The migrating species was red and long but no wider than the tip of your little finger. They looked like quick ribbons fluttering about close to the ground. Their migration started slowly, no more than a few kilometers a week, but by the time I was summoned the creatures had come within fifty kilometers of the southern settlement’s primary base. They did not seem particularly aggressive, and the colonists initially assessed them to be quite harmless. Unfortunately, initial assessments are frequently wrong.
As the creatures neared one of our outposts, many colonists there grew ill. It started with a few isolated cases of fever and hallucinations. The doctors on Kolome initially thought they could contain the disease, but it rapidly spread into an epidemic, incapacitating the entire southern settlement. Most patients recovered after a few days. For some the illness lingered for weeks. For a few, but far, far too many, the disease proved fatal.
At first the colonists did not draw a connection between the illness and the migrating species. They initially thought the symptoms might be a delayed reaction to one of the native plant-like species the colonists fed upon. The food had been thoroughly tested years before but was studied again and found to be quite harmless, as initially assessed. The finest physicians in that part of the galaxy were brought in, but none of them could cure the disease or even determine its cause. In the end we could only assume the illness had something to do with the migration of the little red creatures. By the time I arrived, almost two-hundred colonists in the south had perished. There was talk of abandoning the settlement. Some even proposed leaving Kolome altogether.
I will not go into the details of how we resolved the problem, for that is not my purpose here. I fear I have already digressed. I will try to restrict myself to the subject at hand, the words which arose from my work on the Kolome Project.
I must admit that I saw the little creatures only once, and that was during a brief excursion to Kolome’s surface. I had traveled over a hundred kilometers north of the southern settlement. Some of the colonists had encouraged me to take a faclicant to help me properly assess the situation. As it is, on this excursion, I preferred to travel as one, trusting my instincts. An ancient philosopher once said, “When a man is alone, he is alone.”
Truth is truth, and I must admit I have never felt so isolated, even with the settlement only ten minutes away by galaride. While I surveyed what I can only describe as a hopelessly barren landscape, one of the creatures came flitting by, alternately displaying its crimson back and its underside flecked with orange and yellow. As the creature passed within half-a-ten meters, I heard it make a high-pitched singing sound. The first colonists, understandably entranced with the creatures, had named them “trillbrights.”
As I watched the trillbright dance over that desolate landscape, I realized the challenge I faced, the problems that lay before me. The creature was, as I had feared, quite beautiful, more beautiful than the holopics could ever portray.
As the trillbright twisted its way into the distance, I knew what I would have to do. I knew I would have to change the trillbright’s name. After days of deliberation, I decided upon “slaggerbug.” Truth is truth, so I must admit the creatures actually had very little in common with insects, except size. But it was not the accuracy of the word that was important to me. With a little coaxing, “slaggerbug” became the accepted term among the colonists and scientists in the region. I correctly assumed that if I could change the word used by the local population, the rest of the galaxy would follow their lead.
Soon afterwards, I wrote an article for Galactic Science in which I coined another word—“delinction.” “Delinction” was, I proposed, the methodical elimination of a harmful or useless species. We had to acknowledge, I argued, that we no longer had life on a single planet to contend with—or even a handful of planets for that matter. We had an entire galaxy potentially teeming with life. We had to recognize that just because something “did exist,” it did not necessarily mean it “should exist.” The article, I am proud to say, was well received in this part of the galaxy.
Of course, language rarely resolves problems by itself. It is only one of many tools used to address difficult issues. And I used all my tools to help persuade others to see the logic in my argument. But it is language I am addressing here, so I will try to restrict myself to that topic.
Of course things are never as simple as they first appear. Many believe that terraforming is merely using powerful equipment to shape, reform and refine a planet. In reality, terraforming is about managing cause and effect, about judging consequences. When you are working on a planetary scale, every action will have a dramatic reaction, often one you did not predict. It is the terrologist’s job to assess those reactions and respond accordingly. Kolome is an excellent case in point.
Once the slaggerbugs were gone, the small gray plantlike organism which had sustained the colonists began to perish. It was not completely unexpected but many busicrats grew angry when what we had already identified as a possibility actually occurred.
I took, however, another approach. The organism had originally been named “calobush,” so I merely asserted that if we were going to use plant analogies, referring to the organism as a “bush” was not entirely accurate. I rationally recommended changing the organism’s name to “caloweed.” I also pointed out that although the caloweed was capable of sustaining life, much more flavorful and nutritious food could be grown on Kolome. I argued that since the caloweed was already perishing and could be replaced it would be logical to speed up the process.
Once the caloweed was gone, the remaining species declined as well. The “glushworm” and “testimite” were gone within a year. The “cessfish” hung on a little longer.
This brings us to the word “retoration.” “Retoration” would be, I asserted, simply the removal of all life from a planet in order to repopulate it with other life forms to create a more balanced ecology.
But of all the words which arose from the Kolome Project, I believe my personal favorite is “Terra-Exulta.” During the first year of the transformation, things were extremely difficult. The planet had to be temporarily abandoned while the Klarmond ships did their work. Many argued not to return to Kolome at all. I countered by saying that although things were difficult, in the end the result would be “Terra-Exulta,” a perfect world, an ideally-constructed planet.
In the end, I worked on the Kolome project for over five years. After four years, Kolome was once again a viable planet. But you should see it now. It has little resemblance to the frigid wasteland I visited long ago. The entire planet thrives, full of life and features you would quickly recognize. Even though it was one of my early works, I am especially proud of it.
Since that time I have worked on many planets, and with each project came new challenges and new words. The Walgard Project brought us anaclam, fecateria, glomoration, reimmolate, and elimitest. The Glaman Project itself spawned seventeen new nouns, six verbs and one of my favorite words, “ecoviserate.”
Oh, how I could go on, for the list is almost endless. I have, as it is, written far more than I intended. I hope you find this information useful as you continue your studies. Please let me know if you need any more information, for I do so enjoy reminiscing.