The wreckage from the treetops littered the moss, cracking under Pim’s feet. He placed his palm against the bark of the nearest trunk, feeling the thrum of distress from its heartwood. The storm had happened too early, whipping into the new growth forest before the development of deadwood.
Pim didn’t understand the complex algorithms that controlled the dome; nothing the colony teachers had done could make numbers stay in his head. He didn’t understand how bickering over formulas in a techlab could solve problems involving living things. He did know something had gone very wrong, something that tickled the edges of his senses, and the farther he went into the steaming woods the stronger his unease.
He hummed tunelessly, absently, a rhythm he could feel like breathing. Breathing. He held his own, mouth open, fingers twitching with realization. Slowly he sank to the moss, the overly green carpet that somehow prevented the usual forest undergrowth from taking hold. He sank his hands deep into its furry softness and closed his eyes. The thrum he had felt in the trees enveloped him, and he understood what the engineers had not.
The plans and algorithms weren’t wrong. None of the dome administration departments had failed their assignments. The planet simply had other ideas and none of them knew how to hear her. Their own voices were too loud. Only Pim, wordless and forgotten, had been quiet enough to listen. He stroked the mossy fur gently and hummed with the rhythm again. Tomorrow he would show them. Tomorrow.
The Word Worker 