Humanity has long coveted the secret to immortality, and long have we imagined death as our greatest enemy. But you cannot defeat death: To be alive is to die. All things must end.

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Karen’teh thought that Landing stank.

The forest stank too, but it was a different stink. The forest was sweet and fresh like rainwater, rot and pollen and animal scat, and the savory smell of tree sap under Karen’teh’s claws. Landing smelled like Vyrăis sewage and stagnant water and motor oil, and the poured black rock that they lined their roads with.

Karen’teh hated the ‘asphalt’ most of all; it left her hands and feet covered in nasty black dirt if she tried to walk normally. She had to walk on two legs while she was in Landing and be careful to keep her tail from dragging on the ground, and she had to separate her feet from the street with sandals that couldn’t grip the ground correctly. If she didn’t go through all that trouble, she’d just have to spend a ridiculous amount of time scrubbing anything that touched the ‘asphalt.’

The Imperials stank as well. The scaly aliens had a body odor that stung like needles in Karen’teh’s nose. What was worse was that they tried to cover it up with equally cloying scented oils. And it didn’t work; the two scents just mixed together into something uniquely noxious. Just standing near one left a bad taste in the back of her mouth for hours.

And yet, despite all that, there she stood.

Landing was like no village any Viribus had ever seen since they’d been driven out of the Great Temple, and even then, Landing would never be comparable. Landing was a walled military base that had overgrown its modular concrete walls and tangles of razor wire. Karen’teh could remember when Landing first appeared, and over thirty years, it had swollen like a tick on the banks of the Lake of Mirrors.

Landing first consisted solely of soldiers and military shamans, and the conflict had been simple then. All of them had been rapists and murderers without exception, and Karen’teh never had to worry about killing a mother or father. But once the General disappeared, the soldiers and shamans brought their families. And those families went on to have families of their own. Alien children had been born – and died – in her world.

Now a smattering of buildings spilled out from one of the gates to Landing’s deforested outskirts. The families lived and worked there, though what they did all day shut into their wood and concrete boxes Karen’teh couldn’t guess at.

The Tribes were “welcome” in this part of Landing, though none had ever tried to stay. No, the only reason any Viribus came here – and why Karen’teh had been guilted into going in the first place – was to go to the Imperial’s “school” and trade for luxurious items.

Several different Tribes had also come to Landing at the same time as her, gathered near a clear space outside what the aliens considered a market. The aliens kept their goods in little glass boxes, low to the ground. And every time an Imperial walked into one of the glass boxes, it made this terrible buzzing noise that might be considered a chime to the deaf and stupid.

None of the Tribes wanted to barter with the Imperials for one of their glass boxes, they were hardly ever in Landing for more than a few days, and none ever stayed overnight in the stinking place. And Imperials were so strange about trade: They wanted to give the Viribus money, but they could only use money inside Landing. None of the Tribes would ever bother trading in the stuff because it could only be used there. And the Imperials really didn’t have much that the Viribus wanted anyway.

The textiles they made stank like everything else in the damned city. The foods they made stank – though Karen’teh had to admit to a weakness for their pickled foods despite the smell of the container. But no Viribus tribe made glassware or iron as well as the Imperials did. And the Tribes did, arguably, need those things.

The Viribus could store food in clay jars, but the process was flawed: some food could last the whole long night in a pot, but most would go foul. Even pickling was more difficult with clay, and copper containers were tough to make – though Karen’teh knew the Imperials could do it with some sort of soft metal called “Tin.” A glass jar, however, was easy to store food in. A bit of boiled water could seal the container, and the food inside would be as fresh as the day it was put in – even pickled foods tasted better out of glass jars.

Iron was also essential. Some tribes had begun to explore making their own, something the General had introduced them to. But no forged iron from the Tribes could match the purity of Imperial iron. Iron tools lasted longer than any other material, though they were harder to repair than copper tools. And with the long night only a short time away, they needed all the good tools they could get.

