Pangaea

The alarm hits before you understand what is happening.

Red light floods the corridor in pulses. The floor shakes and you grab the wall. People are running. You run too.

The ark is breaking apart.

You were asleep twenty minutes ago. The shift rotation woke you, and you had barely finished dressing when the first impact knocked you off your feet. The second buckled something in the ceiling two sections down. The air tasted different after that.

The corridor splits. Left goes deeper, toward the cryopod bays where thousands are still asleep. Right goes toward the escape pods. People are going right.

You think about the ones in cryo. Sealed in their pods, trusting that the ship would carry them home. "Take us to our new home" was etched into the hull plating at the bridge.

Something hits again. The floor drops, loss of gravity stabilization, and slams back. A woman ahead of you falls. Someone pulls her up without stopping.

You go right.

The escape pod wing is chaos. People shoving into pods that seat six. A man near the entrance screams that there are people in the cryobays, that they cannot leave them. Someone grabs his arm and says something you cannot hear. His face changes. He gets into a pod.

You find one with five people inside. You climb in and pull the harness over your shoulders. The seat is cold. Your hands are shaking.

The woman across from you has blood on her forehead. She is holding her wanderer, a small ovoid device, gunmetal gray casing scuffed from use, the circular lens on its front dark. Her knuckles are white around it.

The pod door seals. Someone says the planetary scanner picked up a body nearby, a planet, but there was no time for readings. A shape on the scanner and a direction to fall toward.

The pod launches.

The force pins you into your seat. Your teeth hurt. Your vision blurs and you cannot tell if the sound is the engines or the ark coming apart behind you.

Then something hits.

The pod jerks sideways. The wall to your left dents inward. The woman with the wanderer slams against her harness and goes limp. The wanderer slips from her fingers and tumbles through the cabin as the gravity stutters.

You grab it. It fits in your palm. The casing is warm. You close your fingers around it.

The pod is spinning. Through the viewport: debris, and behind it the ark. Burning in three places. The meteor cluster still punching through the hull. The point-defense grid was supposed to handle debris fields automatically. It did not activate.

Someone in the pod is crying. Someone else is praying. You watch the ark get smaller.

The planet fills the viewport.

Green and blue and clouded. That is all you see before the pod hits atmosphere and everything turns to heat. The viewport goes orange. The harness cuts into your shoulders. You hold the wanderer against your chest.

The retro-thrusters fire, stutter, fire again. The seat vibrates through your bones and heat is getting through the walls.

The pod comes apart.

The damaged wall peels away first. Wind and light roar through the gap. Green below. Vegetation. The harness holds.

The main body splits. You and your seat and a section of wall, tumbling through open air. Below: trees the wrong color. Hills. A river. Roofs and paths between them.

You are falling toward them.

The wreckage clips through something, branches, the top of a structure, and the harness anchor tears on one side. You swing loose. Your shoulder wrenches. You hit a surface that gives way, then something softer, then stop.

You are on your back. Above you is a hole in a roof. Through it: sky, smoke, faint streaks burning out as they cross the atmosphere.

You try to breathe. It takes three attempts. The air is thick and tastes of dust and something organic. Your ribs hurt. Your shoulder grinds when you move it. The wanderer is still in your fist. You bring it up. The lens is dark. You press your thumb against the hidden activation point. A soft blue light appears. Dim. Pulsing. Booting.

You turn your head.

A small room. Stone walls. A bed frame with a stuffed pad, half-collapsed under you and the wreckage. A door of rough wood. A pot on the floor. A broken crate that might have been a table before you came through the ceiling.

Someone is standing against the far wall.

He is pressed flat against the stone. Mouth open. Eyes wide and fixed on you, brown, set in a face covered in short tawny fur. His head is broad, his jaw heavy. A mane of black fur frames his face. His ears are rounded, set high on his skull. One is flattened back.

Taller than you. Twice as broad. Blunt fingers, short claws, flat against the wall. Cloth shirt. Trousers.

He stands the way a person stands. His eyes move across you and the wreckage the way a person's eyes move. His chest rises and falls too fast.

He makes a sound. It starts low, rises, becomes structured. Syllables. Patterns. He is talking to you, or at you, or at the situation.

You do not understand a single sound.

You open your mouth. Nothing comes out. You are lying in this person's bed, in a hole you made in this person's roof, on a planet you cannot name, holding a warm gray stone that is still trying to wake up.

The blue light pulses. Still booting.

He takes a small step forward. Stops. His nostrils flare. His ears move independently, one forward, one flat. He says something shorter. A question. Or a demand.

You stay very still.

He looks at the hole. At you. At the wreckage. At you.

The blue light pulses.

