Star Light, Star Bright

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“Daddy, what are those?” My young son, Dalt, was pointing up. We’d floated far away from the ancient buildings, almost to where the transparent dome over our community touches the surface of the great sphere.

Four white hens were flying across the sky, their little wings propelling them at a good clip. “Those are chickens, Dalt. You know—the birds we get eggs from.”

“Not the chickens,” said Dalt, as if I’d offended him greatly by suggesting he didn’t know what they were. “Those lights. Those points of light.”

I squinted a bit. “I don’t see any lights,” I replied. “Where are they?”

“Everywhere,” he said. He swung his head in an arc, taking in the whole sky. “Everywhere.”

“How many points do you see?”

“Hundreds. Thousands.”

I felt my back bumping gently against the surface; I pushed off with my palm, rising into the air again. The ancient texts I’d been translating said human beings were never really meant to live in such low gravity,but it was all I, and countless generations of my ancestors, had ever known. “There aren’t any points of light, Dalt.”

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