The Fila Epiphany

by J. J. Green

  In the remaining light, she resumed walking and calling her friend’s name. She continued until she was stumbling with tiredness and ravenous with hunger. She had shouted herself hoarse. In the end, she was forced to stop. It was no use. Ethan wasn’t there.

  Cariad watched the ruffled river water sweep past in the darkness as she gravely accepted the obvious conclusion. Clearly, some kind of disaster had befallen her friend. Only something devastating could have destroyed the flitter’s transmitter, and if Ethan had survived he would not make it back to the settlement without his vehicle.

  Whatever had happened to Ethan, it didn’t look like she would ever see him again.

  Cariad hugged herself and hung her head, finally giving in to the likelihood that Ethan was gone. Her chest grew tight, a hard lump formed in her throat, and fat tears spilled from her eyes, dripping onto her crossed arms. She liked Ethan so much. No. She loved him. And now it looked like she would never see him again.

  As Cariad stood on the wet riverbank, accepting and grieving Ethan’s loss, she was thrown back to a scene from her past that haunted her—that would haunt her to the end of her days. Once more, she was standing on the steps of the cryopreservation center with her family, knowing she would never see or hear from them again, like she was standing on the edge of her grave and saying goodbye before she stepped in.

  Now that she’d lost Ethan, the scar of her grief and guilt about leaving her family behind was torn open afresh. She shook with sobs. Regret overwhelmed her. Why had she joined the Nova Fortuna Project? How could she have been so cruel to the people who loved her?

  What wouldn’t she give to go back in time and cancel her application to the project? But now she was stuck there, responsibility for the colony’s success weighing heavy on her shoulders, with little to look forward to except a lifetime of regrets.

  Then she grew angry at Ethan. Why hadn’t he stayed at the settlement? He could have found a way to overcome his problems there. Instead, he’d abandoned them. And now he was gone.

  Some time later, when Cariad had sobbed herself dry, she realized that it was deep night. The river was darkly reflecting the stars but apart from that the scene hadn’t changed. The water flowed past and the strange, stringy domes of vegetation faintly swayed in the light breeze. Concordia continued on, impervious to her sorrow.

  Cariad wiped her face with her sleeve and climbed into the flitter. She took a final look at the river that had probably swallowed Ethan before programming her vehicle to return to the settlement. The flitter lifted, turned, and flew in the direction of the mountains, hulking blackly in the starlight.

  Hunger gnawed at Cariad, but her melancholy and anguish affected her worse. With Ethan’s loss everything had changed. She knew she would struggle to summon the willpower and desire to carry on in her work. She felt like her decision to join the Nova Fortuna Project was a giant mistake. Perhaps the entire colonization attempt was a mistake. Maybe it would fail and they would all die painful, drawn-out deaths from starvation, or fall victim to the sluglimpets or other indigenous predators like the thread creatures.

  Cariad curled up on the flitter seat, one arm folded over her empty belly, the other forming a rest for her throbbing head. After some time, she slept.

  At some point during the night she woke long enough to cover herself up against the cold. When she woke again, it was just before dawn and the flitter had reached the foothills on the other side of the mountains. The air was warm again. Cariad sat up and removed the extra clothes.

  In spite of her low emotional state, her stomach protested its prolonged emptiness. She drank some water to quieten it. Checking the control screen, she saw she would arrive at the settlement at about mid-afternoon. Cariad rested her forehead against the window and looked out sightlessly. She had a hollowness inside her that had little to do with hunger.

  Her mind wandered back to the scab it loved to pick at. She remembered going into the cryopreservation center after saying goodbye to her family. Meredith Crowley had comforted her as they waited together to be sedated prior to being prepared for their cryo chambers. Cariad hadn’t always seen eye-to-eye with her fellow scientist on issues surrounding the project, but that hadn’t diminished her respect and regard for the older woman. Meredith had gently held her as her guilt took over from her resolve to participate in the project. She’d told Cariad that if she backed out she would regret it for the rest of her days.

