#49 Safer on the Moon

It was crazy, I knew, to feel safer on the moon.

I stepped off the shuttle into the metal tang of filtered air and took a deep breath of relief. There was something snug about the glass dome above me, something that made me feel more secure than the open skies of Earth.

Once you’ve lived on the moon, Earth never quite feels like home again.

I could see the earth low on the horizon, nearly full, the one spot of color in a black-and-white landscape, like a huge blue jewel against a scattering of diamond chips on a velvet night. It had been nice to be away for a while. I’d enjoyed being able to walk for miles without coming to a wall. Everything down there seemed so huge. It was a wonder to walk through a store and see how many things, how many different things I could buy, and for so cheap! I would laugh at the price of apples. I’d bought a whole bag of them for my daughter. She missed apples, living here on the moon.

I rolled my suitcases to the checkpoint. This was part of why I felt safe on the moon. All the luggage would be thoroughly scanned, no weapons allowed. Here on the moon there were only about five thousand people at any time, half of them tourists and half of them residents, and none of them would have a gun. Ever. Crime was almost unheard of. Getting to the moon was so expensive, there was no way to steal enough out here to make it worth it.

But that was not enough reason to really feel safe. I knew that the vaccum of death was right outside the walls, all the time. And if, for some reason, the supply ships stopped coming, we’d all starve pretty quick. Of course we grew some of our own food, but it was only on an experimental basis. Someday the colony might be self-sustaining, but for now it cost more for us to produce our own food than to ship it up. Habitable space was at a premium here on the moon, and we needed it for people, not for crops.

Still, I felt a sense of relief being here again, far more than any worry about the isolation. All around me I heard dozens of languages in the chatter. The faces of the people in all different colors and forms, like a garden of humanity. Men and women from all nations of the world came here, not just the tourists, but the scientists, the students, even the artists who came and lived here for the inspiration, for the unique perspective it gave them on the universe. The average IQ of residents on the moon was 130. It suited me.

I stepped into the scanning booth, and could see my husband and daughter waving at me from the other side. In just a moment I’d be with them, opening my suitcase to show them the treasures I’d brought from Earth below. Spices, picture books, new clothes for Abby, and of course the apples.

A buzzer sounded and a red light came on. The security guard in her blue gloves spoke over the intercom. “I’m sorry, Dr. Clay, your immune system is too high for me to let you through quarantine. You can either wait in isolation here until it resolves, or you can take the shuttle back to Earth.”

I knew that if it turned out to be something serious, there’d be far better medical care on Earth, but my family was here. The moon was my home. Even if, by some remote chance, I was going to die, I wanted it to be here.

Staring at the faces of my family, I said, “I’ll stay.”

#48 Spellwriter

White clay from Stonehenge, red clay from Uluru, yellow ash from Easter Island, black clay from Black Mesa, and then the finest graphite from Ceylon, Phae measured them all into her mortar, then ground them together. This time, this one was going to be something special.

The grinding process took hours, but Phae wouldn’t do it by machine. No, that wouldn’t do at all. It took the touch of a human hand to bring out the magic. Around and around the pestle went, until all that remained was a soft, dark powder. Phae mixed in enough water to make a soft lump, then patted it into a cake to dry.

The next day she ground it up again, singing as she worked. At last she was satisfied with the texture, and mixed in water once more. She put the lump in the extruder and pressed the lever. Out came long, thin lines, which she carefully cut to the right length, then set aside.

Now for the wood. Up until now, Phae had focused on the graphite and clay mixture, but this time she had a very special piece of wood. She had found it at an antique shop, a straight rod with a carved handle. When she picked it up she knew at once it had once been a magic wand. It was made of fine cedar, oiled and polished, and what had given her the idea was that it was just about the right size around for a pencil.

Phae chose her thinnest saw blade and set the rod very carefully on the saw table. She took a deep breath to still her shaking hands, then turned on the machine. The cut went straight and true, and the rod was in two halves. Then Phae switched to the grooving blade and cut a round groove down the center of each flat side.

