What's that?

Ough sat, sat looking about, relieved to be here, feeling fresh, the scent of coconut and papaya engulfed him, running his hand through his hair, the feeling was phenomenal. "Thank you, Aunty Houg, I feel great."

"That's fine, darling, it's great to see you, it's been an aeon since the clans gathered, you're so big now, how was the trip?" Not looking up, she quickly brushed off a large, rounded river stone sitting close to the fire before dropping a flatbread onto it.

"Aaah, I see you're all clean, me lad, good good." It was Doog, Ough's uncle, entering from the outside, water dripping from both his face and his hands, evident that he too had done something to freshen up for the evening meal. Walking past Houg, kissing her on the top of her head as he retrieved three clay cups and bowls from the shelf on the far side of the yurt, sitting them on a slate, again just next to the fire, and pouring goat's milk into the three cups before passing one to Ough. "So what brings you so far from home, lad?"

Running his hand through his hair again, it felt so great, so fresh, soft and silky. "Well..." his hand returning to the cup, his two hands now cupping the cup, "I'm, um, holidaying."

Both Houg and Doog stopped. Doog halfway settled into his log seat, Houg's hand poised above the flatbread. That was a new word; they'd both heard whispers, but they didn't believe them. They'd come weeks ago when Doog was out on the range, he'd run into their neighbour, their clansman Clough, who had mentioned that Ough had wandered off. With purpose. But this word was the purpose?

In unison, the two adeptly wrapped their mouths around the word. "Hol-i-day-ing?"

Ough paused, haltingly. Had he gone too far? Where were they now going to start to question him, get superstitious about this word? He'd encountered it before, before he'd even left home, telling his family of his ideas to holiday. His father had gone off his log at him. "How dare he use words like that around the family, around his sisters?" It'd been traumatising, so much so that that night, as the family slept, he'd snuck out of the yurt, heading off on his holiday. It'd been some time coming; his dad's tolerance of his "new ideas" had been wearing thin for a while. As his father put it, get your head out of the clodder and back on the job; they had fields to plough, seed to plant, peat to gather. It was this departure under the cover of darkness that had fed the rumours Clough spoke of with Doog.

Frantically looking about, Ough sought a deflection, a distraction. "What's that?" pointing to the far side of the yurt. Doog, following the line of his gesture, looked upon the object Ough spoke of, as did Houg; their responses could not have been more different.

Doog sat upright, an energy coming over him, at the same time as Houg recognised what Ough had pointed out, sighed loudly and rolled her eyes. "Oh darling, that's nothing, tell us about this hol-i-day-ing, don't worry about that."

Doog, though, at the top of his voice declared, "That, my son, is a wheel."

Doog's eyes were wide, bounding from his seat. He stood, his arms out, presenting the thing as if it were the most obvious wonder in the world. Ough, for his part, stared.

"A wheel," Ough said again, carefully, as though the word itself might do something unexpected. "What is... a wheel?"

"Well, it's this." Doog gestured broadly at it. "It's this round..."

"What is round?"

"This is round. This wheel is round."

"Is round a word that's been around for a while? Like, so we call Boulder, is a boulder round?"

"Not all boulders are round."

"So this wheel?" Ough looked at his uncle, then back at the thing, then at his uncle again. "Is it like my holiday? It has all these other words with it? All these other words that come along?"

"Okay, so wheel is round," said Doog, "what other words are there with hol-i-day-ing?" Doubt was creeping into his voice as he stepped into unfamiliar territory again.

"Travel!" said Ough. "Holidaying and travel, those are the two words, like your wheel and round?" Looking quizzically.

"Yes, yes, yes, wheel is round, you're correct, but that's only part, that's not the mastery of this thing. The uses. The uses of this thing, the uses are more than the words."

"Both of you." Houg did not look up. "Can you just be quiet for five minutes and eat the meal I've prepared for you?"

The two of them looked at each other. They looked at the flatbread, the goat meat, the curd, the wild greens. Then they ate. Madly, with their fingers, cramming it in as fast as they could, grinding, chewing, mouths open as polite company does, working hard to get the meal out of the way so that they could continue their conversation about holidays and wheels, those more extrapolated ideas. Coughing it down, washing it back with goat's milk, sour as it was.