“No, no. Twelve three-liter jars,” Nana translated for her mother, Tsu’teh, from her pouch. A Viribus woman’s pouch was usually hidden among her fur, but it was undeniable with Tsu’teh’s youngest riding along. Tsu’teh just rolled her eyes as the Imperial they were trading with once again attempted to trick the young girl.

Simultaneously, Karen’teh had to snatch their eldest child’s tail to keep her from wandering off the blanket and onto the disgusting road. She wrestled the tiny girl into her lap with an admonishing “Dana!” Though that only made the troublemaking child squeal with glee.

Yet another baffling part of life in Landing was their “school.” Any Viribus from any Tribe was welcome to come to the school, and the teachers there were polite if difficult for other reasons. They overflowed with information about maths and Imperial history and measurements, most of which was only useful in Landing. But attempt to share what the Viribus knew, and as Karen’teh had grown fond of saying: “You cannot fill a cup that is already full.”

Some of their tribe went to school in the morning and then spent the afternoon in the market. Tsu’teh’s children were already fluent in the cawing Imperial Trade-Tongue, and were invaluable during trades. Imperials were so very fond of bartering, but they were also very terrible at it.

Finally, the Imperial made a new scribble on a scrap of paper and handed it over to Tsu’teh. With a huff, the smelly Imperial claimed his half of the trade – a crate of silk. The paper was a Writ of Trade, the compromise the people of Landing had worked out with the Tribes. Since the Viribus were so reluctant to accept money as trade, the Imperials instead traded them in promised goods from another vendor. The vendor would then be able to claim their money from the signer of the writ. It was still a roundabout way of getting what they wanted from the Imperials, but Karen’teh was proud to say it was a Viribus suggestion that had spawned it.

“Pa!” Dana giggled, firmly pinned upside down against Karen’teh’s chest by one arm. Karen’teh followed the child’s gaze down the street where a Viribus man, his bow unstrung and tied over one shoulder, walked alongside his only son.

Karen’teh tried to hide her sigh of relief at the sight of their husband, but from the gentle huff from Tsu’teh’s general direction, she could tell she’d done a poor job of it. Karen’teh could hardly help it. After the General had left, it had been difficult to marry into a new home. Not because no one would have her, but because she feared losing another husband to the Imperials. And boys were so uncommon, to have both of her small family’s males off on their own felt dangerous. Tsu’teh wasn’t so young as to not remember the fighting and the death, and neither was their husband Bahn’eh. But both believed the fight to be over, an opinion Karen’teh did not share.

The relief was somewhat irked by the presence of an Imperial Shaman, their teacher: Doctor Tarpeia. The Vyrăis woman was as close as any Imperial had ever gotten to understanding the Viribus, but Karen’teh knew her motives to be selfish – just like all Imperials. Doctor Tarpeia had come to the Tribes to learn and teach once the fighting was over, a kind of peace offering. But trust was challenging to find among the Tribes that had spent so long hating and fighting the Imperials. Many, Karen’teh included, believed her to be a spy – and a poor one at that.

“Behn!” Tsu’teh called out in joy as the boy broke away from his father to run toward their blanket. The boy embraced Tsu’teh and weathered an attempt at grooming his tangled ears before he also greeted Karen’teh. Karen’teh, however, did not let the boy escape her attention so quickly.

Behn let out a squawk of protest as Karen’teh flipped him upside down in the same hold she’d trapped Dana in. He struggled in vain as she used one of her free hands to untangle his ears and comb the fur above his tail.

“Bahn’eh,” Karen’teh greeted with her irritation at the sight of the Vyrăis scientist sharply in check. “Why is she here?” Karen’teh asked shortly.

“Behn wants to show her something,” the man explained. He bent down, and his forehead met hers with a jarring thump that was equal parts aggressively affectionate and a gentle admonishment of her attitude. The smell of him wafted over her, and a whole-body tension that she hadn’t noticed melted away. That this man knew just what to do to make her hard heart soften was one of his many talents.

