Project World Tree: Further Discourse

Oh, Diana, you are such a kidder! I have no experience introducing biological agents to specific ethnic groups. None... unless you count teenage Sebiestor boys; but who does, I mean, really?

For these mushrooms, rock and pressure serve as bread and water; radioactives, their cupcakes. Organics provide no succor; and consequently, face little threat. Moreover, one notable characteristic of radiodurans such as my Titanicus Tekojarvii is extreme resistance to mutation. They maintain numerous copies of their genetic signatures, and correct errors with tireless efficiency. Quite Caldari, now that I think of it! Anyway, my technicolor mushrooms will not suddenly become ambulatory predators a hundred meters tall consuming screaming human populations by the tens of thousands.

And Schere, darling, your mastery of tone is amazing.

You have it exactly right: these are not tasty truffles. Preventing consumption - accidental or otherwise - was a primary design requirement. They are hard as rock and not even as tasty.

Yes, for the first few years, handle with care. The colony's nutrient pathways are complex capillaries filled with a viscous goo not unlike weak battery acid. Tiny T. Tekojarvii wiggle through this goo until secreted in the presence of silicates, metals and other such things. The T. Tekojarvii bind to toxic metals; fungal filaments bind to T. Tekojarvii and reabsorb them. Goo capillaries transport the radiodurans deep into the colony. And by deep, I do mean deep - even for me. The magnificent shattered world lithotrophs go down for miles: think of a titanic jellyfish floating just beneath the surface.

Given the abundance of oxidized tritanium and heavy metal dust currently scattered to and fro, the fungus and its bacterial partners shall remain in excited states for quite some time. Consequently, the nutrient pathways are stuffed with cupcakes and best avoided.

The extraordinary energy provided by these cupcakes will power rapid emergence of towering toadstools described earlier (minus the ambulatory predator part, of course). These will produce spores that consist of leafy sails attached to small pellets. Dropped from a hundred meters, they will travel far and wide on Caldari Prime's mighty breezes. The pellets do not contain cupcakes or other toxins. They are in fact intended to be carried within the digestive systems of migratory animal populations without causing harm. Now, I'm sure this or that passing Sebiestor teenager might put several in his mouth...

Sweetie, drop it. Drop it. Drop. It. Who is a good boy? Drop it. Good boy! Here's a treat.

...but they'll just provide a little roughage and pass right through!

As the oxidized tritanium and heavy metal dust grows more scarce, the fungal colony will become more passive. It will then derive the majority of its energy from seismic pressures acting upon its toxic reservoirs. Growth will slow, nutrient pathways will cool, and indigenous lifeforms will enjoy an ecosystem resembling an enormous forest of petrified mushrooms that exhibit interesting electromagnetic and thermal properties.

"In A Thousand Years," Caldari Prime's will be the most unique biosphere in known space: a fitting legacy for Amsten, Lord On The Shores of Great Frozen Tekojarvi.

Lij-Taisaan mydiku hakiit hovatiiru yn waruhataashe!

Project World Tree: Of Mushrooms and Dead Men

[CALDARI PRIME. The sun rolls, burning, across a distant horizon. Its dying light stains bellies of massed clouds dull crimson. Enormous, ambiguously cybernetic hounds race across jagged tundra. The Crone, her cylindrical kameira, and the pot-bellied Ealurian shift on a wooden sled. Camera drones skitter above and beyond. The hounds skirt a rime-covered dolomite, and then descend a ramp cut by heavy machinery into the garish tundra.

Down, down, to the ancient filth of Great Tekojarvi they howl.

Deteis with flawless blond crew cuts extract sliced cubes of frozen muck from the walls of the pit; others manipulate samples of bone and decay carefully freed from the blocks. All bob their heads to ephemeral sounds of distant calisthenic chanting.

The Crone and her retinue step briskly across brittle slurry. Robed figures study microbes vibrating in holographic projection. Dr. Straz beams with pleasure.]