  Meredith had been right, of course. The truth and wisdom of her colleague’s words had given Cariad the strength to see it through. How she wished the poor woman hadn’t died so horribly in the First Night Attack. What a loss to the colony that had been.

  Cariad sat up straight and rubbed her neck, which had developed a crick from sleeping awkwardly overnight. She reflected on what Meredith had said to her that day and how it had changed her perspective.

  This project is bigger than all of us, the older woman had said. It’s bigger than all two thousand two hundred people embarking on the voyage, it’s bigger than the thousands more consigned to living out their lives aboard a starship without their consent—it’s bigger than the ship itself. You’re the best geneticist we could ask for, Cariad. You’ve dedicated years to the task of sending humans out to the stars. Do you think it would be right for you to step down and let a lesser-qualified person to go in your place? Humanity’s entire evolution has brought us to this point. It wouldn’t be right for you to turn away now. Your family loves you, but the Nova Fortuna needs you.

  It had been Meredith’s words that had originally gotten her over her guilt and sense of loss, Cariad remembered. Up until then she’d been thinking of herself as an individual and beating herself up over how her actions affected others. But that wasn’t why she was there.

  Cariad understood she had to go on. She couldn’t allow her grief to overwhelm her. She wasn’t on Concordia for herself: she was there for the colony, and she would do her damnedest to bring it back from the brink of disaster.

  Her new sense of resolve didn’t make her any happier but she found she was a little calmer. She checked the ETA again. She had two hours to go. It was enough time to gather herself and make plans for everything she needed to do when she got back. She picked up the clothes she’d covered herself with during the night, which were scattered all over the place, and put them away in her bag before tidying up other small bits and pieces.

  With her improved composure her hunger returned with a vengeance but not even crumbs remained of the snacks she’d brought along. Drinking some more water made no difference to her aching stomach. There was nothing for her to do but try to ignore the pain.

  The final part of Cariad’s journey dragged on intolerably. When she finally caught sight of the settlement’s electric fence and single-story houses, it felt like a benefaction. The flitter automatically navigated to the entry point in the fence. She was waved through before being carried along to the flitter shed, where Verney was sitting and eating his lunch.

  Cariad flew the flitter into a bay and climbed out, feeling as though she’d been gone half a lifetime. Verney’s expectant expression fell when it was clear she brought no passengers with her.

  “You didn’t find him?” he asked.

  Cariad shook her head, tears threatening. “I looked all day. I couldn’t find any trace of him. Not a sign.”

  “We’ll have to send out a search party,” said Verney. “There’ll be plenty of volunteers. That man has a lot of friends.”

  “I wish we could do that but I don’t think it’ll ever be allowed. The flitters are too precious for us to use up their energy searching for one man who could be anywhere on the entire continent. All we have is his final position, and I searched the area thoroughly. There wasn’t a single indication that anyone had been there.”

  “Doesn’t matter,” said Verney. “I’ll speak to Osias.”

  “Okay,” Cariad said. “I hope you get somewhere. If you do receive permission to mount a search, let me know.
I’ll come along.” Verney’s action would mean he would have to tell Osias what she’d done, but she didn’t really care.

  Verney gazed at her closely. “You look terrible. What happened to you out there?”

  “Nothing,” Cariad replied. “I’m just upset about Ethan and I haven’t eaten for a while.”

  “Well your second problem’s easily fixed.” Verney picked up the remains of his lunch and handed them to Cariad.

  She munched the half-sandwich gratefully.

  “Shame the first problem isn’t so easy to solve,” Verney continued.

  After gulping a mouthful of sandwich, Cariad said, “Thanks for letting me take a flitter. I don’t know what I would have done otherwise.”

  “You’re welcome,” said Verney. “I’m going to shut up the shed now to go speak to the Leader.”

  Cariad said, “And I’m going to the Nova Fortuna. I have a few things to do.”