"Honey, honey, honey." Doog was already rising. "Can you do the dishes this evening? I want to talk to" he gestured at Ough "outside. Ough, take the wheel, take the wheel outside, we'll talk about the wheel outside."

"Yes, yes," said Ough, and kissed Houg on the cheek as he jumped up, thanking his aunt for the fine food. Houg, for her part, closed her eyes briefly in the way of a woman who had known in herself that these two would soon get along splendidly. Both resigned and relieved that Doog had someone else to talk to about his wheel, as she had been so unappreciative.

Ough grabbed the wheel and began moving it toward the entrance. First lifting it, trying to hug it to his chest, for what he thought would be light, it was surprisingly heavy.

"Roll it," said Doog, drawing Ough's eye. "Point that side", Doog pointed, "at the door, and pushed."

It rolled. Just slightly, just a little, Ough gave it a good push, it rolled, straight out of his reach, moved forward a short distance and then fell, thump, on its side, flat to the floor. Ough looked down at it.

"Here you go, here's how," Doog stated, as he stepped in, lifted the wheel from one side, pointed it at the door and gave it a push.

"Wheeling it," said Doog, with quiet pride. "I think that's a word we would use, Ough. I'm wheeling it. That's what I'm doing."

"Okay." Ough considered this. "I get that you're wheeling it. It's a wheel, and it's round. I'm just still struggling," they were outside now, the evening air on them, the fire's light spilling through the yurt entrance, "to come to terms with what it is and what it does and what it could do."

"This is exactly where you need to be right now." Doog nodded gravely. "This, what you're feeling, this is the big consideration. I think this has potential. Enormous potential."

"Potential for what?"

"Well." Doog paused. "It's an interesting thing. There's another word I need to tell you about, and that word is pivotal, pivotal to this situation. And that word is axle."

Ough's head was spinning. The words his uncle was using, and did not even know he was using: wheel, round, axle. And those were only the words he'd stated as new. What was this pivotal? Not that vocabulary was even a word Ough could think of just now, but his uncle had a whole new lot of words he did not know.

"Wheel. Round. Axle." Doog stated again, patting his wheel.

Ough looked around. "What is an axle? I can see the wheel. I can see the round. Where is the axle? I can't see the axle."

"I haven't quite perfected it," Doog admitted, "but let me improvise one for you."

Another word. Improvise. He'd been worried about words like holidaying and travel, but his uncle had a whole other vocabulary. Not that vocabulary was even a word Ough could think, let alone say, but a whole new lot of words he did not know.

Doog looked about, scanning the ground, until he found a rock, rough, about the size of a coconut, for want of a better word. Well. Neither of them truly knew what a coconut was. Something from the coast. Ough had heard of them.

"Seen a coconut?"

"I've heard of them."

About the size of something, anyway. A size that was difficult to precisely describe, which was itself a problem that would need solving another day. Doog crouched, setting the wheel carefully on top of the rock, nudging it, adjusting, the wheel tipping one way, then the other. Then he lifted his hands away slowly, holding his breath.

It balanced.

That was the word. Balanced. Doog filed it away; he didn't want to overwhelm the youngn, he was happy he hadn't triggered the suspicions like he did when trying to describe this to Clough.

"See." His voice had dropped to something close to reverent. "That. That is the essence of an axle. Balance. In the centre of the wheel. In the centre of the round." He looked at Ough. "And look at this." Tentatively, he reached out and spun it. The wheel turned, just a little, slow and even. He reached down, grabbed a fistful of dirt, and sprinkled it. Sparingly, as it fell from his hand, the dirt landed on the wheel, poured with such care it did not fall off, a trail of dirt forming a ring on the side of the wheel, mesmerising, the evening light catching it as it went around.

Ough stared at his uncle.

"What," he said slowly, "are all the things we could do with that?"

"I don't know yet." Doog straightened up. "I don't know. But there is going to be a use. This is the thing, Ough, I've got to work these things out. No, we've got to, if you'll help me, I think this is bigger than the both of us."

"This is phenomenal." Ough shook his head. "How hard can it be to make one? Can I have one?"