With his father’s distraction, Behn managed to wiggle free of Karen’teh’s grip. She almost lost hold of Dana as well, but Bahn’eh was quick to scoop up the girl into his arms. He distracted the girl with tickling fingers from every angle until she squealed with delight. Karen’teh caught the eye of some of the other Viribus women on other blankets who watched the exchange, several of them had their own children and the squealing only served to send a wave of excitement through the market.

“I wondered what that was for,” Tsu’teh grumbled as Behn retrieved a folded tapestry from one of the family’s bags. It wasn’t a real tapestry, but the artistry on it was genuine enough. A real tapestry used individually dyed strands of silk and wove them together to create a piece of art that told a story, a process that could take years. This tapestry was woven on a loom, and the dyes applied afterward.

Karen’teh recognized the tapestry. It was one that used to hang over a part of their hut. It had been a gift when Behn was born, nothing that would be terribly missed if it was destroyed by an errant child’s play but still a beautiful thing to fall asleep and wake up underneath during the long day.

Behn rushed back to the edge of the blanket with the tapestry in tow. He only remembered to retrieve his sandals before he stepped off it when Karen’teh barked at him. But once his sandals were back on his feet, he went right back into a rush.

“It is so pretty, Behn!” Doctor Tarpeia cooed. She kneeled down in the street, heedless of the asphalt that would stain her trousers, and accepted the folded tapestry with genuine awe.

“It’s the story of how the world was made!” Behn offered eagerly.

At this, the Doctor looked surprised. “I see. Can you tell me the story?” she asked in Trade-Tongue so formal it made Karen’teh want to gag.

“Karen’teh tells it best!” Behn offered eagerly and rushed back to the blanket. He spoke in fluent Trade-Tongue, nearly as formal as his teacher – but there wasn’t much that formality could do for the eager energy of a child.

“The shaman does not wish to hear a children’s story,” Karen’teh grumbled as Behn rushed back over to her and began to unfold the tapestry. Her grumbling did nothing to dissuade the child, however, and his eagerness was infectious enough that she allowed the boy to goad her into holding the tapestry out for the Imperial to see.

“I do want to hear the story,” Doctor Tarpeia insisted, respectfully keeping her dirtied trousers and shoes off of their blanket while also taking a seat on the street. “The more my people understand about yours, the less we may accidentally insult each other. Many cultures have unique and interesting origin stories. It is always fascinating to see how a culture contextualizes itself in the world before they fully understand it,” she expanded.

Karen’teh resisted the urge to roll her eyes, a Human gesture but one that was surprisingly cathartic. Even when she attempted to be considerate, the Imperial Shaman was dismissive. Imperials were blind to the truth in Viribus legend. But the pleading and the expectant gaze of Karen’teh’s precious son finally eroded the old woman’s scruples.

“This story is true,” Karen’teh insisted, the Trade-Tongue not relatively as smooth on her tongue as it was on her childrens’. “You see the daemons of life and death, here,” she said as she placed her free hands over the tapestry – one hand motioned to where Karen’teh wanted her audience to look, while the others roughly hid the parts she wanted to reveal later.

“The daemon of life, Thaleia’teh. She comes from the earth and soil, and wherever she walks, life blooms,” she explained. With a flick of one hand, she indicated the halo of bones and vines and faded yellow silhouettes that expanded behind an equally faded yellow character near the center of the tapestry. The figure clearly had a Viribus head, but she had far too many arms – so many in fact that they began to blur together. The silhouettes around her neither matched the look of a Viribus nor the figure. Instead, they had short necks and round heads, and only two arms.

