SOULS ON THE OPEN PLANE

Bob’s Journal - February 20th, 2560

The humans say: writing will help improve your understanding of the language. Writing is a hard boat to steer. Frustration. There is no space in writing. Volume or rarrna cannot be expressed. Words written are dead, yet they remain for the rest of my lives. Fear. Grarna every day, so why do I want my words static? Already I am new, and my old writing is wrong. But I will try.

Martin says: writing can be cathartic in a way that speaking is not because you have more time to form your thoughts. Humans have klrran kek there. Wonder. Human’s hold on time is weak, but hold on other things is very strong.

This spaceship is almost dead. It moves so quickly, but only to one place. A goal, humans have called it. Only humans would build a thing that you cannot escape from for so much time. An old me joined this spaceship that floats with its own will, its own grar. Regret.

This word pleases to write. ‘Regret’. It is a perfect word to write, because within it is the mistake it speaks of. Such a moment, regret, shall not occur if you do not write things down. Dead words are forced to stay, and there, you create the future where you will regret them.

Lyre’s Journal - February 20th, 2560

Today is the 300th day of the expedition. I just did the math, and that means there’s 1,095 days until I need to conceive a child. That’s a lot of days, but somehow three years doesn’t sound very long at all. Especially not when I consider how much work I have to do.

We had a new assistant join us in the lab today. Getting a new employee on a ship with a fixed number of people was enough of a surprise, but turns out he’s a Ragak too! He’d been assisting with food production prior to this, but apparently the jrrna told him to perform research. I’m a little ashamed of my lack of knowledge of the Ragak…I believe I took a few courses on them back in quaternary school, but that was a decade ago. I really ought to study up on the Ragak because it doesn’t look good for an exo-biologist to be clueless about an alien species.

His name is Bob. Many alien species detest polite compliments, but I took a gamble and told him I liked the goggles he wore to protect his huge, light-sensitive eyes. He flicked his big bat ears back and forth, and if I’m remembering my old classes correctly, that means he liked what I had to say. He told me he would have a pair made for me. Why didn’t I just politely decline his offer? I’ll admit I am curious to see whether he’ll bring me goggles like his, with lenses so big they’d cover my entire face, or whether they’ll be me-sized.

Bob’s Journal - February 23rd, 2560

I joined the Exobiology Research Center. This is now my jrrna. It has been only six days that I lived this life, but I feel I will soon be dead. The humans say: I should not use the word dead so much because death means a permanent end of life and it’s frightening to hear. Translator gave me this word, there is no other for kilnk or krrk or krrnk. They are all death words. All dead words too. Amusing.

Exobiology Research Center belongs to Lyre, Purna, Chi’go, Tom and Jylla. Lyre is the one who jumps the highest. There has been much spinning in my six days, but little motion.  Frustration. An old me made much grrn lrr when I attended to the crops. 

Labpigs please greatly. They sing with the most adorable voice. Their lives are beautiful, so ephemeral and with such clean purpose. They do not cling to the physical world as the humans do. 

My purpose is muddy as the grrrenarr grrk er. Confusion. 

Lyre’s Journal - March 2nd, 2560

I’m so frustrated with Jylla. She’s not purposefully being obtuse, at least I don’t think so. But yet again, during a meeting today, she came up with the idea to contact the homelab on Antaria and ask if they can assist with the analysis of a sample. Its not a bad idea, but who’s going to do it? The person with the closest contacts at the lab, which is me of course. But I want to spend my time analyzing the sample here, rather than spending hours communicating with homeworld over telegraph. Sending my message…waiting…deciphering their message…waiting…it’s madness! If Jylla thinks it’s such a good idea, she should fricking do it herself! But she knew when she suggested it that I would be the one to do it. That’s what is so aggravating about all this. 

I know it’s not the best use of my time, but if it’s what the group decides, I can’t just go against it. Oddly enough, Bob was the only one who expressed his disagreement with Jylla’s plan. He doesn’t often speak up in team meetings, honestly we only have him there as a show of goodwill to the Ragak, but when we were all discussing whether to ask for help from Antaria, he put down his ears and said “this moves against gan grar.” 

We were all silent for a while, then Chi’go asked, “why?” Bob only shook his head, so we moved on. 

In the high hours of the morning I had some time to brush up on the Ragak, so I know that ‘grar’ is what they consider to be the correct path. Similar to the Promethian religion, the Ragak believe there is a flow to the universe, and that they must follow that flow to the best of their abilities, no matter what. It’s quite fascinating really…the Ragak have sensory ampuli that can detect this cosmic flow. That’s how they know when and where to plant their crops, and who to mate with. It’s how their planet thrives despite having only rudimentary technology. 

I officially have a favorite fact about the Ragak: When humans made first contact with their planet, the researchers were endlessly puzzled by these ancient underground bunkers that were all over the northern hemisphere of their planet. Even though many of them were thousands of years old and completely unused, the Ragak maintained them as thought they were vital infrastructure. 

Then one day, a century ago, a fluke gamma ray burst struck the planet’s northern hemisphere. The local Ragak hid in the bunkers and were completely unharmed. The Ragak knew the burst would come without a single detector! It’s a shame they’re so xenophobic, otherwise we might learn a great deal more from them. Bob’s a rare exception to that, I guess. I wouldn’t call him friendly by any means, but he is here on the Expidiship with a bunch of humans and other exspecies. Hurtling to a far away destination none of us will live to see.

His destined mate is also on the ship, they call her Marta. I couldn’t be more jealous of their situation. They already know who they’re going to end up with. They don’t have to worry about fulfilling their obligation. Meanwhile I’m expected to mine exobiology research breakthroughs, and produce the future generation of this groundbreaking voyage to the great unknown! 

Sure, I can’t be required to procreate, but it was part of the agreement I committed to when joining this voyage. We all have to fulfill our obligation to produce our replacements, otherwise this Expidiship will never make it to the supercluster. It will take us 17 generations, and I can’t very well start that crucial lineage by failing to produce an heir. I just wish I didn’t have to start so early. 41 is so young! And so soon. My mother didn’t have me until she was 56! Then again, she only had two children and I have to have…well, as many as possible.

Bob’s Journal - March 18th, 2560

Great beacons have come into my life in the form of games. There is one called ‘Chaim’s Quest’. Martin says: it tells the tale of a great hero to the humans, a knight named Chaim Gunterburg who conquered the realm of Cancaria by defeating the horde of living dead who infested the land. Confusion is brought by most of this sentence, but the horde of living dead is a terrible thing, a gross abomination. Fear. A living dead writes rrna garr. It gives my real self pleasure to cut them down with my player self.

The highest of the laboratory pulls on my mind. Heavy is the ground around her when she walks. I gave her a pair of our goggles as a rrnra gift, but they have yet to be worn. Lack of surprise. The humans have different gift customs. 

It pleases me, her bowing to me so that I could name a Labpig. Oooop is his name, all ways that flow to the ocean. ….. [CONTINUE READING]