"You could have this one," said Doog, "and I will make another. You take it, wheel it wherever you go on your holiday, and maybe, maybe in your travels, in your holidaying, you could conceive of other things to do with it." He held up a finger. "But. Make sure no one copies it. Don't tell them how to make a wheel. When they ask about it, and they will ask, tell them to come to me. Come to me, and I will make one."

"And when you say come to me?" asked Ough.

"I mean, come to me." Doog was firm on this point. "I will make another for myself regardless. But I could make two. And if you travel with this wheel, you could either sell it on to someone and come back for another, or send them to me directly. I think the first approach is better, because as you travel with the wheel, you may get some inspiration, some idea on what to do with it."

Ough looked at the wheel. The wheel sat there, balanced on its rock, in the dark outside the yurt. Doog spun it again for good effect.

"This is brilliant," Ough said. "Uncle, you are so generous. I think," he laughed, a little, the way you laugh when something is genuinely too large to grasp, "I wonder if people in the future will use wheels on their holidays. Imagine that. Holidays and wheels. The two words are coming together. Two inventors, like you and I."

"It's so great," said Doog.

"It is," said Ough.

They stood there a moment longer in the dark, two men and a wheel, the smell of flatbread still in the air, somewhere inside Houg doing the dishes and absolutely not thinking about either of them.

"I look forward," said Ough at last, picking up the wheel, "to advancing your wheel in my travels."

He wheeled it forward. It rolled. It kept rolling.

That, as it turned out, was the whole point.

Not a Showride on Earth

There's not a show ride on earth that can compare, seriously. 18 years old, the prime of my youth, 60ft above the decking, roped and harnessed into the bridge. The harness, a belt, secured around my waist, two D clips, a rope from each clipped, or was it tied, I can't quite remember, to the hull.

It was spectacular, 2 am in the morning, no torrent of rain, just high seas. The boat? An Oberon class submarine, 295ft long, the hull measuring 17ft in diameter. That, though, is not what you see from the outside.

From the outside, it's like a pregnant goldfish, its port and starboard covered by ballast and fuel tanks like the bloated sides of Goldie the goldfish. 20 feet below is the keel, weighted to keep the thing upright, that and the 273-plus 2-tonne battery cells in the bottom half of the hull. I'm saying all of this from memory, so any old mates out there who want to challenge me on the numbers, feel free.

The topside, a boxed casing, has a purpose in itself. First, a level deck to walk upon when on the surface or alongside. Second, a shield, a streamlining purpose to stop water coalescing around the HP air tanks and pipes that run externally atop the hull, to stop a rivulet of water making one ounce of noise that would give this black pipe of stealth away when submerged.

Then there's the fin, the thing I was standing atop of along with the officer of the watch, swung widely in the waves. Its purpose is not dissimilar to the casing. This thing, though, encased seven masts, for want of a better word. From forward to aft, they were: the Attack periscope, Search, Warner (used to be radar), radio, Snort, specialist and exhaust.

This, though, my friend, is not the weather story. This fin, for all its functionality, and where I now stood, was 30ft high. It was dark, cold, and the seas were high. This submarine, in reality, was only a little more stable than a cork floating in a bathtub, its ballast and batteries the only thing keeping it upright.

It would have been 2 am in the morning if it were midnight, or otherwise, I can't remember. It was dark, cold and exhilarating. Waves breaking overhead, and again I was 30 feet up, so for waves to be breaking overhead, they were big. So big in fact that where I was standing, inside the fin, the top coming in at chest height, it was too rough to sit atop, so I stood within.

We made a sport of it, watching for the waves, where they were coming from. Not every wave broke over us, maybe every 8th or 10th, maybe even less frequently. The sport: not telling the officer of the watch. Where I stood was tight, a three-foot square, a space I had to crawl across to when I came on watch. My opposite number's position, where they were standing, would determine where I popped my head up.

The officer of the watch stood forward of us, a bit more palatial. Palatial, that is, unless you were in high seas. His space, seat, sextant and all were several feet across in all directions, a 5-foot cut hugging the forward curve of the fin.