The leads had dried, so Phae packed them in a crucible and slid them into the kiln in the corner. By tomorrow she would be ready to assemble the pencil.

The next morning, Phae selected the best lead from the batch, and set it between the two halves of the rod, and glued it together. After waiting another day, she painted the pencil silver, and a few hours later used the little crimping machine she’d inherited from her great-grandfather’s pencil factory to clamp the metal band that held the eraser into place.

The finished pencil almost tingled in her fingers. Surely this one would work as well as the one she’d had when she was a little girl. She looked out the window to the clear blue sky, then took out a new white sheet of paper and wrote a little poem about the rain.

Still clear blue. Phae sighed. Maybe next time.

#47 Dear Evil Overlord

Dear Princess Tulip Marzipan Alabaster III,

It is with great eagerness and pleasure that I embark upon this correspondence with you. It is an honor and delight to have you for a pen pal. I hope you will tell me all about yourself, your family and friends, and your country.

Your friend,

Lord Coalscuttle Blackmarsh Murkmount Venomir

 

Dear Lord Colesckuttle Blackmarsh Murkmurk Venemir,

Thank you for being my pen pal. I have always wanted a pen pal. Thank you for your question. My family lives in a castle. It is the only castle in our kingdom so if you should come to visit you will be able to find me. I have a mother named Queen Tulip, and my father is the king. I have seven brothers and three sisters, and one pony. Do you have any pets?

Your friend,

Princess Marzie

 

Dear Princess Tulip Marzipan Alabaster III,

I was most delighted to receive your letter, and am very grateful for your friendship. It would be of great interest to me if you could tell me something of your country, especially the way the land lies, and perhaps where your father has stationed his armies. I am most interested in military matters, you see.

You asked if I have any pets. I have a rather large collection of reptiles in my possession, and I’m very fond of them. My most prized pet is a very large constrictor which I keep in my dungeon to assist me with punishing those who do not obey the laws of my country.

Yours most truly,

Lord Coalscuttle Blackmarsh Murkmount Venomir

 

Dear Lord C.B.M.V.,

I hope you do not mind I made your name shorter. It is very difficult to spell it. If you want you can call me Marzie.

I like my country. There are lakes, and mountains, and forests, and farms, and cities. The weather is very nice because it snows a little in the winter, and it gets a little hot in the summer, but not too much. How is the weather in your country?

I know we have a lot of soldiers. I saw them in a parade once, but I do not know where they are now. There are some in the castle, but the rest of them went somewhere else.

We are going to have a party for my birthday, and it would be lovely if you could come. I don’t know if you can because you live very far away.

Your Pen Pall,

Princess Marzie

 

Dear Princess Marzie,

Thank you for your letter. It is nice to hear about your country. The weather where I live is always very cold, but I hope some day to move to your country where it is nicer.

Perhaps you could tell me something of your father? I have always admired and respected him very much and am curious as to how he fares these days.

Yours,

Lord Venomir

 

Dear Lord Venomir,

Papa is very cross lately, and I don’t see him very much, but when I do he is cross. Mama says not to worry about it, so instead I ride my pony and think about my birthday party. I hope I get lots of shoes. Those are my favorite. My foot is seven inches long, in case you wanted to know.

Do you ever have birthday parties? What do you like to get?

 

Dear Princess Marzie,

I have never had a birthday party, but if I should have one, a nice new kingdom would be an excellent present. Perhaps I shall get one for myself this year. I hope you enjoy the shoes I sent, and that snakeskin is not too unfashionable among those of your court. It would be best, perhaps, if you do not mention to your father who sent the shoes to you. I look forward to continuing our correspondence.

Your friend,

Lord Coalscuttle Blackmarsh Murkmount Venomir

#46 Dragon Poacher

Molly let out a long breath, squeezing every bit of air from her lungs, and wriggled forward another inch under the boulder blocking the mouth of the dragon’s cave. She carefully, silently pushed her bone cloak and her pouch ahead of her. This was a tight squeeze, but she’d gotten through tighter. She rested a moment, took a sip of sour sharp dragon-smelling air, then blew it all out again and edged herself forward with fingers and toes.