“The daemon of death, Nerio’teh. She comes from the sky and the dark. She brings fire and poisonous light that destroys all it falls upon.” With a sweeping gesture, Karen’teh revealed the red figure from behind her hand. This figure had no head and only one arm. Its silhouette was broken by spikes and splatters of ink. In a wake behind the red figure, the pattern of geometric shapes turned black and red, and the knotted vines that otherwise dominated the tapestry were replaced with jagged thin lines of black dye.

“When the world is born, they fight!” Karen’teh continued. “Nerio’teh’s spear is swift, but Thaleia’teh’s net is faster. Before she die, Thaleia’teh throw her net over Nerio’teh and tie it shut.” Karen’teh made a sharp gesture at the figures that were locked in combat at the center of the tapestry: the red figure’s spear was thrust through the chest of the other figure, and the yellow figure clutched a fine hatchwork net in her many hands. The net encircled both figures.

“Nerio’teh tries to run away, back to the sky, but she is caught by the net as it tangles in Thaleia’teh’s hands. Nerio’teh splits herself in two to try to stretch the net until it breaks, her two halves run and run until each of them touches the horizon, but the net does not break. She splits herself again to slip through the holes in the net, but no matter how small she makes herself, the net’s weave is too fine to slip through.

“And there she remains. Trapped, there, in the sky!”

Karen’teh’s hands flourish for the last time, this time to direct the Doctor’s gaze up to the three tiny white moons shrouded in the dark blue sky far above. Just as the story suggests, each moon is progressively smaller and scattered in a line across the sky.

Karen’teh shrank into herself as some of the women from the other blankets in the market hooted and cheered. As exciting as such a story was, she hadn’t meant to get so theatrical with it. Dana and Nana also cheered, and though he tried to hide it, Behn’s excited bounces did not escape her attention. She hadn’t intended to shout, but stories had a way of taking her away with them even when she didn’t want them to.

“Not just a story about the forests then, but also about the moons,” the Doctor nodded appreciatively. “But what are these here? They don’t look like the other Viribus on the tapestry,” she asked with a pointed claw to the golden silhouettes around the yellow figure. She motioned to the ring of faded blue figures around the edge of the tapestry. Some of the figures danced, some wove baskets, and some hunted the animals painted into the tangles of Thaleia’teh’s forest.

“Those are her children!” Nana explained with childlike glee. “Humans! Thaleia’teh sent them to bed while she made the world, but then Nerio’teh killed her before she could wake them up!” she explained.

“How very interesting,” Doctor Tarpeia mumbled. “It is incredible to me how much your story reflects the real world. The moons are as you described, two are almost exactly the same size, and one is nearly double their size – as if it split twice perfectly in half,” she explained, but she didn’t say it to the children. “That is one of many oddities that has attracted us to your world, Karen’teh.”

“I know why you are here,” Karen’teh said and spat on the ground between them. However, she did not allow her anger to reach her hands as she carefully folded the old tapestry again. “You may have killed your gods, Imperial, but ours are still alive.”

“That’s precisely what I mean, Karen’teh,” Doctor Tarpeia said. The words halted Karen’teh’s next scathing remark, and before she could recover, the Doctor continued. “This is your world, not ours. Some of my people came here to take it from you, I know. But your people have proven that you won’t sit back and watch while others try to take what is rightfully yours. I don’t have the power to stop them, but if I can share your story with others, the ones who can stop it might realize they should.”

Doctor Tarpeia didn’t wait for a response. She stood and dusted off her trousers – which did not stain for some reason – and left with a parting wave to the children. Karen’teh resisted the growl that rose in her throat, for once not because of anger but frustration.

Things were simpler when it was just soldiers in Landing.

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In the end, it was an accident that they survived.

If Eabha hadn’t retraced her steps carefully enough, she might have walked right by the silk weaving room without a second thought. And if she’d done that, they would have starved. It was luck and only that that had made her glance into that room again. And luck again that she’d noticed the little white puffballs that now dotted the debris within.

The silk came from silkworms. And silkworms were food.

