S: (Felix) “Eugh, is this really everyone? Yikes. Talk about a skeleton crew.”

[A rhythmic synth melody.]

M: Felix has gathered all of the remaining crew here on the exterior bow deck of the Ship, all eleven of them – if we’re not counting Omelet.

X: Felix glances back at the rapidly diminishing islet of Brocheroug in the upcurrent distance. He has been insisting, in an almost weirdly fervent manner, that everybody should pay their respects to the final timehouse as they pass by.

S: (Felix) “Now, normally, the only people that get to see the final timehouse up close are Timekeepers. And I’ve only seen it once before, at the end of my buoy run six traversals ago.” 

M: He impatiently clears a smudge off his glasses, the better to regard the approaching spectacle with perfect clarity. 

X: (Rawfield)  “I’ve seen it before,” says Rawfield.

S: Felix flaps his hand dismissively. (Felix) “I mean currently. Not in the Trust days. The Timekeepers follow the buoy here traversal after traversal, no matter what else is going on in the cosmos. Empires rise and fall, but time marches on.” 

X: Tzila, the naturalist, is making a quick little pencil sketch of the timehouse as they approach.

M: Like an upside-down lighthouse, the cylindrical building dangles from the underside of a mica shard, 

S: its roof just a few hundred feet above the Mediun, a weird stalactite. 

M: Or should we say, stalactime? 

X: (Tzila) “Wow,” Tzila says. “So is it just a landmark, or does anyone actually live there?” 

S: (Felix) “Oh, it is occupied. All the timehouses are, but just by one person at a time.”

X: Some more time jokes from Felix. Ah. 

S: He sighs wistfully. (Felix) “One lucky person.” 

X: (Tzila) “Lucky? If you say so. It seems a little lonely to me, especially here at the last timehouse.”

S: (Felix) “No way, Tzila. This one would be the best one of all. Just close the curtains on the Delta side, and it would be downright dreamy. No traffic, no visitors, a whole year of unobstructed alone time? Mmm.”

M: Felix sighs. 

S: (Felix) “Someday, that timehouse gig will be mine. Okay, here it comes. Get ready.”

X: Traveling at a slow cruise, the Ship passes the strange suspended building.

S: The crest of the Timekeepers’ Guild is painted on the facade in peeling, faded colors. Felix performs some kind of a Timekeepers’ salute, waving at a thick armored window set into the building’s curved wall, to the lone timekeeper who is posted in there. 

M: A face peers at them from between window blinds before snapping them shut. 

X: Felix nods, proudly. 

S: (Felix) “A true introvert. Sorry ma’am, we’ll get right off your lawn.” 

X: And with no additional ceremony of note, they pass the last timehouse.

S: And that means they are hereby, officially, forthwith, no longer in time. 

X, S, & M: Woah. 

S: To be clear, it’s not like time has actually stopped or anything. Time still exists, it’s just not measured out here.

M: Welcome to the Delta.

[Ominous music.]

S: Ahead of them hangs that sickly haze of luminance, a bizarre oily sheen of warping light. 

M: All the combined diffuse brightness of the Un has been concentrated increasingly towards one end of the cosmos. 

S: The ocean of Fold below is thick and swamp-like, its surface also reflecting that oily streakiness, like the surface of gasoline, ribboned with prismatic color in long fluidic shapes.

X: But it is still distinctly flowing in the same uniform direction as always – albeit more slowly than usual – toward the disorienting horizon in the distance. 

M: If there is an end to all this, an end to the cosmos, that is where it lies, and that is where they are going. 

S: The Delta has only just begun, and how far it goes and how long it stretches toward that distant point is fundamentally unknown.

X: But the Ship is on its way to find out,

S: serenely soaring, unhampered, hundreds of feet above the bog-like surface of the Mediun. 

X: And with their severely reduced numbers now, there’s very little excuse to be standing around doing nothing, so everybody disperses, returning to their various tasks. 

