An Unspoken World

The Earth looked nothing like the pictures in the history books. Punctured by humanity’s folly, half of the oceans had evaporated through the shattered atmosphere or had succumbed to red algae blooms that spread across the globe like spilled blood.

“Still, there’s something beautiful about it,” commented one of the three teenage girls descending the space elevator, her breath fogging up the glass of the observation deck. “Like the oil rainbow effect.” The three girls each wore the uniform of the Giraffe Beret, identical in their spotted berets and vests, chin-length hair cuts, and triple heart lockets. Like most Lunar girls, their faces were round and pretty, doll-like faces picked in a Crispr catalogue that all ended up looking the same. The only thing that distinguished them was the badges on their merit sashes.

“No matter how nice it might look from here, it’s simply crawling with Bugs,” the second girl shuddered away from the window. “That’s all that’s left down there.”

The third girl fidgeted with her merit badge sash, which had three more patches than either of the others, “We just got to survive for twenty-four hours and then we get our Terra Patches. Just twenty-four hours.”

“Cut the chatter cadets,” a rough voice called from the opposite corner of the elevator. She too wore a Giraffe Beret, though she had so many patches that you could not see the sash beneath. “This isn’t a vacation. We each have our mission and yours is to deepen your education.” She pointed to the girl closest to the window, “Recite Giraffe Law 35.”

Saluting, the girl stumbled upon her words, “Silence is… golden. Sp-speak and you fail to listen. Ma-maam.”

The Lieutenant Giraffe turned to the girl fumbling with her sash, “Recite Law 2.”

“Spot the gaffe. And a Giraffe gains her spots,” the cadet struggled to maintain eye contact with the lieutenant, trying not to stare at the scars that crisscrossed over her face.

Addressing all the girls, she demanded they recite the Giraffe’s Creed, saying it in time with them. “May your words be true, may they be beautiful, may they restore order.”

Lieutenant Pallas pulled out her black book and confirmed each girl’s name and troop. “As monitors of language and communication, we maintain order. You must learn to guard your words or you will find your names on the List. Needless to say, it will end more than your career. You might find yourselves permanent tenants of Earth.”

Fear-stricken, the girls were mercifully quiet for the rest of the hour descent, their backs turned from the window and their eyes glassy as they stared into the slate walls. Order restored; the older Giraffe turned back to her dossier. It was filled with blurry pictures of masked figures armed with spray cans and obscene images painted across derelict buildings and burned into barren fields. It was a strange case, a wild goose chase to keep her busy as her rivals tried to outmaneuver her moonside. But she had been a field operative long before these upstarts had gained a single spot. She remembered the first time she had made her passage to Earth when the blooms’ tendrils were barely visible. Her eyes slid back towards the three girls and considered whether to report them. She would. Making sure they saw her do it, she slipped her gaffe form into the chute by the exit before taking her first step onto Earth in fifteen years.

After triangulating each of the graffiti sites, Lieutenant Pallas had identified Camp Sunshine as the only viable place of residence. While it was possible the gaffer was living in the wastelands between agrarian camps, they still needed to resupply water and bug spray.

Lieutenant Pallas had left her beret and sash behind. Tucking her locket beneath her shirt. she posed as an eccentric tourist, complete with bug net parasol and senseless heeled boots. Lifting her skirts, she marched through muddy red puddles and patrolled the yellow rice paddies, a group of buggars ghosting her every step. Camp Sunshine proved to be remarkably boring, a monochrome of yellow and gray and not a speck of color outside the lines. The buggars filled the air with blathering, offering banal tours of wind farms or plastic flower fields. But she was growing impatient.

“I have seen these already,” Pallas complained, making sure to keep her voice airy and high as was popular in high Lunar society. “I want to see something I can only see on Earth.”

“The sights are fully exhausted,” an old buggar cut in, not wanting to risk annoying her further. “Perhaps there is something you are looking for specifically?” Despite being blind, he was a cut sharper than the rest, wielding his words with a sure, but careful cadence. She wondered if he was part of the Squeaker Network, hired to lead the unsuspecting into a gaffe. But his trap was much too obvious to catch her.

One of the smallest buggars stepped forward. She began to sign in a dialect unknown to Pallas. Before she could finish a sentence, the old man grabbed one of her hands.

“Arakhne,” he warned, “No.” She broke away from him and mumbled something incoherent, her facemask slipping down, revealing flashes of silver before she tugged it back up. She turned to one of the other buggars to translate.

“I can show you something beautiful and dangerous,” they spoke for her. “We will go tomorrow if you pay?” The other buggars shared uneasy looks at these words.

But Lieutenant Pallas was tired of waiting. “No, let us go now.” She could not risk them warning away the gaffer, she might yet catch them in the act. Before the girl could refuse, she continued, “Or else my vacation ends here.” Already the remaining buggars began to scatter.

The old man made his final bid, “Please, Arakhne. I promised I would keep you safe. All I have left is my word. Don’t make me break it.”