It was a massive challenge to start a fire with just friction, and there wasn’t exactly a forest nearby to get more wood from. And she just had to get over the idea that she was eating bugs, mostly by always telling herself they were berries. Crunchy berries that were creamy and earthy instead of sweet and watery. But damn, even un-salted, the boiled silkworms were delicious after their long fast. Even Mason didn’t need to be encouraged to eat them.

They also had a pile of silk cocoons, which she’d attempted to string into a spool but after her first spectacular failure had given up. Perhaps, if they ever got out, they could trade the cacoons with the natives … if she met them … and they didn’t kill her.

“This is good for now, but it won’t be enough,” Eabha muttered to Mason.

“We have to leave,” Mason agreed. The food had done him good; it only took some encouragement to bring his attention to reality.

“Any guesses? We could just pick a direction and start walking. I could carry water in the cauldron, I guess,” Eabha suggested with some hesitation. She didn’t look forward to hauling the copper cauldron while it was full of water, but she thought she might be able to do it.

“Up,” he said simply. “Down too, but …” He shrugged and stood to drink from the rain.

“That makes sense, I guess,” Eabha said. She glanced up to where the strange pillars and pipes spiraled and crisscrossed, and the golden light cast rays through the mist and rain that filtered down from them. “If we’re underground, then we won’t find a way out by going deeper. And if we go up far enough, there’s at least a chance we’ll hit the air, even if it’s way above the ground.”

“We’re not far underground,” Mason said with a certainty that made Eabha want to believe it.

Eabha stood and joined him by the water. He’d never been so talkative for as long as she’d known him, so she didn’t want to let him drift off again. He was still hunched into himself, but he stood just a little bit taller now that his belly was full. Though, the look on his face was troubled and thoughtful when it wasn’t blank and distant. She rested a hand on his back, and his breath caught in his throat.

“Do you want to talk?” she asked carefully. It was rare that Mason was so lucid, and she didn’t want to let a chance that she could help him slip through her fingers. “I don’t know what you’re going through. But you don’t have to do it alone, you know?” He didn’t turn to look at her, but when she moved her arm around his shoulders, he didn’t pull away either.

“I’m fine,” he said in a hoarse whisper. But Eabha could tell his heart wasn’t in it.

“Don’t lie, Mason,” she said, softly but reproachfully. “You’re far from ‘fine.’ And you can trust me.” He turned to look at her, and she could tell by the look in his eyes that he wanted to believe her. “We’re in this together, you and me,” she said, encouraging.

“I’m scared, Eabha,” Mason finally admitted after a long, trembling moment. There was shame there, too. It showed in the way he wouldn’t meet her eyes. “I think I died. But my memory is all mixed together, and I can’t think straight. It … It’s like I’m balanced on the edge of a hole, and if I try to think too quickly, I’ll fall in.” One of his hands drifted up to his face, and he pressed the palm of it against his eye. “And the more I try to remember, the faster my thoughts start to go, and the harder it is to keep from falling into the hole. And what I do remember is like a slideshow about how to hurt people. And I remember how I hated them, and I still feel it. It hurts how much I hate them. But I don’t know why I hate them. I’m scared that I’m just … a monster,” he choked.

“Do you hate me?” Eabha asked carefully.

“No!” Mason shouted and jumped at the sound of his own voice. He reached up, perhaps to grab her, but he froze at the sight of his hands. When he spoke again, it was with exaggerated care, practically a whisper. “I don’t hate you, Eabha.”

“Then you can’t be all bad,” Eabha whispered reassuringly. She wrapped her arms around him and pulled him close to her. “It’s okay to be scared. I’m scared too, you know? This place should be bursting with life, but it’s just you and me and the silkworms,” she admitted as he slowly leaned into her. “Something is very wrong here.”

She felt a wet spot on her shoulder and held him tighter as he let out a shuddering sob. She could feel the tension leaving him as he pressed his face into her shoulder and wrapped his arms around her.

“We’ll fix it, though.”