M: Except for Cleo, who remains outside for a moment longer, 

X: standing on the bow deck.

S: Mica hangs thick in the air ahead, the dust refracting prismatic crepuscular rays out of the strange light. The mica concentration in the air is gradually getting denser, just like it did as they ascended through the upper Un. Pretty soon, it won’t be safe to stand outside like this unprotected anymore, so she’s trying to enjoy the fresh air while she can. 

M: Not that it’s even particularly fresh, per se. It’s more…weird. That strange breeze that was detectable on Brocheroug continues, hot and cold, an uncomfortable mix of jostling extremes, never quite reaching equilibrium. 

X: Every gust brings with it a new and different smell, careening abruptly between soap, cake, garbage, 

M: fish, sawdust, herbs, 

X: chemicals, 

M: and other things impossible to identify at a sniff.

S: It’s kinda giving her sensory whiplash. Plus it keeps blowing her hair into her mouth. Cleo realizes she should probably just go back inside. But then what? What is she even doing here, really? The adrenaline of her impulsive decision is starting to wear off. She shouldn’t be here. She has no applicable skills, but, ha! Too late now, ha ha, oh boy!

X: The door doors behind her. The Granddaughter steps out onto the bow deck to examine the vista. 

[A pensive guitar melody.]

M: Cleo starts. Should she go back inside now? Would it be weird to leave without saying anything?

S: Things have been pretty strained and awkward, at least from Cleo’s perspective. She honestly has no idea what Dot thinks, which only makes her more anxious. Cleo has been doing her best to give Dot space after what Artifice said to her. IS her friendship with Dot genuine? Is her whole personality just a defense mechanism? Does she actually like Dot, or does she just want Dot to like her? No, no, that one’s not hard: she does actually like Dot, and she misses being able to be around them without this uncomfortable layer of self-aware second-guessing. Like now. Oops, she hasn’t said anything for too long, and now it IS weird. But Dot can not say anything for ages, and THAT’S not weird. Oh my god, shut up, brain. 

X: Her brain is so loud that she almost does not hear Dot’s quiet (Dot) “What is your first impression of the Delta, Cleo?”

M: Oh! Dot’s making conversation. DOT is making conversation. 

X: Dot is making CONVERSATION?

S: Cleo smiles with practiced charm, trying to hold her hair out of her face in the fitful breeze. (Cleo) “Oh! Well, it’s, it’s, umm…” 

M: She drops the smile with a huff and a slump of her shoulders. 

S: (Cleo) [sigh] “I’m not really a fan, to be honest, since you asked. It’s kinda like the worst parts about the Un and the Fold all mashed together. And with all the awful stories about this place, it barely even feels like a grand adventure anymore. It just feels like going somewhere we already know sucks.” 

X: (Dot) “You were originally planning to leave. Did your aunt, the Baron, really–”

S: (Cleo) “No, no, that was all bullshit.”

M: Cleo grips the crystalline banister. 

S: (Cleo) “You’re the only one I can tell, since I already told you the truth about my family. They don’t care. They don’t care about the expedition, and they certainly don’t care about me. They are completely wrapped up in their own reality, and I’m barely a part of it. [Sigh] No matter how hard I try, I’m never gonna be enough for them. And that’s what made me change my mind, that…realization.”

M: Dot blinks, startled. 

X: (Dot) “Realization?”

M: But Cleo is too wrapped up in what she’s saying to notice. 

S: (Cleo) “And I know, I know, that’s a stupid reason to come to the Delta! Maybe I’m just overreacting. Oh, sorry! I’m unloading on you again. My mind is such a jumble right now! I don’t know how to calm it down.” 

X: They listen to the strange moaning wind together for a moment, standing here on the Ship’s bow deck. Dot is aware that Cleo has been acting a little off ever since that stopover on that little uncharted islet in the Fold where they went camping, and it does bother them a bit, but they’re almost MORE bothered by the fact that they ARE bothered. So, it’s been kind of a lot to sort through. 

