Fugue on a Sunken Continent

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“Disaster, Anna, is the way of life on Epona.” Gregos Konstantis, Chief of Ground Service Operations, smiled ironically and looked past the beautiful but impatient woman on his office balcony across the Nell Strait and into the mainland. Disaster—and deception.

There, under the mist in the deceptively normal morning light of the star Taranis, lay Tir fo Thuinn—human names whimsically derived from Welsh, as Greg remembered, for the remnants of an ancient, slowly sinking continent. Its tropical lowlands glistened with a forest of triple-decked umbrella-leafed “pagoda trees” that were not really plants under what looked like a greenish gray-topped ridge. But the gray was dry-season forest, not stone, and the green was not forested foothills, but nearly vertical serpentine left bare as the last season’s landslides ate a little more away from the old continent. Above it all was a sky crossed by occasional V-shaped flocks of beings that were not birds.

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