"The lithotrophs extracted from Ms. Ma'chello's shattered terrestrial world excel in this new application," he insists. "Freed from previously unattainable depths - by unimaginable forces - they once feasted upon the ruin of their home; here, they shall serve as the nerve sheaths of our great trees."

They isolate the radiodurans well, then?

"Yes, madam! With aplomb."

Deriving energy from emissions?

"Beyond all expectations."

And the piezotrophs?

"A fine, muscular flesh for our lumbering behemoths."

[The pot-bellied Ealurian raises his arms to the smoldering sky.]

Excellent, Doctor! You are a gentleman and a bloody scholar.

"Madam is too kind."

Our Brutor has delivered many permeable membrane samples from Araz. We will bring them to the surface as we are able, along with the hazmat sensors and robotics. I trust initial mycoremediation proceeds apace?

"Yes, madam," insists an enigmatically robed technician. "This way."

[The technician leads the Crone, her cylindrical kameira, and the pot-bellied Ealurian to an opening in the icewall. They enter a low corridor of frozen muck, dimly illuminated, and proceed some distance into the darkness. Eventually, they stop before a glass barrier. Beyond, fungal fibers twist and snake through dirt and grey ice.]

"Mutations of the Anoikis autotrophs," explains the technician. "They thrive in this more hospitable environment."

Hospitable!

"For some value, madam."

Grow little mushrooms! Grow! Gobble the nasty and build your great, living barrow! In a thousand years, our Gaia will bloom from the frozen depths of this poisoned hell. Maybe we'll even beat Tibby to the Utopian punch bowl. Look at the bones, Straz! Great herbivores and sacrificial muffins, the ancient Caldari here used treacherous terrain for spiritual and material profit. Somewhere in all of this we might yet find an Etee or Amsten.

Well-preserved, he might even produce an heir. From an ancient grave to the brilliant future!

"To the future, madam!"

Lij-Taisaan mydiku hakiit hnolkuiskki yn kienjazkaan!

[The Crone places a hand on cold glass; mushrooms spread through dark places.]

Project World Tree: Xenobiological Remediation of Caldari Prime

[CALDARI PRIME. Maintenance drones scurry back and forth across the transparent ecodome of Temperate Command Center LUOSTARI-JO GOGOMO External Exercise Platform Three, checking to ensure that vents properly manage snow accumulation and ice encrustation. Below, cadres of stoic employees wait patriotically for twelve long torso choir boys to finish the State anthem. Deteis with immaculate, identical blond crew cuts lead units of co-workers through calisthenics, chanting "Go Go Go.. GO-GO-MO" in flawless unison.

Inside a command center of brushed steel and gold filigree, astute Deteis with immaculate, identical blond crew cuts monitor logistics and security feeds, tilting their heads in perfect unison to the calisthenic chants. In the corner of one gigantic holo projection, pot-bellied Ealurian Dr. Mheket Straz huffs and puffs down corridors of brushed steel and gold filigree, opening and closing a secure portal with tremendous eagerness.

He enters a chamber of giant ceramic oyster-shaped baths and... gold filigree.

Water cascades from upper baths into lower ones. Virile lycanthropic Sebiestor underwear models flow through prana bindu poses while Ni-Kunni therapists rub them with oil and paint their toenails with meticulous ecclesiastical patterns.]

"Madam!"

[The crone waves from a central bath.]

Mhekkie!

"Madam!" spurts the former Covenant scientist again, "Ms. Ma'chello's Anoikis samples dazzle! No, they amaze!"

Stupendous!

[The pot-bellied Ealurian waves his stubby arms in the air. Bubbling cauldrons of microbial goo dance in projections.]

"Extremotrophs adapted to shattered worlds of ice and stone. Astounding!"

Stupendous!

"Stripped of protection, exposed to the harshest conditions and solar winds, forced to claw existence from clumps of alternatively floating and crushed glop - radiodurans, all. Oh, the secrets they tell! Why, the piezophiles of the ice world generate sustenance from pressure! Itself! Their sublime matrices compress and expand... lightning under glace! Oxygen from water! Nutrients from rotting metals ground into glacial flows. Once we have sufficiently explored the intricate natures of their assembly more fully, they should lay the foundations for our great tree's central nervous system quite well.