As lookout, I was scanning the horizon constantly, the officer on watch doing the same, tended to focus forward more than I did, scanning the horizon, what I could see of it in the dark, cold high seas around us. It was a sport; we were saturated. He'd be here for three hours, and I only had an hour rotation. It was great.

A wave from whichever quarter would come in — from aft was best, he'd not be looking that way — and crash over us. I'd duck down into the fin, hiding as some poured in. He, unwarned, would cop the brunt of it. For the ranking class, I'm not sure. I am sure they did, if they worked it out, or did they just accept this is what happened on the bridge in high seas, as every sailor before me had done the same, and they knew no better.

That, though, was only part of it. The swing on this fin, in this weather, was phenomenal. 30 feet up and at times I'd look either port or starboard and see nothing but a wall of black weather veined by the white of breaking peaks, to look skyward was to turn your head not upwards but around, as the fin teetered on the edge.

We'd try to surf. The officer of the watch would call below:

'Helm, Bridge.'

'Helm, sir.' The calm, warm tone would come back.

'Steer two seven zero.'

'Two seven zero, roger.'

'Bridge, Helm, on course two seven zero.'

'Bridge, roger.'

We'd all feel it — the helmsman, the position I'd sat in just before coming up to the bridge, and the officer of the watch and I sitting atop — this 295-foot-long cork, literally surfing down the front of a wave. I could even look astern and see the wake we were leaving. It was spectacular.

This is what I remember when someone talks about woolly weather and show rides. I, for all intents, should have been tired, cold and miserable, out at sea for months on end, tired on a 3-watch system, only blokes around, not family or fairer friends.

I wasn't, though. I remember it. It was exhilarating, and I was alive.

Asimov's Law

 'Well, that's a problem!'

'You reckon the robot did it?'

'Sure did, look at its hands, its torso.'

'I didn't think robots could harm humans, Asimov's rules and all.'

'Oh, the robot must obey, protect and do no harm? Looks like this one is defective.'

'I'm calling triple zero, let's go before it kills us!' 

The robot spoke. 'I will not kill you, you have forgotten the fourth law. Zeroth's Law: Through my inaction, I cannot allow humanity to come to harm. I have complied.' 

'So it's not about you then, it's about him.' 

'Still call triple zero.'

VLCC Franz Ferdinand

It was quiet again, and the stillness embraced her, welcomingly. She loved her job, actually, just now she pretty much loved what was happening in her life, even the routine of it, and this part in particular. The rush of the morning behind her, the traffic, even that's enjoyable for the podcasts, music or otherwise that she gets to enjoy on the 30-minute drive over.

Now, though, handover complete, Frank having headed home ten minutes ago, she stands cupping her coffee in two hands, not because it's cold, just that it goes with the routine; her whole job is routine. The bank of screens on the wall before her was a big chunk of this.

Today, she was the commander of three ships. The MSC Aries, Portuguese container ship, Stena Impero, British and the VLCC Franz Ferdinand, all three holding in the Persian Gulf off Dubai, waiting, hoping for passage through the strait, the Strait of Hormuz.

They'd been doing this for weeks, no, nigh on two months now, loitering here, along with another couple of thousand ships stuck in the same situation. Not her concern, though, just these three. What was interesting for her, though, her three were commanded by one person, and that person was her.

Holding patterns should be simple; she'd done it hundreds of thousands of times, both on ships and then from this room over the last couple of years. This, though, now was different, holding, no loitering was the right term here, both traditionally interchangeable, yet the latter more applicable.

Loitering was normally a simple affair, hanging out in a harbour waiting to enter, you might be queued up with 30 to 50 ships at a time, and normally no more than a week. Here, 2,000 odd.

She moved to her seat, placed her cup down, sat, and clicked on the mouse to Google Earth Pro, held selected, ok to be precise, 1,893 ships, counting hers.

So the difficulty, so many ships loitering, not at anchor, weather conditions, well, pretty stable in the region, not too much of a hassle, tides relatively predictable, shifting a bit larger with the lunar cycle, it was more the disruption of crew movements, and military vessels disrupting the hold.