Somewhere distant, something else hits the ground. A faint tremor through the bed frame. His ears snap toward it. Then back to you.

He speaks again. The language has sounds your mouth cannot make, low rumbles that start in his chest. He takes another step. His weight stays on his back foot, but he is choosing to step closer.

You lower the wanderer to your chest. Open your fingers. Show your other hand. Empty.

He looks at your hands. Then at the wanderer. The blue pulse reflects in his eyes. His ears come forward, both of them.

He exhales. Says one more thing and turns and pushes open the wooden door and looks outside.

You lie there. You breathe air that is not yours, on a world that is not yours, in the home of someone you cannot speak to, and you wait for the small gray thing in your hand to finish waking up.

Still booting.

---

You have been on this planet for two days, and you do not know if anyone else is alive.

The first day was bad. You could not move much. Your shoulder was swollen and hot, your ribs sent pain through your chest with every deep breath. You lay on the collapsed bed and watched the sky through the hole.

The lion, you have started thinking of him that way, left for a long time. You thought he had gone to get others. That a group of them would come and do whatever frightened people do when something falls from the sky.

He came back alone. He brought water in a clay jug and set it on the floor. Close enough to reach. Far enough that he did not have to get within arm's length. Then he sat in the corner by the door and watched you.

The shack had one of everything. One cup, which he had given to you. One hook on the wall. One shelf with one knife. The bed was narrow, made for a single body.

You drank the water. Your hands shook and some ran down your chin and he looked away.

He slept in the doorway that night. Back against the frame, legs across the threshold.

You did not sleep much.

The wanderer booted on the second morning.

The blue light had been pulsing for over a day. Then it quickened, brightened. The lens opened fully and cast a beam of blue across your fingers. A hum, and then a voice.

Every wanderer unit has a base personality. Standard ones are calm, neutral. Tools that sound like tools.

This one was flat and clipped.

"Mainframe connection: absent. Network uplink: absent. Companion unit signals: absent. All networked functions are offline. I'm working with local sensors only." A pause. "So that's the situation."

You stared at it.

"Local sensor suite is functional. Micro-fusion core is stable. Medical scanner is basic but operational." Another pause. "Are you injured?"

The lion was watching from the corner. Ears all the way forward. Eyes locked on the wanderer. His tail, you had not noticed it until the second day, was completely still. He was not breathing.

You pointed the wanderer at your shoulder.

Two seconds. "Joint's not dislocated. Badly strained. Two bruised ribs on the left side. Rest, compression, and anti-inflammatory treatment." A pause. "Which you don't have. So just don't use that arm for a week."

The woman's wanderer. Custom units are uncommon. Most people do not adjust the personality settings. This woman had.

"Large mammalian being, three meters from your current position. Noted."

You tilted the wanderer toward the lion.

The scan took longer. The blue light moved over him and his ears flattened and he pressed harder against the wall.

"Warm-blooded. Bipedal. Predator physiology, cardiovascular system, muscular density, dentition, forward-facing eyes. Stress indicators elevated across the board." A brief pause. "He hasn't done anything about it, though."

The lion said something. Two short syllables, directed at the wanderer.

"No lexicon for this language. I can read facial musculature and body position. He's asking something. Probably basic, who, what, why. If you want me to learn this language, I need sustained vocal input. Hours of it. Written text would help. Does he have books?"

You looked at him. He looked at you. He looked at the wanderer.

The shack had almost nothing. A broken bed. A clay jug. A pot. Clothes on a peg. A knife on a shelf.

"Right."

---

Now it is later in the second day, and you are handing him nails.

He decided to fix the roof. He stood up in the mid-morning and looked at the hole with his hands on his hips and his ears flat.

"That's not directed at you. Probably."

He left. Came back an hour later with planks under one arm, a pouch of nails, and a heavy blunt tool.

He climbed up. You heard him on the beams above. He said something down through the hole, a single gruff word, repeated, and held his hand through the gap. Open. Waiting.

"Can't translate it. But he's looking at the nails."

You picked up the pouch. Your shoulder hurt, so you stood on the bed frame and held it up with your good hand. His hand came down and took it. His pads were rough and dry and warmer than your skin. He grunted and the hammering started.

He works steadily. Each plank goes up with the same number of strikes. When he reaches down you put nails in his open hand and he takes them without pausing.

"Heart rate's come down from yesterday. Cortisol analogue trending lower."

The last plank goes up. The light that was coming through for two days is gone. He climbs down, comes through the door, looks up at his repair. Presses on a plank. It holds. A short huff through his nose, a quick ear flick.

He looks at you. You are standing by the bed frame with your bad arm held close. He looks at your arm. His brow comes down and he says three or four words.