"And the autotrophs, how they nibble! I am certain, Madam, certain that - mixing the secrets of those alien landscapes with our work here in this sacred fortress - we shall fold the tritanium oxides and heavy metals right out of that great lake!"

Stupendous!

"Stupendous!" cheer the oiled lycanthropic Sebiestor underwear models.

The Roots of Frozen Tekojarvi

[CALDARI PRIME. Reluctantly, camera drones descend the eviscerated slopes of a barren island set amid broken ice. Beeping and meeping to one another through the desolation, they flutter above snow and exposed rock here and there, searching...

Searching.

Finding, they vibrate excitedly in place - and wait.

Temperate Command Center "LUOSTARI-JO GOGOMO," courtyard. Enormous dogs of ambiguous cybernetic pedigree howl. The pot-bellied Ealurian in crimson-lined cold-weather military gear, the crone all in fluffy black, and her cylindrical kameira crush across freshly fallen ice to a sled of weathered wood and woven rope.

With a wave of hand and a flick of bits, the crone launches the powerful dogs into motion. Barking excitedly at one another, they charge into driving sleet.

Down, down and around, they advance inexorably toward the frozen shore. The towering, gilded sheath of Loustari-Jo Gogomo, though gleaming, fades quickly into grey oblivion. As the sled draws near, the camera drones perk up, zoom about briefly, and chirp. The crone pets each of them in turn.]

Oh, you've found something, my lovelies!

[The cylindrical kameira pulls a heavy, circular metallic shovel-like tube from the sled, and approaches the spot identified by the drones. Carefully, he places the tube against the ice, and with slow determination crushes it down. Upon reaching an appropriate depth, he twists and shifts the metal, then withdraws it.

Returning to the sled, he extrudes a core of frozen muck.

Excitedly fastidious, the Ealurian darts gloved fingers through the sludge, separating decaying vegetation from more precious material. Hands on hips, the crone casts a disapproving glance at drifts of snow. Scooping some up in a palm, she manipulates it with one thumb.]

Oxidized tritanium dust! We won't produce a sufficient quantity of modified bacteria to isolate nearly enough before the partial melt. Redouble extraction of aquatic samples. We'll also want to improve our air filtration. The summer stench is going to be something else. How about the roots?

"Oh, yes, madam," chirps the Ealurian. "Wonderful, wonderful! I look forward to studying their cryogenic properties."

[The crone picks up a bulb.]

There's a lady I know, for whom all that glittered was once gold. Now, she tends her garden in a guarded cage. I wonder if she might have any interest in the roots of frozen Tekojarvi...

Stabilizing Caldari Prime: Luostari-Jo Gogomo

[CALDARI PRIME. Camera drones race above the fractured and tumbled floes of great frozen Tekojarvi. The ghosts of Amsten and Etee wail on a cutting gale - a banshee's cry across plains of ice. Lights on the horizon, and the drones beep to one another almost in relief.

Temperate Command Center "LUOSTARI-JO GOGOMO." On a suitably high balcony of the gilded but otherwise functional structure, our dear crone stands almost indistinguishable in black, unnaturally fuzzy furs from head to toe. To her right in pristine white stands the diminutive and alien Other Rabbit; left, decked in crimson lined military cold weather gear, a pot-bellied Ealurian with fine spectacles brushes ice from his neatly trimmed mustache. Behind them all looms the silently cylindrical kameira, blotting out the walls of the command center with his formidable bulk.

Below on the tarmac, cadres of stoic employees wait patriotically in the cold for twelve long torso choir boys to finish the State anthem. At its conclusion, Deteis with immaculate and identical blond crew cuts lead units of co-workers through morning calisthenics, chanting "Go Go Go.. GO-GO-MO" in flawless unison.]

"The supply lines are unusually long, of course," observes the Ealurian after some time. "This consumes more power than may otherwise be necessary, limiting our total productive capacity."