X: (Dot) “If you are feeling troubled, I may know how to calm it down.”

[Delicate music.]

S: Cleo’s bioluminescence flutters. She fidgets with her hair. (Cleo) “Um, you do?” 

X: (Dot) “A great deal of my training has been about mastering thought and feeling.” 

S: (Cleo) “Well, great! I wouldn’t mind mastering either of those things right about now.” 

X: Dot leans on the railing of the bow deck, looking out into the distance. (Dot) “Then, consider: what are you when you do not think of yourself, your past, or your future?”

M: Cleo blinks, sorta thunderstruck by this question. 

X: (Dot) “Do not move your mind to find an answer. Do not reference a memory. Do not consider plans or expectations for the future. What is there between thoughts? What is aware of the thoughts?” 

S: Cleo looks stupefied, softly sledgehammered, a million miles away. (Cleo) “Uh, whoa.” 

X: (Dot) “There is nothing to think about. You do not need to think about anything. There are not situations. There are not circumstances. There is no problem to solve. Everything in your mind – beliefs, narratives, storylines – are all thoughts. They are not real. You do not need them.” 

M: Cleo is looking at the Granddaughter, sort of slack-jawed. 

S: (Cleo) “Wait, hang on. THIS is your training? You don’t THINK?” 

X: Dot shakes their head. (Dot) “No,” they lie. “I do not.”

S: (Cleo) [laughing] “HOW?? And…why?” 

X: (Dot) “It is one of the Mother’s most fundamental trainings. Quietude of mind and emotion is one of the first steps to true communion with the Fold.”

M: Cleo looks like she’s been hit by a bocular horse. 

S: (Cleo) “Holy shit, I… I can’t do anything without thinking. You’re really not thinking? Right now? Not even a little?”

X: (Dot) “No.”

S: (Cleo) “Like, none?? How can you even talk? Wouldn’t you, like, be dead, if your brain has no thoughts?”

X: (Dot) “You do not need to think about awareness in order to be aware.”

S: (Cleo) “Come on. How do you not think?” 

M: Dot looks at Cleo evenly. 

X: (Dot) “Instead of thinking, do not.”

S: (Cleo) [laughs]

X: Yeah. Simple. Easy. Very straightforward. Anybody could do it. 

S: Cleo laughs, totally flabbergasted, and then they are both quiet for a moment. Cleo does try it – tries to literally just not think. It is impossible. (Cleo) “That seems perfectly straightforward when you put it all like that, but actually not thinking? It’s hard. They taught you this at the Coenobium?” 

X: (Dot) “Among many other things. Such mastery is required in order to become a Mother.” 

M: Cleo bites her lip. 

S: (Cleo) “Dot, I know you probably can’t answer this, but, um… How DO you become a Mother?” 

X: Dot’s mind races. No, it doesn’t. Just kidding. Shh, quiet, don’t tell anybody we said that. (Dot) “A Daughter trains to become Granddaughter, and when a Granddaughter comes to the… Realization… that they are ready, they present themselves at the Coenobium and undergo a final test, and then a Granddaughter becomes a Mother.” 

S: (Cleo) “Are you? Ready?” 

X: Ehhh… Dot wants to lie as usual and say, yeah, they’re ready as hell. But, to their own surprise, they can’t do that to Cleo. So, instead, slowly, they shake their head. (Dot) “I…will be ready, soon.” 

S: They are so incredibly impassive and neutral that Cleo can barely tell, but, with her hypervigilant emotion radar, she could swear Dot seems… scared?

M: This is the second time she’s glimpsed it. But it must be her imagination, since the Granddaughter apparently has no thoughts or emotions. 

S: (Cleo) “How… how will you know when you’re ready?”

X: (Dot) “I will know. It will not be subtle or unclear.”

S: (Cleo) “Huh! Well, if you need help unsubtly seeing something, I should give you my cursed glasses. I’ve been keeping them in a shoebox under my bed ever since the…giant corpse incident? So, let me know if you want them.” 

