“'Center-Ringed-and-Bound-by-Pearls.'” Eleven planets set in staggered orbit around a red star, their cores frozen solid, their mountains filed down to fill sea-basins, their surfaces glazed and polished smooth as porcelain. The twelfth-- unhappy world-- spins unfinished, marred by volcanic cracks and craters.
“Why isn't this one done?” asks Squeaky. He looms over the offending globe, regarding it with slitted eye and tilted head, and reaches to touch.
Blue stays his hand. “It's just like that other one. The tangle-star (also not finished, falling apart).”
I nod. “The collapse.”
“Yes, we were otherwise occupied,” says Swift-Runs, voice distant and dry. He traces a claw over the tortured landscape; the rock flows with molten flame. “This was... a promising project. A shame that we couldn't take it with us.”
The Link quivers with repressed chords.
“There was no time,” I say.
“No time,” echoes Swift-Runs. He gazes at the illusory replica of his lost work-- incomplete and inadequate-- and then stretches a pair of arms towards the sun. Two unwind into six. The center smothers in silence.
He flicks hydrogen dust from his tendril-tips. “Now then.”
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