downloading it into his Naga-patterned brain.
The basic Dal form had been modified in several ways for his convenience, however. It possessed the visual sensors and nervous system of a Perceiver, giving » DEVCAMERON « sight, and it had been designed with a particularly thick and impermeable hide, one that would retain its metabolic warmth and internal pressure despite the frigid temperatures and hard vacuum of the world’s surface. In a sense, it was a living environmental suit, capable of surviving for days at temperatures below minus two hundred Celsius, with oxygen stored as hyperoxygenated fatty tissue padding his legs.
The ice gave way to black and crumbling rock. “Frost,” he said, transmitting on his inner radio circuit.
“The local conditions are considerably more severe than that,” a voice responded in his head.
He turned, studying the speaker, the movement a trifle clumsy. The speaker also wore a temporary body, one grown specially to withstand cold and vacuum. A cold-adapted Perceiver had been grafted in with the sensor cluster; its eyes regarded him emotionlessly.
“Actually, I thought that would be a decent name for the planet,” » DEVCAMERON « replied.
“The word ‘frost’ describes a meteorological condition in which a thin layer of ice forms on cold surfaces exposed to a particular gas, usually water vapor or carbon dioxide, in the atmosphere. There is no atmosphere here, save for the trace subliming from the surface ice, and—”
“Never mind,” he interrupted. “It was just a thought. Not important.”
“Thoughts give shape, content, and meaning to the universe,” the DalRiss said. “None are unimportant.”
» DEVCAMERON « didn’t want to discuss it further. He’d not thought he would miss his own kind in this form of existence. He had plenty of sims stored in his replicated memory that he could relive at need, but there were times…
The DalRiss were good traveling companions, all in all, but they took things so damned literally. They understood wonder, certainly, but they were baffled by such a simple thing as poetry. Or… » DEVCAMERON « thought ruefully, perhaps poetry was not such a simple concept after all. Sometimes he marveled that he still appreciated the art, even now, after losing his humanity.
But the DalRiss were so different, and in so many ways. The Frost misunderstanding was a case in point. They didn’t understand the human need to give names to places. Hell, they didn’t even have names for one another… or if they did, they were names based on their individual life energies, as untranslatable as an EEG tracing, or a fingerprint. Their name for him was sort of a mentally shouted impression of being, one filtered through his Naga’s brain—» DEVCAMERON «, a kind of instantly recognizable “Hey, you!”
Trying to explain to the DalRiss that he was referring to a name, Robert Frost, that he wanted to have a name for the world instead of the vague, chilly impression of lifelessness they were using, that Frost had been a poet speaking of human emotions, that emotions were…
Just the thought of it made him tired, and there was still a lot to do.
For » DEVCAMERON ,« though, this world would remain “Frost,” a memorial to the twentieth-century poet who’d pronounced the world’s epitaph.
“There is nothing here alive,” the DalRiss voice reminded him after a time. Was it impatient? “This world is empty.”
He turned slowly, once again, facing the speaker. “Possibly. But I’m curious about whether anyone used to live here. It would… it would tell us about the beings who destroyed this world’s suns.”
“We are wondering about something, » DEVCAMERON «.”
“Yes?”
“Why is it that you turn your body when you wish to speak with a Riss who is physically present? Are you having difficulty with your Perceivers?”
“No.” » DEVCAMERON « chuckled to himself, deep within his thoughts. One of his problems in adjusting to
The basic Dal form had been modified in several ways for his convenience, however. It possessed the visual sensors and nervous system of a Perceiver, giving » DEVCAMERON « sight, and it had been designed with a particularly thick and impermeable hide, one that would retain its metabolic warmth and internal pressure despite the frigid temperatures and hard vacuum of the world’s surface. In a sense, it was a living environmental suit, capable of surviving for days at temperatures below minus two hundred Celsius, with oxygen stored as hyperoxygenated fatty tissue padding his legs.
The ice gave way to black and crumbling rock. “Frost,” he said, transmitting on his inner radio circuit.
“The local conditions are considerably more severe than that,” a voice responded in his head.
He turned, studying the speaker, the movement a trifle clumsy. The speaker also wore a temporary body, one grown specially to withstand cold and vacuum. A cold-adapted Perceiver had been grafted in with the sensor cluster; its eyes regarded him emotionlessly.
“Actually, I thought that would be a decent name for the planet,” » DEVCAMERON « replied.
“The word ‘frost’ describes a meteorological condition in which a thin layer of ice forms on cold surfaces exposed to a particular gas, usually water vapor or carbon dioxide, in the atmosphere. There is no atmosphere here, save for the trace subliming from the surface ice, and—”
“Never mind,” he interrupted. “It was just a thought. Not important.”
“Thoughts give shape, content, and meaning to the universe,” the DalRiss said. “None are unimportant.”
» DEVCAMERON « didn’t want to discuss it further. He’d not thought he would miss his own kind in this form of existence. He had plenty of sims stored in his replicated memory that he could relive at need, but there were times…
The DalRiss were good traveling companions, all in all, but they took things so damned literally. They understood wonder, certainly, but they were baffled by such a simple thing as poetry. Or… » DEVCAMERON « thought ruefully, perhaps poetry was not such a simple concept after all. Sometimes he marveled that he still appreciated the art, even now, after losing his humanity.
But the DalRiss were so different, and in so many ways. The Frost misunderstanding was a case in point. They didn’t understand the human need to give names to places. Hell, they didn’t even have names for one another… or if they did, they were names based on their individual life energies, as untranslatable as an EEG tracing, or a fingerprint. Their name for him was sort of a mentally shouted impression of being, one filtered through his Naga’s brain—» DEVCAMERON «, a kind of instantly recognizable “Hey, you!”
Trying to explain to the DalRiss that he was referring to a name, Robert Frost, that he wanted to have a name for the world instead of the vague, chilly impression of lifelessness they were using, that Frost had been a poet speaking of human emotions, that emotions were…
Just the thought of it made him tired, and there was still a lot to do.
For » DEVCAMERON ,« though, this world would remain “Frost,” a memorial to the twentieth-century poet who’d pronounced the world’s epitaph.
“There is nothing here alive,” the DalRiss voice reminded him after a time. Was it impatient? “This world is empty.”
He turned slowly, once again, facing the speaker. “Possibly. But I’m curious about whether anyone used to live here. It would… it would tell us about the beings who destroyed this world’s suns.”
“We are wondering about something, » DEVCAMERON «.”
“Yes?”
“Why is it that you turn your body when you wish to speak with a Riss who is physically present? Are you having difficulty with your Perceivers?”
“No.” » DEVCAMERON « chuckled to himself, deep within his thoughts. One of his problems in adjusting to
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