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  “The giant thread creature never seems to rest or sleep,” Ethan said into the recorder, “so I can work with it whenever I want. Yet I’m not making much headway. We repeat numbers at each other and I think I’ve taught it a pattern of touches that I use to represent my name. What I did was, I put my hand on my chest and tapped out the pattern I made up. The thread creature repeated the pattern, but then it touched the end of one tentacle to the frilled hole at its center and tapped out a different pattern. I guessed that it was telling me its name in return.

  “I wasn’t sure if we understood each other so I did some tests. I repeated the pattern I thought it was using to refer to itself, which is soft-soft-soft-hard-hard pause hard, and the organism pointed at itself every time. It seemed to be testing me too, pressing the pattern for my name on the wall, and I would touch my chest. I think that shows the creature probably understands we’re talking about names. I don’t want to repeat the creature’s name pattern in these recordings, so I’m going to call it Quinn. I don’t know why, but the name seems to fit.”

  Ethan turned off the recorder, choosing not to go into more detail about the state of affairs in the chamber. He was hungrier than ever and his foot was growing more painful, and communicating anything beyond numbers and names with Quinn was difficult almost beyond belief. Ethan’s main problem was that he had very few objects to use as teaching tools, and words like “algae” or “bag” weren’t particularly useful. What he wanted to tell Quinn was that his food was bad and the chamber floor was too wet, but he had no edible food or clean and dry cell to show as a comparison. He’d lifted his foot up to the thread creature and tried to teach it the words “hurt” and “pain.” Though the creature repeated the patterns correctly, it used the same patterns when Ethan held up his other foot, indicating it thought he was saying “foot,” which was understandable.

  One thing that Ethan did have plenty of was water—something that Quinn would be very familiar with. Ethan decided to try to teach the creature a pattern that meant “water.” He dipped his hand into the shallow pool he was forced to sit in, lifted his hand and let the water drop from his fingers. He tapped a new pattern on the wall. Hard-soft-hard pause soft-hard.

  Hard-soft-hard pause soft-hard, came Quinn’s message back. The creature had copied it perfectly as always, but what had it understood as the meaning? As a test Ethan held up his other hand, which was dry. Quinn pressed the wall. Hard-soft-hard pause soft-hard.

  No. Ethan shook his head, though he knew the gesture was meaningless to the creature. Ethan lifted up a wet hand to allow water to drip from it again and pointed to the drops before repeating the message to Quinn. The reply came. Hard-soft-hard pause soft-hard. Ethan lifted a dry hand. Quinn said, Hard-soft-hard pause soft-hard.

  No! Ethan shook his head vigorously. To his surprise, Quinn waggled a tentacle in response. Ethan laughed. It was an unexpected response. He shook his head for a third time and was rewarded with a shaken tentacle. Excited, Ethan repeated the gesture and when his action was mirrored, he laughed again, louder. He seemed to have made a breakthrough.

  His elation quickly dissipated, however. He’d just confused the entire process of trying to teach Quinn a pattern for the word “water.” Who knew what the creature thought was going on?

  “Okay,” Ethan said. “We’re going to begin again from the top.” Instead of using his hand to drip water, Ethan squeezed an empty food packet, pointed at the drips, and tapped out the pattern. There was a long pause before Quinn repeated the pattern back. Was he trying to figure it out? Had he understood? Ethan stood up and wrung out the tail of his shirt, once again pointing at the drops. This time when Quinn repeated the pattern to him, he did it without hesitation.

  To check that they now had a word for water, Ethan wiped his hand dry and held it up. He felt the wall and waited for Quinn’s response. This time, none came.

  Yes! They seemed to be making progress again. In spite of his dire state, Ethan grinned. He felt he’d achieved something important, even if he never made it out of the cell. He was the first human to communicate with a Concordian native. He wished he could tell Cariad about it.

  Seizing the opportunity to build on the interaction, Ethan nodded vigorously. Quinn waggled his tentacle in response, but Ethan was sure the creature moved in the same way he had before when he’d mimicked Ethan shaking his head. That wasn’t right.