Arakhne’s forehead was a sea of conflicted winkles as she looked between the two of them. Finally, she reached out to the old man’s palm and moved his hand into the sign for safe. With her other hand, she then pressed her finger to her lips and then to his. After a moment, he returned the gesture.

“Your word matters. That is why they sent you to us.” Her eyes clouded with anger, but it was an old anger that she pushed aside. She gave him a tight squeeze on his shoulder before gesturing for the Lieutenant to follow. Before Pallas could the old man grabbed her arm, the first time any of them had dared to touch her. “I know people up there,” he warned. Before she could knock his grimy hand away, he let go, the stain on her white dress irreparable. “Safe travels, Honored Sylph.”

They should have stopped and prepared. The nearest graffiti site was half a day’s walk away. Outside of Camp Sunshine, the colors slowly leached until only grays were left. The evening brought no relief, still blistering hot. They walked in silence, broken not by a singing bird or a rustling of leaves, for all those things had long gone extinct. Even the mosquitos had grown silent in their flight, giving their victims no warning, simply leeching them and leaving them itching. The girl’s footsteps were quiet too and the Lieutenant had long since ditched those ridiculous shoes in the bog and muck. She hardly noticed her aching feet, so focused on glimpsing any sign of the gaffer now that they had finally reached the rusted ruins of what had once been a metropolis full of skyscrapers and cars. It was then that she glimpsed her first splash of green paint and then the second, leading deeper into the tallest building still standing. Without checking whether her guide was following, Lieutenant Pallas chased it. The green splashes took more form, less like accidental brushstrokes and more like leaves. The color changed too, the green brightening into yellows and oranges. Finally, she came upon a wall, a graffiti site undocumented. It depicted a decaying tree trunk carved with many forbidden symbols. This alone validated the trip. But it was not enough for Pallas. What good is spotting a gaffe if the gaffer isn’t caught?

Pallas followed the girl onto the roof, disappointed to find only a sunset. Objectively it was beautiful. Because of all the pollutants, she reminded herself. It was nothing more than an oil spill that scarred the sky. Noticing Lieutenant Pallas’s cold expression, Arakhne readjusted the Lieutenant’s gaze until she realized, it wasn’t the sunset or a single building Arkahne was trying to point out. Bathed in red light, each fallen building revealed a spoke of the mural. It told of Earth’s decay into hell but also of the time before when it still could be saved. It depicted polar bears on ice floes and bees on wilted flowers. Each of the decaying red roots leached the red algae from the world, leaving a scarred, but healed blue earth. The girl tried to sign something to her.

“I can’t understand you,” Pallas shook her head.

Ripping off the face mask, the girl revealed a half-sewn mouth. It was a common practice here on Earth. A way of keeping your children safe, keep them from gaffing. Still, the Lieutenant had never been able to shake the horror of it. Though it caused her great pain, Arakhne tried to speak.

“Boo…oo...oof,” the girl repeated, her brows scrunching in anger and then defeat until inspiration lit her face. She dug into her shirt and unearthed a rusted necklace. But even in its state of disrepair, the Lieutenant instantly recognized it.

The girl put up three fingers and then pointed to one of the interlocking hearts. The Giraffe’s creed. “May your words be true, may they be beautiful, may they restore order,” Pallas said automatically.

The girl smiled and held up two, “Boo...oo…oof.”

“Beautiful,” the Lieutenant repeated and turned back toward the mural. This was too intricate to be done by any single person, to be done in any one year. How many had contributed to this blasphemy and how had it not been documented or reported before now? How had the Giraffes allowed it to get this bad?

Arakhne opened up her bug spray and sprayed the wall, leaving a blue stain. She then passed the can over to Pallas who held it with shaking hands. The Lieutenant had the cleanest personal records. Her rank only capped by the gaffe of her child, one she had been forced to disown to remain in the service. Pallas had dedicated her life, sacrificed everything, to uphold the Giraffe’s standards, and what had it gotten her?

Tossing away the parasol and that stupid hat, she felt the smoky, open air of Earth for the first time unfiltered. Completely exposed, she could not silence the doubt that this had all been an elaborate set-up. That her rivals were watching her on hidden cameras, had sent her here to end her career. Tearing her gaze away from the can she looked back at the girl, who underneath the grime and the stitches looked hauntingly like the doll-like face she had once picked out in a Crispr catalogue. It was impossible, but Pallas had always liked the poetic order implied by fate.

She shook the can and sprayed a pathetic looking spider, barely more than a circle with eight legs. But Arakhne was quick to fix it, spraying two interlocking hearts over it, making a bastardized version of the Giraffe necklace.

Pallas stared at it for a long time. “Do you know the story of your name?” she eventually asked.

The girl shook her head.

“It’s a cautionary tale for girls who challenge the gods.” Pallas looked at the can, “It is the curse of outdoing them.”