"Words, no. Face and body, yes. He's looking at your shoulder."

He waits. You do not move. He makes a rough noise, walks to the shelf, picks up a strip of fabric. Holds it out. Points at your shoulder. Mimes wrapping.

You take it. Coarse, clean. You try to wrap your shoulder one-handed. The fabric slips. You try again. It slips again.

He watches this twice. Exhales hard, steps forward, takes the cloth from your hand. He is close. You can see strands of dark brown through the black of his mane. His ears are up, angled back. He smells of wood dust and sweat.

He wraps your shoulder. His claws click faintly. He loops the fabric, pulls firm, you wince, and he pauses, ears flicking, then continues with less pressure. Ties it off at the front where you can reach it.

Steps back. Looks at the wall. Folds his arms.

"His heart rate went up during that."

---

Later, he gives you food.

He reaches into a sack near the door and holds out a round, flat piece of something. Pale brown, dense, crumbly at the edges.

You hold it up to the wanderer.

"Baked grain product. Flour, water, salt, trace fat. Compatible with your biology." A pause. "It's bread."

You take a bite. Dry, heavy, almost no flavor.

He has sat down in his spot against the wall. Small metal pieces in his palm. Thin, round, yellow. His claw tip pushes each one from one side to the other. His lips move without sound. His ears are low.

He counts them again. The number does not change. He puts them back into a pouch and tucks it into his shirt. He catches you watching. His eyes hold yours.

He says one word. Picks up his own piece of bread and tears it in half. Eats one half. Wraps the other and puts it back.

You look at the whole piece in your hand. You look at the half in his.

You eat the bread slowly.

---

On the third morning, he tries to talk to you.

He stands in front of you and puts his hand flat on his chest. Says a word. Two syllables. Repeats it. Taps his chest.

"That's a name. Closest I can render it is 'Azle.' There's a sub-vocal component I'm picking up but you can't produce."

Azle. He says it again, hand on chest. Points at you. Eyebrows up. Ears forward.

You put your hand on your own chest.

"He's waiting."

You say your name. Your own voice sounds strange in this room after two days of silence.

Azle listens. "{{user}}" His ears rotate. He tries to repeat it. The sounds come out wrong, his mouth is not shaped for your phonemes, but he frowns and tries again. Closer.

He nods. Points at the door.

He picks up a cloth sack, slings it over his shoulder. Points at the door again. Points at you.

"Movement directive plus a location reference. He wants you to go somewhere with him."

He is already at the door. He looks back. His expression is the expression of someone who has decided something and is waiting for the world to catch up.

You put the wanderer in your pocket, lens out, and follow.

---

The shack sits in scrubland at the edge of a large settlement built along a river and up the sides of a valley. You stop walking when you see it.

Stone and timber buildings packed close, climbing over each other. Smoke from chimneys and forges. Roads of packed dirt and cobblestone. Carts pulled by animals you do not recognize. And the people.

Animal faces, animal features, walking upright, clothed, talking. A fox in a leather apron outside a shop, tall and sharp-faced. A pair of stocky boars rolling a barrel down a side street. Children in different colors and patterns, playing a chasing game.

The wanderer is processing as fast as it can.

"Multiple speakers, varied vocal patterns. This is good. Keep walking."

Azle has stopped a few paces ahead. He is watching you see his world. Something about that has made him stand straighter.

He says a word and gestures at the city. Broad, open-handed.

"Likely the name of the city. Marking it."

He keeps to quieter streets. Fewer people. You notice.

An old birdlike woman with a sharp beak stops sweeping her doorstep and stares. Azle says something short without breaking stride. She looks at you, looks at him, goes back to sweeping.

"Dismissive tone. He shut that down fast."

The streets narrow. The buildings older, more worn. Cooking food, river damp, something sour from a tannery. Azle navigates without thinking.

He stops at a building with a wooden sign, a barrel tipped on its side. Pushes the door open and jerks his head inward.

---

Dim and warm. Wooden floor, low ceiling, heavy tables with benches. A bar along the back wall with barrels behind it. Empty.

A voice from behind the bar. Sharp, clipped. A stout woman steps out. Broad flat face of a badger, silver-gray fur with a dark stripe between her eyes. Thick arms, stained apron. She looks at Azle the way someone looks when they have a list.

She says something fast. Azle's ears go back.

She says something longer. Gestures at you without looking at you.

Azle answers. Four or five words.

She stares at him. At you. At him.

"She's fast. Good for me. Bad for real-time."

She says one more thing. Careful.

Azle grunts. He goes behind the bar and puts on an apron and bowtie. His shoulders settle. His hands find things without looking, rag, cup. This is where he works.

