III
Time is a strange serpent on this planet, and one I had to adjust myself to. Linearity is not along the same axis that we on Earth perceive. Whereas Earth is grounded, and it's time tied to the motions of celestial bodies, things are more loose on Aqnep. Each forest island, a small nation in its own right, travels through the webwork of whisps and water veins at the whims of the wind and the waves.
The sun is not plainly visible to most of this planet, either. It's light is dithered by the shimmering clouds of the atmosphere. With that, and the fact that most islands travel around the planet at different speeds, using it as a measure of time is absurd. However, a reliable refernence are the regular dronings of the moon. It pulls and shifts gravity. It tilts forest islands. It shifts the colors of the veins and the air as the bioluminescent microbes' angles keep balance.
Planet Jupiter has four moons. Aqnep has five. Four are analogous to Jupiter's, and are as distant as ours are. These do have some external servers for my processes, yes, but the bulk is on an artificial moon that orbits much closer to the planet. It's a facility. A structure that collects stacks and stacks of data from the probes, layers upon layers of loose branches in a petrifying tumbleweed, and scores and scores of mythology in this planet's scriptures.
The luck. To be a rare beetle on this planet, linked to the head of a wayward traveler, put up to rest in a nearby temple that worships the value of these bugs, is a rather optimal situation to find myself in.
But I need to find the rest of myself on the Fifth Moon.
I sit on a leaf with a small swarmlet along the branch behind me, coordinating where that moon is. This planet is enormous, about 13 Earth-sizes across, and the Fifth Moon is about five Earths away. And about one entire Earth up from where we are.
I have this measurement, this vague co-location with other distant swarms, and my closest cells share it. I nominate the strongest beetle to fly into the temple grounds, finding my way back to Vasan's room and following the sound of a hot spray of water, landing on a steamed up surface and waiting for the water to cease.
As the pigeon steps out, I hear “You're back.”
I tell them where I need to go. They are silent for a long time before humming for me to attach.
This bird recognizes this as a fortunate situation. They wander through a lull temple, looking to bid someone goodbye and thank them for their hospitality before vanishing. A swarm of my bugs cling with others over the walls. As Vasan approaches some of the designs and murals that decorate the place, I move some of my swarm out of the way. Other bugs follow. Vasan gets lost in the effect of approaching a wall the bugs and watching them reveal the swirling caligraphy underneath. A Drek with dull feathers and eyes under their darker hood and cloak, trimmed with gold to match the beetle on their head. It's a higher priest of this temple, and they introduce themselves as such. Vasan nods, thanks the priest, but tells them that they must depart. When asked for where, they wait for me to buzz. I click five times and buzz the word for moon, then temple. My host translates.
“The Fifth Moon.”
I buzz to affirm, the priest falls silent for a moment. I call more of my nearby swarm to form a flat, showy ring around Vasan, something Dren themselves are not organized enough to do. The priest jumps at the sight, ordering us to stay put for a moment as they fly off deeper into the temple.
I ask Vasan what the point of this is. They act as if i'm naïve.
The priest returns with a whole flock of clergy, and a banquet of fruits, meats, and more food items you do not have equivalents to.
They all take turns wishing and prey for Vasan to be strong for their journey, for the calling of a Dren is of the utmost honor for a Drek to serve. Vasan knew the cultural weight of departing for a long and arduous travel, and knew with the flare I could provide, they could impress this village into helping them stock up for the trip.
You see, it is increasingly hard to climb the planet's storms and islands against the gravity and the turbulence. It takes effort. Effort takes energy. Energy takes food. Plants need light to grow food. The lower you are in the planet, the less light these plants catch, and the less fruit they can grow.
As you can see, nature and gravity have their bias against those lower in the atmosphere, that make it harder to climb. I nearly killed my host just upon meeting them on making one jump. Each of these are exhausting. The risk of running into a cloud of miasma or sharp clouds of bugs is also greater in the lower planes of the atmosphere, as they do not have the force of sunlight to clear the air.
Where we were, the concept of traveling to the moon temple, of having a bug that wishes to pull you to the moon temple, is one of the most heroic feats one could claim to attempt. Maybe this village doesn't see too many heroes. Maybe Vasan has the air of a hero.
The village clergy wraps this food in a bag and has a makeshift ceremony seeing the hero off in a round, bowl shaped boat.
Vasan finds the balance and stands up, waving off the excited villagers until they're out of view. As the boat floats beyond the hallucida of the atmosphere, a curtain of windstream and air pressure flows over them, rippling and distorting the village. The sounds change. The view above spotted with the greenish shadows of the other islands, the view around lit with reflections of the cyan streams. Then they drop down next to their bag of food and rest.
“I didn't realize you'd make up for bringing me here by giving me the best day of my life.”
The festivities were grand, surely. But too cacophonous for my senses to make anything of it, so I cared not to absorb the detail.
I told them I didn't know the village would react this way.
“For a bit,” The pigeon claws open their sack, “I thought you were having me bluff.”
I do need to get to The Fifth Moon. And I express this.
The pigeon holds a strange fruit as they sit up slightly to look up at the tall island they're drifting toward. I measure their vocalizations as daunted.
I assure the pigeon that they alone do not have to share this burden. That we can get as far as we can go, as long as they were willing to help.
Vasan turns back to the island, the faint cheering of the villagers still audible over the rush of the river. My swarmlet lands around the edge of the boat, trimming it with gold to observers.
“No,” Their lowest vocal chords trill, “I have to do it.”
