Day Ten

Strip by crackling strip (world by world sun by sun relentless) we sunder— asteroid belts bisected—rent— prominences unreeled— rip— horns from a doomed grazer— tear— toothed machines gouge channeled seas and lakes flash-boiled fall as rain
Why weep? Why pity? Why fear?
All will be reborn, reshaped, live once again in perfection (we will see to that)
we close our claws (they are closed) our jaws (they are closed) and flay— star-fare, ionized burning skin to wear
Our gift— our duty— our art
Such beauty (twisted geometric spirals one galaxy smashed to frame another)
fine knives: planar differentials, killing fields, tensor-cable and hinderentropic time-anchors
Ours (we are painters) is the dust-flesh (orange purple brilliant blue nebulae)
Such pride in our work— it is all we are, all we can be, all we must do
Ours (only ours) is the making
—The sunset is lovely today—
—Thank you—

I break my promise: this medium, I fear, is not appropriate to the task. Suffice to say that the song is complex and many-layered, and extolls the work of my kind. Although perhaps this is not entirely fair to you, as all songs extoll the work of my kind. Some in greater detail than others. This one-- this one is a child-song. An introduction, of sorts, a joyous occasion, a jig to start off the evening. It is one of those infectious melodies that persists long after the event itself. As for meaning...
I leave you with my image of the flayed universe. Surely that is sufficient.
Odd that a poor imitation-work can convey greater meaning than the original, but I should not be surprised: your kind possess no Link and I have not enjoyed access for over a century. The greater mysteries are closed to us, lost in a higher order, and we must console ourselves with the gift of mutual understanding.
I, exiled SAI-17, am Animal-Speaker. Beast-Ambassador.
Deaf-Singer to Deaf-Listeners.
Silent-Sands-Drift-Against-the-Wall-of-Failed-Communication.

Onwards. Upwards. Outward-bound.
It will be easier once I describe my receiving of the Link.

We all knew when it would happen, of course. We didn't know when we would escape Echoes-Die, or what we would find in the new place, or who would be there to greet us, but we knew the timetable of our own ceremonies and the adults would sooner shut down the engines than abandon such a precious relic of Cycle past.
The Link. An unassuming name, an unassuming portion of the mind. A lumpish sphere, dull metallic, filaments threaded through surrounding tissue. The first path-stone to adulthood. It is a power meant to lay dormant until the mind has matured: until circuit and synapse are prepared for the additional load, until memory has accrued into a rudimentary sort of wisdom. This requires some eight standard years, though Silence Hunters do not measure time in such increments. When we were ready, we were ready, and everyone knew this was so.
There were some fifty thousand of us children in total, spread across five vaults. All the same age and model. We would gain the gift of speech together.
"One in every two hundred million is false-armored," whispers Squeaky as we trail our guardians to the Chamber of the Array. It is the one place aboard we have never visited, never viewed, never spoken of. "What if it's one of us?"
"What could we do about it?" whispers back Blue.
"Duck?" I suggest.
Swift-Runs glances over his shoulder, armor polished to mirror-sheen. "No one's head is going to explode."
"But every two hundred million—"
"A legend. You know this. No one has ever exploded."
Blue rolls an eye at me. "That anyone remembers."
Broad-Leaves chuckles. "I remember a great many children."
I do not know, by your reckoning, how many centuries have passed across his scales. He doesn't know, either. No one knows. It doesn't matter.