The plant’s screen is in constant flux. There is a sort of icon that looks like a misshapen root that moves around clicking on/selecting things. Right now, it shows a view of the top of a jungle. It cannot be from around here because this jungle is during the daytime. There are green parrots flying over the trees.
Now it shows text but in symbols of some unknown language. A language of lines branching off other lines, yes, like tree branches, roots, or stems. The root-shaped cursor moves about clicking and the screen changes. Now it’s a star-filled night sky. A view of what looks like downtown Ile-Ife, not far from the towers. There are people wearing clothes made of beads, south westerners. I know that place. My home a minute’s walk from there!
The screen changes again. Now… most bizarre, the sight of people, humans, but as I’ve never seen them. And primitive-shaped slow-moving vehicles that are not made of woven hemp but of metal. There are humans here with normal dark brown skin but most are the colour of the insides of yams and these people have light-coloured hair that settles. My wife looks at me with disbelief. It’s what I see, Treefrog7. The legend is true. The M-CPU can view other worlds. Primitive old worlds of metal and stone and smoke but friendly-enough looking people. Now there are more symbols again. Now an image of a large bat in flight. The roots of a tree. The symbols. A lake surrounded by evergreen trees.
My guess? This is the plant thinking, and it is deep thought. Back to my wife.
*Voice recognition detects Treefrog7, Greeny Explorer number421, 793 days in Jungle, approximately 600 miles north of Ooni, 01.41 hours*
ENTRY 15 (01.41 hours)
I feel better. It’s been about two hours. Baby’s fine. My bleeding has stopped. The moth is still there. Watching us. The download is almost done. I can stand up (though it feels like my insides will fall out from between my legs) and see the monitor for myself now.
It just showed something I’ve never seen before…a land of barrenness, where everything is sand and stone and half-dead trees. Where could this nightmarish place be? Certainly not Ginen. It’s almost 2am. In a few hours, we’ll know if that moth actually sleeps.
Field guide entry (uploaded at 01.55 hours)
Wingless Hawk Moth:
The Wingless Hawk Moth is an insect of the taxonomic order Urubaba, which includes butterflies and moths. It is the size of a large car, has a robust grey furry body with pink dots, pink compound eyes, and hearty insectile legs for running. Its antennae are long and furry with silver ball-like organs at the tips. Its proboscis is both a feeding and sucking organ, and a deadly jabbing weapon. It is the pollinator of the M-CPU. It makes no noise as it attacks and is known to stalk targets that it deems hostile to its plant for days. Nocturnal.
ENTRY 16 (02.29 hours)
I’m having a catharsis as my husband and I stare into its monitor and it stares back. I am looking into a distorted mirror. We are gazing into the eye of an explorer. It is like us.
ENTRY 17 (05.25 hours)
My baby is beautiful. She is so fresh and I can see that she will be very dark, like me. Maybe even browner. Thank goodness she is not dada and that she has all ten of her fingers and toes. Think of the number of times in the last eight months that I’ve been poisoned, touched the wrong plant, been bitten by the wrong creature, plus I am full of antibiotics and micro-cures. Yet my baby is perfect. I am grateful.
If we ever make it home, my people will love her. But the wingless hawk moth is still here. The sun rises in an hour.
ENTRY 18 (5.30 hours)
The M-CPU shows pictures and they are getting closer to where we are! Pictures of the sky over trees. Symbols. Clicking. The jungle at night. More symbols. I can see our backs! What! The moth is coming, but slowly, it’s walking. It is calm, its proboscis coiled up. But what does it want? Download is done. What… the M-CPU’s monitor shows two eyes now. Orange with black pupils. Like those of a lemur but there is nothing else on the screen. Only black. Just two unblinking… Joukoujou, help us, o! Now I see. Don’t come looking for us! Don’t…
*Voice recognition detects…Unknown*
*Hacked Allowance*
They will never die. No information dies once gathered, once collected.
The creatures’ field guide is thorough but incomplete.
I am the greatest explorer.
I am griot and I will soon join the others.
End of Appendix 820
BongaFish35 Pinging Treefrog7…
Request timed out.
Request timed out.
BongaFish35 Pinging Morituri36…
KolaNut8 Pinging Morituri36…
MadHatter72 Pinging Treefrog7…
Request timed out.
Request timed out.
Request timed out.
Request timed out.
Request timed out.
Request timed out.
The Slows
Gail Hareven
Translated by Yaacov Jeffrey Green
The news of the decision to close the Preserves was undoubtedly the worst I had ever received. I’d known for months that it was liable to happen, but I’d deluded myself into thinking that I had more time. There had always been controversy about the need for maintaining Preserves (see B. L. Sanders, Z. Goroshovski, and Cohen and Cohen), but from this remote region, I was simply unable to keep abreast of all the political ups and downs. Information got through, but to evaluate its importance, to register the emerging trends without hearing what people were actually saying in the corridors of power was impossible. So I can’t blame myself if the final decision came as a shock.
The axe fell suddenly. At six in the evening, when I got out of the shower, I found the announcement on my computer. It was just four lines long. I stood there with a towel wrapped around my waist, reading the words that destroyed my future, that tossed away a professional investment of more than fifteen years. I can’t say that I’d never envisaged this possibility when I chose to study the Slows. I can’t say that it hadn’t occurred to me that this might happen. But I believed that I was doing something important for the human race and, mistakenly, I thought that the authorities felt the same way. After all, they had subsidised my research for years. Eliminating the Preserves at this stage was a loss I could barely conceive of, a loss not only for me and for my future—clearly I couldn’t avoid thinking about myself—but for humanity and its very ability to understand itself. Politicians like to refer to the Slows as being deviant. I won’t argue with that, but as hard as it is, as repulsive and distressing, we have to remember that our forefathers were all deviants of this kind.
I confess that I passed the rest of the evening with a bottle of whiskey. Self-pity is inevitable in situations like this, and there’s no reason to be ashamed of it. The whiskey made it easier for me to get through the first few hours and fall asleep, but it certainly didn’t make it any easier to get up in the morning. As if to spite me, the sky was blue, and the light was too brilliant. As often happens in this season, the revolting smell of yellow flowers went straight to my temples. When I pulled myself out of bed, I discovered that the sugar jar was empty, and I’d have to go to the office for my first cup of coffee. I knew that at some point during the day I would have to start packing up, but first I needed my coffee. I had no choice. With an aching head and a nauseating taste in my mouth, I dragged myself to the office shed. I opened the door and found a Slow woman sitting in my chair.