As it must be, my dear Dr. Mheket, to extend our good fortune to as much of the troubled surface as possible! Bacteria, proteins, and biofuels - a humble but necessary beginning to a glorious journey of medical science!

"The characteristics of this planet are most intriguing," agrees the good Doctor. "Will the Brutor be delivering biomass from Aphi III? We will need it to begin on the viral agents necessary for our vaccination work. With so much die-off, disease presents a serious threat."

Never have so manky plankton given their all for such a good cause!

[The crone breathes in deeply.]

Oh, dear. I think I just froze my lungs. "Temperate" my, well, you get the picture.

"Yes, madam," agrees the cylindrical kameira.

Right then, everyone inside! Boys! Boys! This way. Warm one another up. Tea! Tea, please!

Romancing The Rod: Burnished Requiem

[CALDARI PRIME. A blonde Deteis in snappy dress the color of distant horizons walks briskly beside the crone through an imploded atrium. Mist filters from heights lost in grey oblivion.]

Ordinarily, I would have staged nine times as many boys for each Amarrati, but the numbers seemed as inappropriate to the task as they were to the circumstances. Twelve is much more intimate. My very best singers.

Such wonderfully long... torsos.

[The crone admires the reflection of her pressed gold body suit in a pool of brackish water. Camera drones skim through the atrium out to a basin of shattered infrastructure down to that sunless sea.

The ancient Ni-Kunni makes final preparations on the slopes, directing tall young men in sacred robes of rust-colored wool to crumbling blocks of different levels. Each group of four stands in a half arc around a disk of conspicuously cleared ground. They face the drifting mist beyond which Luminaire sinks lower in an unseen sky.

One beam of sunlight penetrates the vapors and bounces painfully off the old man's eyes, then another. Slowly, mist disengages the sky's dome; clouds break like thawing ice. With a quick snort, the Choir Master mutters that the young meteorologists will get to keep their left ********* after all. He starts back up the slope. Approaching the crone's cylindrical kameira, he whispers in the giant's ear; giant nods and witch gestures to clearing heavens.]

It's time!

[Rapidly appearing drop ships churn the dying fog and chew away late afternoon silence, to vanish as suddenly - snatched back by playful Ithaqua. After their passing, three tall wooden containers remain - attended by muscular eunuchs and a phalanx of cybernetic swordsman. With reverence, the eunuchs guide their floating boxes out of the atrium and down toward the sunless sea, each stopping at a cleared circle.

After light presses, front panels of each box shift in slightly, then open out. Moments pass, and like curious lion cubs, a small child emerges from each box. Boyish bangs bounce lightly in cold breezes; jacinth eyes sparkle. The imps explore their binding circles, and then don pristine robes of white and gold handed to them by deferential attendants. The eunuchs withdraw, taking their floating crates with them.

Above, cloud bellies glow dull orange and light pink. Everyone to their places. In unison, the boys and fey pucks pull forward their hoods and settle in to a standing trance. Thirteen Sebiestor in maxtlatl of fine white feathers and basalt mud race to assigned positions. With practiced synchronicity, they slam palms against chests, beating a Taiko rhythm with only flesh and bone. They conclude, and the first lycanthropic bunny boy emerges from obscuring shadow into spreading light.

Not a Sebiestor, but a tube baby come home, the gaunt, miniaturized Other Rabbit moves with great difficulty through the heaviness of the planet's well. His skin is pale, unnatural, almost ashen - and buried under layered white fur. It wraps around him like falling ribbon, up, up to a brilliant ushanka of snow dipped in gold.

Flanked by two Brutor in ceremonial dress, Other Rabbit moves somberly to the focus of the Choir Master's grand arc. Facing Luminaire's spreading burn, the porcelain figurine speaks hoarsely through an atrophied apparatus of natural voice. Beneath, behind, and around his words, a whisper builds:]

O Saamelaihenki!

These brave warriors, our foes and allies, now lay amongst your rock and alppikukka.