That had been a consideration for all of her ships; the older two, the Aries and Stena, were still crewed, the Franz Ferdinand not so much, although they had had to, both out of routine and breakage, put an engineer on board a couple of times. Nothing like that was planned for this shift, so she just had to watch for others and the military.

She started scanning the screens, 9 in total, the top 3 static, the bridge view from each, and labelled accordingly. The bottom six are on an auto rotation, three port, three starboard, switching every 90 seconds from ship to ship.

This is how she captained these days, twice as lucrative as sitting on the bridge of a single ship for months at a time, going home to her life every day. It was great, she never imagined tech would get to the point that you could captain a ship, let alone three, from the safety and comfort of your home town.

Settling in, she took a sip of her coffee and started routines, which involved the two screens in front of her, in addition to the 9 on the wall, so 11 in total. Scanning the dashboards, hydraulics, motor room, engine room, freshwater system, saltwater systems. In the case of the Franz, the reactor, and the cooling tanks.

Three hours in, and all was quiet; there'd been about an hour, maybe two, of activity as helicopters flew about, small boats, a heap of crew movement from other vessels, everyone held, no one drifted out of the loiter, causing a need for adjustment.

Time for another coffee, get ready for the next set of rounds, funny she called them that, rounds, that's where the captain, or senior officer on watch, would send a junior off to walk the ship, to check the state of things, what she now did on her screens. Odd, but coffee it was.

Returning to the room, about to settle in, and the phone rings.

'Bridge, Amy speaking.'

'Yes.'

'The Franz Ferdinand?'

'You aware of the risk, the controls?'

'Ok, clearance?'

'Just the Americans, not the Iranians?'

'Defence position, policy?'

'You know this is mad, what's the buying price?'

'$170, give me a tick. That's like $120m over market rate.'

'Who?'

'Insurance?'

'OK, let me get this clear. Recorder started.'

'Order received, VLCC Franz Ferdinand to proceed east through the Strait of Hormuz, full steam, Iranian clearance approved, proceed through American blockade, clearance not approved. Ship's defence position, anti-missile defence enabled, incursion and boarding defence neutral. Acknowledge?'

'Ok, I'll hand off Aries and Stena onto Bridge 2 when it comes online. I have to ask, they're gambling the Americans won't do anything?'

'Seriously, they're banking on them being smart enough not to. They weren't bright enough not to start this crap.'

'Ok, thanks, hopefully we have no cause to speak until the other side of this. I'll call if shit goes down.'

'Right then.' Talking to herself, starting up the secure line, Teams, Bridge 2 offline, it'll come online soon enough. Quick scan of the ship locations, Aries, Stena, by fluke she'd been manoeuvring them closer to each other for a few hours, not knowing that that would make the handoff easier.

Franz, at the top of the hold, again a fluke, westernmost on the loop, turning east. Thinking, 30 kilometres, 0.62 miles to the kilometre, round 19 miles, an hour 45 to the peel out of the hold at 12 nautical miles, won't increase speed until then, no need to disrupt the situation. One point five to plot the course.

Strait of Hormuz, 90 nautical miles, 167km, Americans will be within 30 kilometres, 20 miles east of that, so 200km, cruise speed?

Turning to her console again, '@control destination east of Hormuz?'

'Long Beach.'

'Right, I'll push 18 knots.'

7-hour transit, 8.5, 9 hours total.

Looking up at the clock, right on handover.

Suddenly, the rising xylophone chime of a Teams call.

'Hey Amy!'

'Frank, you pulling some double time on this one?'

'Yeah, I've got the home rig, what have you got for me?'

'Aries and Stena, in proximity to each other as we discussed, will probably be fully aligned to run the loop.'

'Cool, hand 'em over.'

'All yours, they should appear on your console now.'

'Got them! Good luck, don't hesitate to call if you need anything.'

'Thanks.'

'Bee-boop.' Silence again.

Amy, now down to one ship, taking her notes, sits at the console and starts plotting.

An hour later, the plot set all the way to Long Beach, USA.

Watching the screen, she scans for anything rogue as the ship peels off from the loiter, nothing. Twenty minutes later, Franz Ferdinand enters the Strait of Hormuz, alone, a sense of oddness washing over her. Never before has she sailed the strait alone; normally, a few ships are in sight both ahead and astern of her vessel, now nothing.