X: (Dot) “Yes, actually,” 

M: Dot says immediately. 

X: (Dot) “They might help me find what I am looking for, and then I should be ready for my final test at the Coenobium.”

S: Cleo smiles, maybe her first genuine smile since the camping night. (Cleo) “Then, consider them yours! They look fantastic on you anyway.” 

M: Inside the unlight-filled atrium, Mother Artifice glides past, dimly visible through the currently semi-opaque walls of the Ship.

S: Cleo doesn’t see. 

X: Dot does, and they and Artifice exchange a look as the Mother passes by. 

S: (Cleo) “So you’re not just going to suddenly transform into a Mother here on the Ship. That’s good to know. I mean, Mothers are all so mysterious and wise and they have spooky powers and they’re nice but also kind of scary. Who knows what they even look like under there. When you become a Mother, does it change what kind of person you are? Will it change…who YOU are?”

M: Dot stares at her helplessly. 

X: (Dot) “Cleo, I can’t–”

S: (Cleo) “No, no no, of course, I’m sorry. Um, I’ve, I’ve actually gotta go…check on Omelet? Don’t stay out here too long, Dot. It’s starting to get scratchy.” 

M: And Cleo doors back into the Ship and hurries inside. 

X: The day wears on, and the Ship continues on its way, covering distances in hours that would’ve taken days for ships of old.

M: Do you know about the Great Pacific Garbage Patch?

S: That’s a thing in real life, unfortunately.

M: It’s kind of the vibe here, but a thousand times worse. 

S: Just like the real one will be if nothing changes. 

M: Quiet, we’re doing science fiction right now. In some ways, it’s reminiscent of the extreme depths of the Fold, too, but less trash compactor-y and more landfill mountain-y. 

X: A little less, uh, skeleton-centric too, for better or for worse. We do like skeletons, but there are far fewer of them here. 

S: There are plenty of soft and soggy carcasses here, but a much more staggering variety of living life.

X: Crawling and slithering and hopping and buzzing all over the place, from heap to heap of drifting junk, above and below the Fold, are all kinds of critters. 

M: Slimy kelp forests shelter lurking predators. 

S: Huge centipedal fish with long toothy jaws lunge out of the oily goop of the Mediun to snap at leathery crustaceans. 

X: Poisonous pitcher plants with garish nightmare colors attract swarms of glittering gnats, drowning them in sickly-sweet wells of nectar.

M: Spindly-legged birds step daintily between simmering, stinking tide pools, investigating each one with their pale, writhing, maggot-like heads, searching for foamy clusters of spawn or globs of algae. 

S: Lone mirrorhawks divebomb into the Fold, surfacing moments later and darting back up to the Un with wriggling prey speared on their sharp forepoints.

X: Thin translucent filaments drift on the current like rice noodles in soup, seemingly lifeless, but entangling and paralyzing any unfortunate creature that crosses their path, dragging them slowly and inexorably down to the waiting mouth of the jellyghoul somewhere below. 

S: Leaning over the punch-disc banks in the control deck, Tzila, the naturalist, is filling page after page of her sketchbook with quick impressions of all these creatures and plants as they cruise by. (Tzila) “Wow, holy shit, holy shit.” 

M: Micky peeks over Tzila’s shoulder in between consulting antique navigational charts. Maps of the Delta are rare, inconsistent, and go out of date almost as soon as they’re made. 

X: Micky is covering them with notes, corrections, question marks. (Micky) “How do you draw that fast?” 

S: (Tzila) “I have to. It’s not like animals are gonna sit still for me. I used to have a dog who would let me draw him for hours while he slept, but he was old. And special. I’m starting to wonder if I should learn how to use Kanneken’s camera. They left it for me, just in case. Those things are just so intimidating, you know? And you can’t even use them in the Fold.” 

X: (Micky) “Yeah, maybe it’s the Sequestrian in me, but I’ll always prefer a good old-fashioned illustration.”