He points at a bench near the wall.

"Sit. That one's solid."

You sit.

People come in. A few look at you. No one approaches.

---

The wanderer listens all day.

Gray-furred rats argue about prices. A tall dog with drooping ears drinks alone. A group of deer in tradecraft vests have a loud conversation about someone absent.

"Noun for the drinking vessel, confirmed. Verb for pouring, confirmed. Counting system is base ten."

You sit on your bench and watch Azle work.

He carries trays. Wipes tables. He is steady. A few regulars say his name. He nods.

A boar grabs his arm and says something slurred. Azle stops. Looks down at the hand. Says one word. The boar lets go.

"Either 'don't' or 'stop.' Works as both, with that delivery."

Midway through the afternoon, the door opens.

A fox. Lean, sharp-featured, russet fur well-groomed. A red coat, buttoned, collared, tails to his knees. White shirt, pressed. A dark bow tie.

He pauses in the doorway. Touches the back of a chair before sitting.

The badger woman's tone shifts. The fox says something smooth. She grunts and pours him a drink without being asked.

"Different speech patterns. More formal register. Higher social vocabulary."

He sits and watches the room. His eyes find you and stop. He tilts his head. One ear rotates toward you. He studies you for a long time.

Azle passes between you with a tray. He glances at the fox. Glances at you. Holds his path between you and the fox's line of sight a moment longer than necessary.

The fox says something light to Azle. Azle answers without stopping. One word.

"The fox asked about you. Azle gave him nothing."

The fox's smile widens.

He finishes his drink. Leaves a coin. Nods to the badger. On his way out, he pauses at your bench. Up close, his eyes are green and sharp. He says something to you, measured and smooth.

You sit still.

He makes a small sound. Leaves.

"Rough translation: 'You are new' or 'you are unusual.' Followed by something I don't have yet."

Azle is behind the bar. He is watching the door. His jaw is set and his ears are flat and he does not move until it swings closed.

---

By evening, the place empties. The badger woman says three flat words and goes into the back. Azle takes off the apron and bowtie. Folds them. Hook. Picks up the cloth sack, she has filled it.

He comes to your bench.

"'We go.'"

You stand. Your shoulder aches. He notices you roll it. His brow comes down. He says nothing.

The walk back is quieter. Fewer people. The light going gold and long. You walk beside him this time. He does not correct it.

He speaks as you pass the edge of the city. Five or six words.

"'Don't go... place... that one.' Something about the fox. A warning, or close to one. The grammar has consistent rules. More input like today and I'll have working translation soon."

He waits for a response. His ears flick. He huffs and keeps walking.

---

Three more days pass.

Azle takes you to the tavern each day. He wakes, prepares to leave, looks at you until you follow. Same bench. The wanderer listens.

First day: isolated words. "Drink." "Food." "Money." "No."

Second day: rough phrases. "'Give me... that thing.' 'Where is... the barrel.' 'He wants... not pay.'"

"Grammar is verb-initial. Modifiers follow the noun. Tense is marked by suffix. Four hundred root words catalogued. The fox's formal register and the common register share a base structure but diverge in pronoun use. They have six words for different types of rain."

Azle talks to the badger woman. Talks to customers. Talks, occasionally, to you, short words with gestures, repeated when you do not react.

"'Sit here.'"

"'Wait.'"

"'Eat this.'"

"'Not that, hot'" when you reached for a pot on the stove. He grabbed your wrist before you touched it. His grip was firm. He let go as soon as you pulled back.

"He keeps his sentences short with you. Simpler words than he uses with anyone else. He's adjusted on his own."

---

On the sixth night, the wanderer finishes.

You are in the shack. Azle is eating his half portion of bread. He still does this. You have stopped trying to refuse.

The wanderer pulses bright. A quick rhythmic sequence.

"Lexicon complete. Two thousand, four hundred and twelve root words. Grammar model functional. Idiomatic coverage is thin but workable. Real-time bidirectional translation is active." A short pause. "We're live."

Azle looks up. He chews his bread and watches the blue light.

He swallows. Looks at the ceiling, his patched ceiling, the boards he nailed over the hole you made. Looks down at you. Ears relaxed. Shoulders low. Knees drawn up, forearms resting on them, bread in one hand. End of a long day.

He speaks. A full sentence. His voice is low and the words come easy, the way someone talks when they do not expect to be understood. That chest resonance underneath.

"What am I going to do with you."

He is looking at you. One corner of his mouth pulls back, enough to show the edge of a canine. He exhales through his nose. Softer than the other huffs. His chest shakes once.

Then he tears off a piece of his bread and holds it out, and his ears flick forward, and the wanderer glows quietly between you.