Cry out O Sammelaihenki!

Bear their souls aloft to the halls of their fathers.

Requiem aeternam dona ets, Domine

Bear their souls aloft! to their mothers' hearths.

Requiem aeternam dona ets, Domine

That they have given to you, now give to them.

Kyrie eleison.

Carry them home

Kyrie eleison.

and ask them to war

Sanctus. Sanctus, Sanctus,

no longer.

Osanna in excelsis.

[At the conclusion of Other Rabbit's words, the choir builds.

One Brutor steps forward, offering a lacquered tray of Ealorian grain. Weakly, Other Rabbit digs his fingers in and scatters grains on the wind. Hostias et preces, tibi, Domine. The first Brutor steps back and the second forward, bearing a wooden grail of sacred wine. Holding the goblet only with assistance, Other Rabbit pours its contents slowly over the suffering earth. He and the Brutor kneel.

Hostias et preces, tibi, Domine.

Silent to this point, the Amarrati at last begin to sing. Tempests rise within an intercostal vice, constricted by slender throats, slamming against bone and fragmenting through brilliant white teeth. Faces, placid and serene, betray none of the maelstrom below. Near the cherubim, the sound is like a milling saw, piercing and inhuman. It swells to fill the cratered space, and in reflection from the hardened surfaces - each bounce calculated by the ancient Ni-Kunni and his clapping - it returns as the Voice of God. Rising and falling, in places mellowed by the accompanying singers and a low rumble from the Sebiestor in their feathers and mud, in others, accelerated, it is a sound to carry souls of the dead into setting sun.

From their final peak, voices follow Luminaire's light down into a golden arc on the horizon. Precisely at the Choir Master's calculated moment of darkness, silence falls.

No one moves for many long moments. Reaching in to his furs, Other Rabbit produces a small namesake. As he sets the tiny creature down, it clearly weighs much more than nature would on her own allow; the fibers of its white coat permit no stain.

"Become the fear of fear itself, Carbuncle."

The small creature gives a knowing wink, and splashes into spreading night.]

Romancing The Rod: Scouting Party

[CALDARI PRIME. Camera drones race across a plateau of shattered rock and artificial ruin. Precipitation alternates between jagged wedges of ice and leaves of dirty grey slate. The small machines struggle under rime as they circumnavigate a fallen arcology. Scurrying through ruptured lesions in the fallen behemoth's ceramo-polymer skin, they dart down, down to a sunless sea.

Picking his way slowly along that body's shores, taking care not to disturb the fallen where they lay, an ancient Ni-Kunni claps his large, calloused hands repeatedly. More drones hum and zip to their proper places, assembling a finely nuanced image of the pitted cavern's acoustical characteristics.

In a tent high above, fresh-faced young meteorologists divine the atmospheric future of that inhospitable world.]

[Higher yet floats FEDERATION CUSTOMS TESTING FACILITIES, LUMINAIRE VII, MOON 1. The footsteps of a crone and her cylindrical kameira echo off the distant walls of a restricted pressurized hangar bay. Above, the sleek, unmarked hull of a Redeemer carves a silhouette from the station's illuminated shaft.]

Oh! How could I not love - adore! - a station built like this. These Gallente - such marvelous neurosis! Where have they been all my life? I suppose right here.... But can there be any doubt, I mean really, that they were influenced by depraved sadistic sodomites fleeing the collapse of ancient Araz?

[A lift descends from unpressurized regions. Moments pass, its doors slide back. An enormous, sealed black palanquin glides forward on floating coils, each side burned with the golden mon of Her Highness, the Dowager of Hilaban. The palanquin and dour cybernetic escort reach the crone and pause.]

The main event! The headline act! Three little birds with the Voice of God. Did you enjoy your trip, boys!

"We did!" cry the Amarrati in harmonious unison, eager footsteps falling here and there within their ominous artifact like boosted squirrels - barely more than twenty of the creatures in known space.

Ready for tubs and tubs of ice cream?

"We are!"

Excellent, sweeties!