the stairt o her travaigan.

Foo wi the guff o fifty square mile

o aald equatorial rainforest, no

landscaepid ava, sheu kent

sheu wadno gang haem, but see as gret

a lot o the seiven starns as sheu coud.

Sheu peyed a ecogaird tae mairk her

on the wrang manifest, an fleed. Sheu saa

the Natralist munka-hooses on Phobos,

whar papar refused ony maet traeted

wi more as fire, praeched wershy beauty.

Sheu saa a demonstraetion staetion

o sepratist Angles: bred, snod,

rich, blond, an weel-airmed.

Her faithers’ credited wirds – first barman,

than teely, than dortan – trackid her

fae Europan federal mines tae stentless

pairties orbitan Wolf. Thay wir even

bowt bulletin time on the ansible network.

At lang an at lent sheu tint thir trackers

on the unregistered Autonomist traeder

whar, awey, sheu teuk her new naem

an body an face, whar sheu teuk time

tae cheuss an recover, at teuk her here

tae Orcadia, the innermosst Nordren staetion,

aence the edge, aence the centre,

pangit an empty yet, wi Darling,

eftir peyan her rodd ower that

grand a piece o space, lukkan

fer a peedie piece tae listen an leuk.

The placesdistancepartwhiles Darling’s been

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