It took a long time, Molly didn’t know how long, but she was patient. At last, with her hips bruised and her hands and knees scraped, she pulled herself out from under the boulder and slid beneath her bone cloak. With her pack clutched to her chest, she crept forward, her eyes wide to see in the dim slivers of light that came in from the cave entrance, around the fat boulder that Mother Dragon had used to block it while she slept.

Molly skirted the treasure pile and went straight for the pit that Mother Dragon lay draped around like a half-moon of terror, smoking like a furnace. Sweat dripped down Molly’s back and plastered her grimy hair to her face. Moving on all fours, silent as a ghost, Molly stole up to the edge of the pit and looked down.

A piercing scream ripped through the air.

Startled, confused, Molly flattened herself to the cave floor under her cloak and held her breath. There was someone in that pit!

“Quiet,” Mother Dragon grumbled. Molly heard a grating sound, as if maybe Mother Dragon were stirring her eggs with one sharp claw. “No use in screaming. There’s no one can hear you.”

Molly heard a sob and a soft wail from the pit, and then silence.

Mother Dragon shifted herself around the pit, and for a moment Molly thought for sure she would be discovered, but then the rumbling dragon snores began again.

Molly knew the smart thing would be to wriggle herself right back out of the cave. What did she care if some idiot had got herself caught by a dragon and got left in the nest to be the hatchling’s first meal? It happened. None of Molly’s business. The eggs was her business. And she couldn’t very well get out alive with one of them eggs if someone screamed again and woke the dragon.

Just to see who it was, Molly carefully peeked her eyes over the rim of the pit again.

It weren’t no ragamuffin egg poacher like Molly. This was a girl in a tattered satin gown with long, dirty, bedraggled curls of gold. A nobleman’s daughter, maybe even a princess. She looked awfully well fed, and Molly wondered if she’d even be able to fit her under the boulder. There was a reason Madame Grindy kept her poachers half-starved. A fat princess wasn’t going to be able to wriggle back out of the cave.

The girl saw Molly again, but this time she didn’t scream, just looked up with big pleading eyes.

Molly took her rope out of her pack and lowered one end to the girl, putting her finger to her lips. The princess nodded her head. Molly cursed herself for being so stupid, but she held tight while the princess struggled her way up the side of the pit.

#45 The Singing Castle

There was once a cruel queen who would bear no singing in her castle. She had forbidden it entirely.

One day as the queen walked through the dim, stone passages she heard a sound from the great hall. A voice, a girl’s voice, in a lilting country song. Furious, the queen turned aside into the hall and found a scrawny servant girl scrubbing the floor and twittering like a lark. She immediately called for her guard to take the girl and throw her into the dungeon.

Now the servant girl had meant no harm in singing. Perhaps she had forgotten the rule, which had been told her among so many others, or perhaps she had thought no such rule could truly be. No singing in the castle? Why ever not? But there she was, in the dungeon, with nothing but a little bread and water every day, and only the rats to keep her company.

Three days later the queen brought her back into the great hall. There were all the queen’s household, from the highest noble to the least of the servants, assembled together. The queen sat in her high place, and before her was a stand on which stood a man in a dark hood, holding an axe.

The girl was brought up to the stand before the queen.

“Because you have decided that you can sing in my castle against my express wishes,” the queen said, “Then sing you shall. You will sing every song that you can think of, and when you are done and can think of no more, then you shall be beheaded. Now, go ahead, you may begin. Sing for us.”

The girl stared from the shiny blade of the axe to the block that was for her neck and the basket that was for her head, and not a single note of a single song would come into her mind.

“What about that song you were singing the other day?” the queen asked, her face white and her smile wide. “Can’t remember? Very well, then, we can proceed with the execution.”