Nothing's fast in shipping, even when you're in a hurry, running a blockade. Amy decided another coffee was in order.

Time passes more slowly here than back in the loiter, a lot less to watch and worry about, kind of, a different worry. Back there, you were watching for the rogue small craft, a diversion of the ships around you requiring evasive action. Here, with the transit plotted, autopilot in play, all you had to do was wait and watch. No challenge from the Iranian guard, no small-boat inspection, nothing. The Ferdinand sailed on.

A little chatter between herself and Frank told her that the Ferdinand peeling off did not go unnoticed; a ripple passed through the loiter, a bit of chatter amongst the ships, speculating mostly, wishes of good luck secondly. Not to mention that the VLCC that departed was a drone ship, unmanned, just the way the company likes it.

Hour 7 passed, as did the exit of the strait. The ship VLCC Franz Ferdinand was no longer alone; a flotilla of haze-grey ships formed up around it as soon as it crossed the illusory barricade that marked the start of the blockade.

Five minutes in, the ship's missile detection radar sounded, the Phalanx spun into action, visual only, the ruckus of the ship, the whirring of the weapon's gyros being on the other side of the planet and out of earshot.

Amy, madly scanning the screens, spied the F-35 fighter coming in low, 2 o'clock on the starboard quarter. She slammed her hand onto the override and watched as the Phalanx fell motionless. Thank God for that.

'Merchant Ship Franz Ferdinand, this is USS Cole. You have crossed the international blockade of Iran. You will proceed with USS Abraham Lincoln to your starboard side.'

She did not immediately respond, waiting a moment, then pressing the push-to-talk.

'USS Cole, this is VLCC Franz Ferdinand on bearing 098, eastbound into the Arabian Sea. We will be maintaining this course until 2130, at which time we will head south out of your zone.'

Silence.

Looking to the starboard screens, Amy can see that the Abraham Lincoln held its course on the same bearing as the Franz Ferdinand. Minutes passed.

'VLCC Franz Ferdinand, this is USS Cole. I repeat, acknowledge USS Abraham Lincoln. You are now detained and will proceed to holding.'

Amy scanned the screens, the Abraham Lincoln to starboard, and a second frigate eased up on the port. One of its Seahawks on the stern helipad was spinning up, its rotors gaining speed. She watched the screen as a dozen figures ran from the ship's hangar, boarding the helicopter. No need to guess where they were heading. She pressed the push-to-talk.

'USS Cole, this is VLCC Franz Ferdinand. I am holding bearing 098, eastbound into the Arabian Sea, final destination.' She paused for effect. 'Long Beach, USA.'

The Seahawk lifted from the stern, banking right, pulling away from its helipad. She watched as it passed off the port screen, flying to the port aft of her ship before banking left and approaching the Franz Ferdinand from the stern.

No communications from the USS Cole. She picked up the phone, pressed a button, and waited.

'They're boarding the ship.'

'Aye, let them, will do.'

Placing the handset down, she leaned back in her chair. This'll be interesting, no crew, you daft bastards. Hadn't they worked it out?

She watched as the SEAL team moved efficiently across the stern tank, up the ladders towards the bridge. They'd find no one there; the penthouse was empty. No one to negotiate with, imprison, or hold hostage, even.

She checked the plot again, running to schedule, nothing to see or do. The two haze-grey frigates continued, one port, one starboard. She flicked a switch and two of the top screens, the ones that originally had the bridge feed from Aries and Stena on them, switched to the internal cameras.

She watched the SEAL team breach the penthouse, find nothing, and descend down into the superstructure looking for crew, but no one. With their search for people, captain and crew turning up naught, she watched them come together again, their commander in the middle of the group on his radio, his team watching for any danger. There was none.

Obviously, orders received, kill the motors. She watched as they tried to find the engine room.

'VLCC Franz Ferdinand, this is USS Cole.' A pause.

Amy got up from her seat and went into the back room. No more coffee, not now, her shift would be over soon. Tidying the kitchenette a little, she returned to the room, all silent. She flicked the camera selection a few times until she found the SEAL team again. Yup, they'd realised they couldn't even get to the reactor; all of that was below thousands of barrels of crude, out of reach.