  If they were to understand each other, having words or gestures to mean “correct” and “incorrect” was vital. Ethan thought about the problem for a while until he thought he might have figured out a way to establish these two words. First, he pressed the wall to convey the word “water,” then dripped water from his hand. He nodded firmly several times. Next, he repeated the pattern for “water” then held up a dry hand. This time, he shook his head clearly from side to side.

  Quinn seemed to think about this for a bit. All of his tentacles except the one he used for communicating with Ethan constantly writhed, but they seemed to slow down a little. The single motionless tentacle that hung behind the transparent wall waved gently from side to side and then up and down.

  Ethan repeated what he’d done previously with a dripping hand followed by the pattern for “water” and nodding his head, and a dry hand followed by “water” and shaking his head. Once more, Quinn hesitatingly moved his tentacle on the vertical then horizontal plane.

  It was time for a comprehension test. Ethan held up a dripping hand but this time he pressed the wall four times, hard. He hadn’t said “water.” He’d only said “four.” His chest tight, he waited for Quinn’s reply. After a few moments it came. The creature gently wafted his tentacle from side to side. No.

  “You got it,” Ethan exclaimed, jumping to his feet. “You did it, Quinn. You great scary water monster. You did it!”

  Quinn didn’t react well to Ethan’s outburst. He scooted away until he was lost to sight in the murky water.

  “Hey,” Ethan shouted. “Come back! I’m sorry.” He peered into the muddy, rushing current but there wasn’t even the tip of a tentacle to be seen. He slumped down to the floor.

  He’d inadvertently ruined everything, just when he’d been making some progress. Had he frightened Quinn away or had he left for another reason? It was so hard to tell. Maybe the movement of suddenly jumping up conveyed something bad in Quinn’s language. Or maybe it was only that human bodies and the way they moved was so odd to the thread creatures Quinn had felt suddenly disgusted or menaced.

  Ethan scooted over to the corner and rested against the opaque wall. He felt odd about Quinn leaving. After hours and days of wishing the thread creatures would stop their endless undulations outside his cell, Ethan found he missed Quinn’s presence.

  In fact, he found he hadn’t felt so lonely all the time that he’d been traveling across the continent. Perhaps he’d been too interested in his adventure, or maybe the memories of Lauren and Dr. Crowley that had been crowding his head had kept him company. Now that he was trapped in a chamber with the very real prospect of a horri
ble death looming over him, Ethan wanted to be with other living things, even if it were an only alien organism and all they could say to each other was “water,” “yes,” and “no.”

  Ethan’s forehead was resting on the transparent wall. He felt a slight bump and when he looked up, he saw a tentacle pushed against the wall near his head. Quinn had returned.

  Careful not to move too suddenly, Ethan only nodded carefully. He hoped the movement conveyed his appreciation that Quinn was back. Wafting a tentacle gracefully upward and downward, Quinn seemed to echo the sentiment.

  Ethan sat up. He had a lot of hard work ahead if he was going to create some more words in this new language that he and his tentacled partner were inventing. It might be the only way he was going to survive.

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  On her way through the settlement to the shuttle field, Cariad passed by one of the newly opened stores. It was a bakery, and the scent of freshly baked bread that wafted from it sent Cariad’s stomach into spasms. The half sandwich Verney had given her had barely put a dent in her hunger. She opened the door and went inside.

  The sight of the interior of the bakery sent nostalgia rushing through Cariad. The place had been modeled in the style of stores she used to shop at on Earth, except that a person was there to serve. In Cariad’s time, the store’s system would read the customer’s embedded chip as they entered and registered whatever they took with them when they left.

  Most of the shelves were empty but the island in the center of the shop was piled high with bread. A wave of remembrance and wistful longing for the Earth of her time washed over Cariad. A man holding the hand of a toddler was being served at the counter, and both he and the server stared at her.

  “Can I help you?” the server asked, in the tone of someone inquiring after her mental health.

  “I… I… ” Cariad gathered herself together. “You’re selling bread?”