The girl closed her eyes as the guards led her forward to the block. She took a deep breath, and then began to sing in a shaky voice. The queen waved for the guards to stop. They stepped back a pace as the song grew and filled the hall with sweet music. When it had ended, the girl began another.

She sang songs of home and of far away, songs of freedom and war, songs of love and songs of loss. The queen’s household listened, silent, captivated, while the queen’s face grew whiter and whiter. When at last the girl faltered, exhausted, it was long after sundown. She hung her head and shook it sadly. She could remember no more.

Somewhere in the crowd, someone began another song.

The girl raised her head, and joined in singing. Yes, she knew this one too. The queen shouted for her to stop, but she kept on while the soldiers searched the crowd for the second singer. But a third joined in, and then everyone was singing together.

“Enough!” The queen shouted, “Carry out the execution now!” but no one could hear her for the singing, except the guards and the executioner, who carried out her order.

The crowd fell silent with the axe, but strangely enough, the girl’s voice did not. The very stones of the castle seemed to echo with it. Alone, the sweet voice finished the song, and then began another.

The queen sent everyone away, and the girl’s body was taken and buried, but there was no way for the queen to bury the voice that continued to float through the great hall, singing song after song. It sang through the night, and was still singing the next morning. At first the queen pretended she could not hear it, but it sang right through breakfast and all the next day. The queen could hear it in her highest tower and even in her deepest dungeon, singing the songs of home and far away, the songs of war and freedom, the songs of love and loss. At last, driven mad, the queen fled the castle and was never heard from again. But if you would like to hear the singing for yourself, only go to the ruins and stand in what was once the great hall, and you will hear it yet today.

#44 Cub Scout Cookies

I charged for the front door, hoping Mom wouldn’t catch me. “Bye, I’m going out!” I called.

“Not yet,” Mom stepped out of the kitchen just in time to cut me off. “First you have to do something out of your Cub Scout book.”

“What?” I whined. “I can do that later.”

“you’ve been a Bear now for six months, and we haven’t done a thing in here,” Mom picked up the book and started flipping through the pages. She sighed and held it out in front of my face. “Here, you read through this and find something you’d like to do.”

Scowling, I sat down at the kitchen table. I turned page after page. Too hard. Too boring. Hard and boring… wait, what was this?

“Hey, Mom, can we make cookies?”

“Cookies?” Mom asked.

“Yeah, look here. We can make cookies.”

Mom took the book, nodding. “Okay, my sister posted a recipe on her blog I want to try. We can do that. I have time. Great. Go wash your hands.”

When I came back in the kitchen, Mom was getting the sugar down from the cupboard. She handed me a sheet of paper with a picture of beautiful round cookies with mounds of white frosting and colored sprinkles on top. “Read this recipe,” Mom said.

“Do I have to do it all by myself?” I asked. There were, it looked like, twenty ingredients!

“No,” Mom said. “I’m going to help you.”

Mom showed me how to push the buttons on the control panel of the oven to start it heating up.

“Now we need to soften the butter in the microwave,” Mom took some butter out of the fridge and peeled off the white paper wrapper. “You watch it through the window and the moment it starts to melt, you tell me.”

“Why can’t you watch it?” I asked.

“Because I’m getting out the ingredients, and putting dishes in the dishwasher, and getting ready to cook dinner. Do you want to do all that instead so I can watch the butter?”

“No.”

The microwave hummed and the butter turned around and around on its plate. Nothing was happening. Nothing at all. Then, all of a sudden…

“Mom! MOM! The butter!” I yelled. It was caving in.

“Well, push the button! Turn off the Microwave!”

The butter wasn’t entirely melted. Mom scraped it into the mixing bowl.

Then she got out a measuring cup and showed me how to scoop in the flour, then level it off with a knife.

“Like this?” I asked, sending a cloud of flour into the air.

“Yes,” Mom said, trying to be patient, “Except over the flour bag, please.” She went to get the broom and dust pan.

Mom let me put the ingredients, one by one, into the mixing bowl. “Hold the spoon over the bowl when you pour the vanilla… wait! You have to pour it slow!”