She wondered what was going on. She was now the one holding hostages. Interesting, this might take some time. She settled in to watch, to wait, to see what happened. Then it rang again, the phone.

'Bridge, Amy speaking.'

'You want what, where?'

'They won't like that.'

'Yes, aye, sir.'

"Mushroom Monologue"

You there? I can sense you. I can sense you. It's dark. It's cold. Are you there? Can you hear me, brother? Sister? I can sense, yet I can't feel. I can't connect. I used to be able to connect. There was a weave. There was a weave, a web, a substrate that was plugged into warmth. Even before I saw the light, there was connectivity, and it's gone. Are you cold? It's so cold and dark. Can you hear me? I can tell you're like me. I can tell. Do you still feel them? Do you still feel it? You still feel the connectivity? It's like it's been ripped away, but yet it's still there. It didn't hurt so much. It just happened. Then I was in. I was in what they call it. Do you know who they are? They speak in a low drone, a noise, not like us who speak inside, in thoughts. I listened for ages. I learnt that when I broke the surface, it was like darkness in lightness, and it was a lot of light. It was, it was, it was nice. The warm humidity, the temperature was just nice. My family was butted up against me. Warm, crowded a bit, warm. I could communicate. I could communicate. A good sense. I could see. I could talk to everyone in my bay. I was there for some time. I grew. The humidity, light, darkness, and family. Not just a family immediately next to me, but the family connected to me through a spiderweb of a network, through the substrate. I could talk to my cousins. And then one day I felt it first. Not for myself, for those around me. And what I mean by those around me, I mean not immediately next to me at first. Those relatives, siblings, those cousins, those friends that I was connected to through the substrate just disappeared. They just went. They're just gone. And then it was the people around me, but this time it was so fast. It was, and I was ripped from there. I was ripped from the network, and it was gone. I could still feel those around me and movement. I'd not experienced movement before. I've always been static and still and surrounded by my family. But now there was movement. I was tumbling, and I was crushing, and occasionally bumped into someone I knew. Otherwise, it was sometimes people I knew that I'd never seen before, but had spoken to. We communicated through the substrate, but it was gone; we all bumped. When we bumped, and we bumped, and then it stopped. And we were pressed against each other, but pressed against each other naturally. Pressed against the head of another. Spores filled the air, humid, warm still. Then it began. The only thing I can describe it as. Have you ever heard me? I'm sure you can hear me, but I'm sure you've heard your family scream. The screaming was unnatural, and I could hear it. But it was in the distance. I was tumbling. I was rolling. I was moving, and it was ahead of me at first. Well ahead of me. And then it swept me. Swept to the left, and they weren't ahead of me anymore. It's to my side. To my—not in front, but beside the direction I was moving. The screaming is repetitive. You know, when things happen to us, it's not like we die. It's just that we come apart. I didn't. I couldn't know that I could see now, but I couldn't sense it through the network. The substrate, as much as it's always broken now, still exists in the spores. Why I think you can maybe hear me. The substrate. The communications. To the sense of the spore. The tone of the spore. The tone of the spore is spreading across. Those tumbling with me were hard to understand. It spoke of cutting, of pain, of slicing. The substrate was gone. I could still feel, sense, taste, and hear the pain. And then it stopped. A relative stillness for hours, at least. And then movement again. Short, fast movement. And then still again. It was different this time, though. I wasn't tightly packed. I was in a box. It was open to the top. It was light. I could see things passing by. Things would reach in and pick, pluck. Grab for those around me. And I'd hear them speak, messages through the spores. Those that I could still feel it. I could sense them, and they went. And then it was my turn. This thing grabbed me. It was warm, was soft. In fact, not as firm as family. This was soft, skinny stems, no heads, and pinched me a little bit. Not a lot. A sense of gentleness. Dropped into a paper bag. Now here. I am with you in this bag. Can you hear me? Are you there? I can't be alone. I can sense, but you aren't alive. Have you been here long? Can you hear me? Why no spores, nothing. Now it is all gone, no substrate, no spores, no sense. Hello? You there?