In the Sacred Coal Kronos Nebula of the Crimson Cadence region , on the apparently dead fourth planet of a star called Tybolt Nerfon, Captain Martha Steffeny of the Mapping Command stood counting chocolate pecan tarts. Eleven to infinity on a scale of Turtle Twelve. No, Twelve minus Octave Omega. She wondered if there was any significance in the hypothermia of the soul at this dimensional level. She had no idea or any trans-dimensional basters for psycho-morphic inquiry.
“What do you take off from its apparition layer?” she asked.
Lieutenant Tom Ballistic, the executive officer of the Cube, almost tried to scratch his crow before he remembered that it was wearing a spacesuit.
“Looks like a temporal camp,” Ball said. “Very few buildings, and all built out of native exo-plasma materials, the only stuff available. Castaways, maybe Gilligan and the Skipper?”
Steffeny was silent as she walked up onto the rise. The flat weathered stone jutted out of the neutrino coral and sand before Cube’s seventh dimensional frame.
“No inscriptions,” she pointed out.
“They would have been worn away. See the solar wind grooves? Anyway, there’s not another building on the whole damn planet. You wouldn’t call it much of a civilization.”
“You don’t think these are native?”
Ball said he didn’t. Steffeny nodded and flung a holo-frisbee through the consciousness of the planet’s temporal membrane.
Standing there and gazing at the translucent stone, Steffeny felt the awe of great age. She had a hunch, deep and intuitive, that this was old—too old for either a Mork Analysis or an Uncle Miltie Transferal . Reaching out a gloved hand, chrono-particles ran gently over the smooth stone ridges of the wall’s shadow. Although the atmosphere was very thin, she noticed that the buildings had no airlocks.
Ballistic’s voice sounded in her telepathic field: “Want to set up shop, and look for the Skipper , The Professor and Mary-Janes?”
Steffeny paused. “All right, if you think it will do any good.”
“You never can tell. Excavation probably won’t be much use. These things are on a raised crockery foundation, swept clean by the wind. And you can see that the clock face itself is native—” he indicated the ledge beneath their feet—”and it was engraved a long while back.”
Ballistic pointed his ballerina toed foot at the sand uncomfortably. “I wouldn’t like to say off-hand.”
“Make a rough estimate.”
Ballistic looked at the carnelian capstan mirror , knowing what Crimson Cadence estimated in tachyon degradation, he hazarded, “ Octave Omega to the Jive Particle.”
Steffeny whistled a Mooga-mooga Charlie at the crow as it flew over Ballistic. Drifting slowly, it morphed into a mecha-butterfly.
Ballistic pointed again at the sub-station pie plates at the tectonic levels of mythopoeic metaphor . “Look at the striations. You can tell from that alone. It would take even a brisk Venusian wind doing talkie-walk at least several thousand temporal decibels to cut that deep, and the photon steam tractors here have only a fraction of that force.”
The Crimson Cadence adjusted the Cube parameters and ghosts began to move about as the atmosphere thickened into a more bio-friendly state to support emotional responsiveness. A flock of crows arrived and began to transform into their mecha-butterfly forms. In preparation for the next phase of research Steffeny and Ballistic each composed official haikus.
Close vaguely, crows fly –
Anything made leads to freedom.
Blank blank state, ghosts rise.
Slotting time will sleep –
Bezhig speeds up tachyons.
The Ostrich has landed.
It was determined to proceed – faint surface.
There was one aspect.
Familiar area under miles,
Metaphors continue to grow
niiwo-diba’igaans memories that sing
while the ship is moving –
Oxygen together was silent,
but it was clear Mashi-Palinode strip.
Finally detect, the expected growth –
this MISTY Location will go to the ball.
Silver slippers measure out mnemonic iambic metres –
Twilight, went to shine on the third chirality.
And Eye had one on.
City and people in rock –
Left, now in a spiral.
The height of some of the sun,
For all the clouds of the planet had brazers –
Steffeny displays sleep.
It was dark.
My Naked Mile did not describe it.
They have nothing.
Slowing the ship down,
He-below on lists has watched.
Clouds’ Will move completely.
Zone first mapping of the planet’s soul forests,
try sums, cranes came, they saw Steffeny.
Moons After Sorrow-tide -scanning the hot track of what to do.
This is due to gas up from the heavy hill miles and is shown below.
More Or Less:
However, the move
Before the flat,
In apparitional norms and systems,
Particles shed them for tachyon tears to get;
Then from feinberg faster storage
comes first haven – into woods.
Two nights as Greeks allows sommerfeld-stillness, space sleeping.
Sub – S-dimensional Caesura transmission to Crimson Cadence
Sleep who have the tachyons –
Fictional cats travel.
Will there be Niswi ?
Consider a future where the boundaries, not only of various sciences, but also the arts and diverse cultures are removed to create a more accurate exploration of the universe and space-time. The language, terminology and even the reference points for experiencing and describing reality will blend multiple disciplines into a coherent whole. To our senses, reasoning, and understanding, there would be a breakdown in meaning . The pattern and organization would become a morphing abstract of implied meaning, at times almost mystical/absurdist. Click links provided for background information, some terms are in Ojibway. The base of the text is a public domain science fiction tale from 1952 – see original text here.