It was too late. I looked down at the big, dark brown puddle of vanilla that surrounded the mound of flour at the bottom of the bowl, with the melted butter and the egg yolks floating in it. “Sorry.”

“It’ll be okay,” Mom said. “Now, use that knob to turn on the machine… stop! We have to put the lid on first!”

A cloud of flour filled the kitchen. Mom went to get the broom and dust pan again.

The cookie dough smelled really good. Mom showed me how to drop spoonfuls onto a cookie sheet. Hers looked nice and round. Mine were kind of slug-shaped. I couldn’t figure out how she got them to fall off the spoon in little round balls.

After Mom put the pans in the oven, she said I could go.

When Dad got home, the cookies were done and cooling on the table. “They’re kind of strong,” Dad said when he tried one.

“It’s just vanilla,” Mom said.

The cookies didn’t exactly look like the picture on the recipe. “Can we do the frosting and sprinkles?” I asked.

“No,” Mom said.

#43 You Might Fall In

After hunting all over the house, I found my little sister Jillian out front, playing in puddles on the sidewalk. She’d splashed mud all over her pink shorts and her ruffly white blouse. Mom was going to be ticked.

“Jilly-bean, come on, it’s time for dinner!” I shouted from the front door.

She didn’t listen to me, but made another big splash.

“Cut that out!” I said. “Get out of that puddle. You shouldn’t be doing that anyway” I said.

She pouted at me. “Why not?”

“Because,” I said. “You might fall in.”

She stared at me, her face all scrunched up, as if she was trying to figure out what I meant.

I walked out onto the sidewalk to stand beside her. “See, look down there. There’s another world in there. Every puddle has another world inside it. And if you’re not careful, you’ll fall right through into it.”

She stamped her foot a couple of times, as if to test how sturdy the sidewalk was beneath her.

“It won’t happen unless you stand really still. If the water’s moving at all, you won’t fall in. But if ever the water is perfectly, absolutely still… zoop!” I said. “You’ll plop right down into that other world and be stuck there.”

She squinted her eyes at me. “You’re lying,” she said.

I shrugged. “Maybe.” I snatched at her hand, but she pulled it away. “Come on in, Mom says it's time for dinner.”

Jillian stared down at the puddle beneath her feet, as if trying to see her way into that other world I’d told her about. Great. I’d only made it up to scare her out of the puddle. Now all she wanted to do was find out if I was telling the truth.

“Hurry up, Jill-pill.” I turned and walked back toward the house.

I didn’t hear Jillian’s footsteps behind me, but I kept hoping she’d come on her own if I just kept walking. I didn’t want to have to pick her up out of that puddle and get muddy water all over my clothes. When I reached the porch step I turned to look back.

She was gone.

“Jilly?” I called. “Where did you go?”

There wasn’t any answer.

She had been right there behind me, in the middle of the sidewalk, just ten seconds ago. I held my breath in the still air, listening for her. It was a little dark outside, with the clouds overhead, but I could see the front yard perfectly clearly. She wasn’t anywhere in sight.

“JILLIAN!” I shouted, then waited for her to pop out from behind Dad’s car parked there on the street, or maybe hear her giggling from the front door because she’d somehow gotten around me. But no, she wasn’t anywhere.

I screamed her name out, angry and frightened, but nothing answered me, not even a breath of wind.

It was crazy, I know, but I had a horrible feeling that maybe she had fallen through the puddle. I’d just made that up! It couldn’t be true. I stepped to the puddle’s edge and looked down into the water.

I saw my reflection, and the dark gray clouds in the sky overhead, and the electrical wires, and the maple tree. As I watched, Jillian’s reflection came to stand next to me.

“There you are, you brat!” I said, and glanced up, reaching out to grab her arm before she could get away again.

There was no one in the yard with me.

#42 Cyopolis

They all thought I was going to die.

I gripped the straps of my backpack, trying to dry my sweaty hands, and stared at the gates in front of me. I wondered if there were more people here today for the ceremony than usual. I’d never been to one myself, so I didn’t know.

