When in doubt, write a story.
This is a story of Jerna. I begin this way, in part because living among the Kre for so long makes it seem like a story is incomplete without the proper framwork. I suppose if I was still living on Earth I would have started with some piece of intruiging exposition, a catchy snip of dialogue, a character detail that would later prove revealing, something like that.
"Camron inhaled sharply as he took his first breath of the new air, having somehow been chosen to be the first off the ship." That would have been a good beginning, I suppose.
But the Kre always begin their stories by indicating to the reader what sort of story it will be. A story of Aak, for example, will be about friendship, since Aak is the name of the moon that represents as much to them. Goreh is a nearby planet that represents philosophy, Tser is the name they give to their sun, and it represents reproduction, and so on.
Jerna, however, is the name of a startlingly bright, orangey red star that never quite sets, and is even visible to the naked eye on clear days. To the Kre, it represents that which is far away, unknown, and so any story that is purely speculative, anything they have no way of seeing firsthand (pardon the innapropriateness of the expression), begins with the phrase "This is a story of Jerna". As you will, I hope, never come to the planet of the Kre, which we somewhat amusingly christened "Vesta" on our landing, this story seems to fit into that genre.
It seems so strange to use the word "genre". I believe I haven't used that word in thirty years. I'm surprised I remember it.
Which I guess is how long it would take me to get a response to this transmission. Fifteen years there. Fifteen years back. I don't believe I'll hold my breath.
Ha! Which is exactly what I did when, as I walked down those corrugated metal steps for the first time, out of the stale interior of the transport, into an atmosphere that all of our research had said was breathable, and which all of our instruments had confirmed. Instinct, I guess, to seize up a bit, to forget certain basic functions like breathing when faced with something like my first steps on a foreign planet. We could see a little bit out of the thick glass of the portholes that the soil was a greenish-blue, sort of the color of modeling clay, and that it didn't seem terribly windy out, things like that. There were moderate sized hills, and here and there little grayish mounds that could have been shrubs or stones. We spent at least an hour trying to piece together eveything we could from the instruments, and the evidence of our own eyes, but when speculation could take us no further it was time for one of us to venture out.
I don't even remember how it ended up being me that took those first steps, but it was. Twenty-four years old, or thirty-nine, depending on how you look at it, and the first human ever to walk on this planet. I felt like I should have had a protective suit or something, or at least a mask, but the truth was that we didn't bring anything like that with us. If the planet turned out to be unlivable, we were all completely fucked, so the general policy was not to waste cargo space on that sort of thing. It wasn't like we were heading back, and it certainly wasn't like we were going to be sending for help.
I really can't compare those first moments on "Vesta", as we hadn't yet decided to call it, to anything on Earth. It all felt so bright, and the feel of natural light on my face and arms was like an electric current running across my skin. The fact that the ground gave a little under my feet was startling, and almost made me lose my balance, but all of this is probably just due to the fact that the interior of the transport was dim to conserve energy, and the thick bulkheads were completely unforgiving. For all I remember, this new planet may have actually been very much like Earth.
At any rate, after seeing that I didn't explode or suffocate, and that no giant worms appeared from beneath to swallow me up, nothing like that, the rest of the passengers followed me out.
"Camron inhaled sharply as he took his first breath of the new air, having somehow been chosen to be the first off the ship." That would have been a good beginning, I suppose.
But the Kre always begin their stories by indicating to the reader what sort of story it will be. A story of Aak, for example, will be about friendship, since Aak is the name of the moon that represents as much to them. Goreh is a nearby planet that represents philosophy, Tser is the name they give to their sun, and it represents reproduction, and so on.
Jerna, however, is the name of a startlingly bright, orangey red star that never quite sets, and is even visible to the naked eye on clear days. To the Kre, it represents that which is far away, unknown, and so any story that is purely speculative, anything they have no way of seeing firsthand (pardon the innapropriateness of the expression), begins with the phrase "This is a story of Jerna". As you will, I hope, never come to the planet of the Kre, which we somewhat amusingly christened "Vesta" on our landing, this story seems to fit into that genre.
It seems so strange to use the word "genre". I believe I haven't used that word in thirty years. I'm surprised I remember it.
Which I guess is how long it would take me to get a response to this transmission. Fifteen years there. Fifteen years back. I don't believe I'll hold my breath.
Ha! Which is exactly what I did when, as I walked down those corrugated metal steps for the first time, out of the stale interior of the transport, into an atmosphere that all of our research had said was breathable, and which all of our instruments had confirmed. Instinct, I guess, to seize up a bit, to forget certain basic functions like breathing when faced with something like my first steps on a foreign planet. We could see a little bit out of the thick glass of the portholes that the soil was a greenish-blue, sort of the color of modeling clay, and that it didn't seem terribly windy out, things like that. There were moderate sized hills, and here and there little grayish mounds that could have been shrubs or stones. We spent at least an hour trying to piece together eveything we could from the instruments, and the evidence of our own eyes, but when speculation could take us no further it was time for one of us to venture out.
I don't even remember how it ended up being me that took those first steps, but it was. Twenty-four years old, or thirty-nine, depending on how you look at it, and the first human ever to walk on this planet. I felt like I should have had a protective suit or something, or at least a mask, but the truth was that we didn't bring anything like that with us. If the planet turned out to be unlivable, we were all completely fucked, so the general policy was not to waste cargo space on that sort of thing. It wasn't like we were heading back, and it certainly wasn't like we were going to be sending for help.
I really can't compare those first moments on "Vesta", as we hadn't yet decided to call it, to anything on Earth. It all felt so bright, and the feel of natural light on my face and arms was like an electric current running across my skin. The fact that the ground gave a little under my feet was startling, and almost made me lose my balance, but all of this is probably just due to the fact that the interior of the transport was dim to conserve energy, and the thick bulkheads were completely unforgiving. For all I remember, this new planet may have actually been very much like Earth.
At any rate, after seeing that I didn't explode or suffocate, and that no giant worms appeared from beneath to swallow me up, nothing like that, the rest of the passengers followed me out.
posted by Brandon | 6:55 AM
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