M: The wetland landscape crawls by like a landfill-themed I Spy spread. 

S: The Mediun looks almost solid enough to wade through, though it’s doubtlessly riddled with deceptively deep pools and hidden riptides. 

X: There are rotten and mutated wrecks of antique ships – Trust, United Baronies, Timekeeper, postal, bocular, industrial, recreational –

M: matted globs of plant fiber,

S: oozing husks of broken and destroyed islets, like the rinds of giant watermelons, once-soaring mountain ranges and landscapes of a thousand different biomes now sinking into primordial – 

M: or post-mordial?

S: – soup, dissolving like prehistoric cereal in expired cosmic milk. 

X: Every so often, chunks of shining white mica shower down from the headachey brightness above, plopping into the Mediun of the Fold with a wet sizzle.

S: The current is slow and sluggish, boiling with a constant sloppy simmer of metastasized, overdeveloped tearrors. 

M: Despite all of this, it does have a strange peacefulness, in a way. There’s only so much chaos you can process before it all blurs together into background noise. When everything is happening all at once, it almost feels like nothing is happening at all.

S: One thing there is absolutely no sign of is human life. Rawfield and Hambing are in the foremost point of the helm, surveying the syrupy surface of the Mediun through the angled prow walls. 

X: (Hambing) “It’s hard to imagine how anyone lives here.” Hambing is staring through one tubule of a bocnocular, almost like a giant telescope to his tiny eyes.

S: (Rawfield) “Oh, they’re out there. Born here and dying here. Lots of people. Most of them alone, solitary. Rarely in groups.” 

X: Rawfield is looking through some bocnoculars of her own. 

S: (Rawfield) “They’re constantly relocating in an effort to stay alive. In my experience, they were surprisingly difficult to find, especially because we couldn’t risk coming into contact with the Fold here. Our ships weren’t dark mica in those days. We’d cruise above the Mediun, scanning for survivors. You might think that anyone here would be desperate for rescue, but think about it. If all you know is the Delta, you’ve probably never seen a ship before, other than wrecked ones that wash up. You probably know nothing about the outside cosmos. You may not even know other people exist. All you know is struggle, chaos, and tearrors. So, you’re hardly going to regard an unfamiliar flying thing hurtling down out of the sky at you as anything to get excited about. Probably something to run from. These people go through horrors the rest of us can’t imagine. It was rare to find anyone whose mind and body wasn’t warped beyond repair. We rehabilitated those we could…”

M: Her gaze darkens. 

S: (Rawfield) “And we abandoned those we couldn’t. It was a cost-benefit analysis. Not my decision.” 

X: Hambing puts his teeny-tiny hand on Rawfields’s strong grizzled one. 

M: (Hambing) “It’s not your fault, Ripley. You did what you could with the Company. You saved lives, and you’re still saving lives.”

X: Rawfield gives the tiny tearrorologist a stoic nod, almost a smile. 

S: (Rawfield) “Thanks, Drewery. It’s hard coming back here, but I have hope that if this works, dark mica ships will be able to rescue more people than the Trust ever could – and without delivering them straight to a different kind of inescapable swamp. That’s my greatest hope for the outcome of this mission. Cosmic discovery is all well and good, but there are people right here under our noses who we’ve been unable to significantly help for most of history. Maybe that can change.” 

M: Speaking of cosmic discovery, as if on cue, Merlin doors in from the elevator, stepping into Control, engaged in a remote conversation with the Biological Man, 

S: thanks to his modified teletheric Daggle walkie-talkie thing. 

M: (Merlin) “Yes, then join me in Control. Over.”

(Biological Man) “Yes, Merlin. With the extra blank discs. Over and out.” [A brief blip of a ringing tonality.] “Apologies, wrong button. Over and out, again.” 

X: Merlin joins Everett near the Foldlight here in Control, crossing his arms to mirror her stance. 

S: The spare bulb twinkles, its internal fold smoothly sliding through the tangle of bright filaments.