The massive gates stared down at us all.

A microphone crackled, and the city official at the podium began speaking. “Children of Cyopolis, who have come here today desiring to leave the walls of her safety, do you hereby relinquish all rights, responsibilities, and privileges of civilization and desire now to go back into the wilderness?”

My father was not in the crowd, but I knew my mother was here, watching. I wanted to look for her, but then again I did not. She would be crying, pleading with her eyes as she had with her words since I’d told them I was leaving.

I swallowed once and answered the official’s question. “Yes.” My voice hadn’t sounded as confident as I had hoped.

A murmur ran through the crowd, an angry sound like machinery starting up. I was no longer one of them.

“Then we release you,” the official said, stumbling over these words as if he had never read them before. He probably hadn’t. No one had left the city for as long as anyone could remember. Some of the elders could remember a time when every year, a few people came in from the wild, pledged to obey the laws of the city, and joined us. Exchanged their freedom for safety. But it had been a long time since that had happened.

Most people in Cyopolis thought that the wild ones were all dead.

I knew they weren’t. I’d seen one of them. Not quite a year ago, from the top of the wall. I’d seen a girl who had climbed a tree, as if to maybe get a look over the wall. She still had meters to go before she would have been high enough to see down into the city, but she stood at the top of the tree, staring up, wonderingly. I never knew if she saw me or not, but I had seen her, and it didn’t look as if she were alone. She was thin, but healthy, and wore clothes I didn’t think someone her age could have made on her own.

The gates creaked open. I watched them swing wide, and wondered at how long the tunnel was behind them. I had not known the wall was so thick at its base. The sound of the crowd rose as I stepped forward into the tunnel. My pack held everything that would keep me alive until I found the wild ones. I wondered if they would accept me, or if I would end up living on my own after all.

And then I saw her.

At the other end of the tunnel stood a girl. She was walking forward, staring in wonder at the lights on the tunnel ceiling. In her hands, a basket full of fruits, held out like an offering. Her clothes were made of… I couldn’t tell, but they were soft and natural and the dull colors of the earth. She watched me as we came toward each other in the middle of the tunnel, and I wondered if it was her.

It must have been her, the girl I saw in the tree.

She stared at me, questioning, and I stared back. She was coming into the city?

Did she understand that I was going out?

I passed her at the middle of the tunnel, then walked out to the far side. The trees out here grew right up to the wall, a tangle of undergrowth beneath them, no path that I could see anywhere.

I glanced once behind as the gates closed, and she was standing there, watching me from within the city, staring at me as if I was the only friend she might have had, and I had abandoned her.

The gates slammed shut.

#41 Forgotten

There was once a young man who desired wisdom. So he went to see the wisest man in his village and asked if the wise man would share his wisdom with him.

The wise man thought for a while, for he was very wise and never did anything without thinking about it first. Then the wise man said, “Yes, I will gladly share my wisdom with you, but first you must bring me something.”

The young man, very eager for a task he could do to repay the wise man for sharing his wisdom, asked, “What must I bring you?”

“The name of it has been forgotten.”

“Where can I find it?” The young man asked.

“That has been forgotten too. But I know it is very far from here.”

So the young man set out on his journey to find the thing, the name of which had been forgotten. He searched high and low, but as he did not know what he was looking for, he could not find it.

At last one day as he walked along a road he met an old woman. She asked him where he was going.

“I am seeking the thing for which the name has been forgotten, which is in the place which has been forgotten too.”

“Ah!” said the old woman. “I know this thing of which you speak. It is in a valley far from here.”

“What is the name of the valley?” The young man asked, overjoyed to at last know the place where he could find the thing for which the name had been forgotten.

“I am sorry,” the old woman shook her head. “It has been forgotten. But if you go into the next village, my sister may be able to help you.”

The young man continued on the road, and when he reached the village he found another old woman so like the first he could not tell them apart. He asked her where to find the thing for which the name had been forgotten which lay in the valley for which the name had been forgotten.

“Ah! I know the thing and the valley of which you speak!” The old woman said. “They lie underneath a mountain that is not far from here.”

“What is the name of the mountain,” the young man pleaded.

The old woman said nothing for a long time. Then at last she bowed her head. “It has been forgotten. But if you go into the next city, my brother may be able to tell you.”

So the young man went into the next city and sought out the brother of the sisters who had forgotten the name of the mountain the name of which has been forgotten and the valley the name of which has been forgotten wherein lay the thing the name of which had been forgotten.

“Ah!” The old man said. “I know this thing and this valley and this mountain of which you speak. They are all beside a sea.”

“What is the name of this sea?” begged the young man, nearly in tears.

The old man sighed. “It has been forgotten, but I know it is very close. Do not give up your search!”

And so the young man continued on his way, and before long he came to a sea. “This must be the sea for which the name has been forgotten!” he said. As he walked along the shore he came to a mountain. “This must be the mountain for which the name has been forgotten!” he said. He climbed the mountain, and on the far side he saw a valley. With great joy, he descended the mountain side, saying, “This must be the valley for which the name has been forgotten!”

And there, in the middle of the valley, was the magnificent thing, the thing for which the name had been forgotten. Simply gazing on that thing made the young man feel as if he was wiser already.

And so, having found the thing for which the name had been forgotten, which lay in the valley of which the name had been forgotten, under the mountain for which the name had been forgotten, beside the sea for which the name had been forgotten, the young man returned to his village.

He went to see the wise man of the village and told him of all his adventures.

“And so,” said the wise man when the story was finished, “You have brought me the thing for which the name has been forgotten?”

“Ah!” Cried the young man. “I forgot!”

#40 Harvest Time

Completely ruined, Mishael thought as he looked over the planet below him. What a waste.

He had known for some time that something was wrong. As he slowed his ship to match the planet’s frame of reference, he’d watched from lightyears away, checking his scans every day as the aeons whipped by on the world he’d visited only a short while ago. A short while ago for him, but his travels near the speed of light had left it whirling at unimaginable speed in his absence. Since he’d last looked down at this planet, the land mass had split and drifted apart. The plant life he had seeded had flourished, grown…

..and then been cut back.

From far away, he had noticed the strange rise in carbon level. He had timed his arrival to be before the plant life reduced the free carbon in the atmosphere to the point that the plants began to have a hard time surviving. Instead, something had made the carbon rise again. He was worried, but he had never expected the devastation he saw when he reached the planet’s side.

Something had evolved. So very recently had it sprung up that the carbon spike had only appeared days ago for Mishael. Something had evolved that had discovered the vast reserves of organic residue Mishael’s plants had left beneath the surface of the planet. The organic residue that Mishael had come to claim and bring back to his home world.

They were using it! Not just to feed their crops, as Mishael’s race did, but they used it as fuel. The creatures had lit up the dark side of their planet with specks of light like stars, they moved about over the land and sea, and through the air, in strange metal vehicles that consumed it and burned into smoke. Their whole planet was rewinding, devolving back to the age where Mishael found it, hot and barren and rich with carbon, ready to be planted with life.

But there was no harvest. The whole thing had been spoiled. Mishael watched the creatures, watched their cities pass beneath him, watched the planet on which they had sprung up like a rot.

He wondered what to do. He could raze the planet and start over. Burn everything off. But still, it would be hard to kill all of these creatures. They were clever. Some might hide beneath the surface, some might find a way to survive. And then, even if Mishael seeded the planet again, he would return to find his harvest consumed once more.

He fingered the button on his control panel, the one that would cleanse the surface of the planet. Then he took his tentacle away without pressing it. He sighed and set his course for the next world on his route. These creatures would die off on their own, sooner or later, and then he could return and start again. Or maybe they wouldn’t, and the next time he came, this world would be home to another race of spacefarers.

Mishael sped away, watching the world behind him slow to a near stop as he approached the speed of light again.