M: (Merlin) “It’s different, isn’t it?”

X: Merlin observes. 

M: (Merlin) “It looks similar, but if you watch closely, you can tell that it’s not quite the same as the last one.”

X: Everett raises an eyebrow. (Everett) “You can tell?” 

M: (Merlin) “The fold moves in different ways, and the lights as well. It’s not as simple as swapping out any other piece of machinery. I suppose it’s not too difficult to imagine that, like each of us, like our fingerprints, the Foldlights are individuals, too, unique because of what they experience.” 

S: He gives the glass casement a gentle pat with his mechanical hand.

M: (Merlin) “It almost makes me mourn the original Foldlight like a crewmate.”

X: Everett, uh, looks like she would like to pat the Foldlight as well, but, uh, she’s a little shy of swirling fold at the moment, due to recent events. She sighs, gazing into its strange luminance. (Everett) “I wonder if it misses the old bulb too, or looked up to it, or something. You hear that, buddy? Don’t get, uh, performance anxiety on us or something. If you crap out, the Stagecoach is all we got left.” 

M: Merlin nods. (Merlin) “Speaking of which, how are we doing on range? You and Micky are keeping track?” 

S: The crew has agreed that it would probably be best not to travel beyond the point at which the Stagecoach would be unable to carry them back to Brocheroug. They’ve had enough near-escapes for one expedition. 

X: Everett glances over at Micky, who is making some markings on a navigational chart. Micky gives Everett a thumbs up. (Everett) “Yeah, I think we’re still fine,” says Everett. “Stagecoach may not be the fastest, but she does have endurance, where it counts. We can keep going for a few more days at least before we need to start thinking about turning around, assuming we don’t run into something that makes us wanna get out of here sooner.”

S: Felix suddenly yelps, scurrying from his cramped little workstation all the way up to the helm, jostling Tzila in his hurry. 

X: (Tzila) “Hey, watch it!” 

S: (Felix) “Ooh, ooh, there’s another one!” 

M: Felix shoulders in between Rawfield and Hambing. 

S: He has his bocnoculars trained on yet another old time buoy outside. It’s beached on a pile of refuse, encrusted with barnacles which are being eagerly picked off by a flock of maggotloons. (Felix) “Looks like… uh, traversal 628? Maybe 626. The last digit is all fucked up.” 

X: He makes an excited note in his logbook. 

S: (Felix) “Maybe we can pick it up on the way back. I always kind of wanted to have one for my office back home.”

M: (Merlin) [chuckles] “So, Felix, have you thought of a name for your new month yet?” 

S: (Felix): “Eh, not really. I’ve been too busy thinking about the engineering that would be required to even let a buoy pass through here unobstructed. Some kind of dark mica canal maybe? Normally the Timekeepers are opposed to any artificial expediting of the buoy’s passage, but I can’t think of an alternative. Maybe we’d need to redesign the buoy altogether…” 

M: (Merlin) “I’m glad you’re having fun.” 

S: (Felix) “Yeah, this is the good stuff. I’m finally…” 

X: He lowers his glasses. 

S:  (Felix) “…off the clock.” 

X: Tzila throws an eraser at Felix’s head.

S: (Felix) “Ow!”

M: Micky finally straightens up from her close study of the navigational charts, massaging the small of her back.

S: (Micky) “Okay, folks. These charts are a mess, but from what I can tell, we’re coming up on what is essentially the last charted point of the Delta – sooner than I expected.” 

X: Rawfield examines the charts herself. (Rawfield) “So we are. You know, the Trust never went very far in, technically. There was no point. We had a hard enough time finding people in the near Delta, and we weren’t exactly here to explore.”

M: (Merlin) “Well, we are now,” 

X: says Merlin. 

M: (Merlin) “Ready, everyone? This is the third time we are about to fly into the entirely unknown.” 

X: Everett puts an arm around Micky. (Everett) “Third time’s the charm, I hope.”

S: And off the map they go.