Origin. Stephen Baxter

But Malenfant suspected that people were shying away from dealing with the most fundamental issue here: the existence of the Red Moon itself. It was just too big, too huge, impossible to rationalize or grasp or extrapolate. The Wheel was different. A blue circle in the air, a magic doorway? Yes, we can imagine ways we might do that, even if we can’t think why we should. Peculiar-looking human beings falling out of the air? Yes, we know about the plasticity of the genome; we can even imagine time travel, the retrieval of our flat-browed ancestors. But what kind of power hangs a new Moon in our sky?

      He didn’t last long in the water; it was too cold. He took a few brisk strokes until the water was shallow enough for him to walk. He splashed out of the surf, shivering, briskly dried himself on his shirt, and began to pull on his pants.

      There was somebody standing beside the beached berg fragment, just a slim shadow in the grey dawn light, watching him.

      Fire:

      Maxie is running around Fire’s feet. ‘Hide and seek. Hide and seek, Fire. Hide and seek.’

      Fire stares at Maxie. To him the boy is a blur of movement and noise, unpredictable, incomprehensible, fascinating.

      Maxie has leaves on his head. They flutter away as he runs. Sally puts them back on. ‘No, Maxie,’ she says. ‘Be careful of the sun.’

      ‘Hide and seek, hide and seek.’ He stands still. His hands cover his eyes. ‘Hands, Fire, eyes, Fire.’ His hands cover his eyes.

      Fire puts his hands over his eyes. It is dark. The night is dark. He starts to feel sleepy.

      Maxie calls, ‘Eight nine ten ready! Fire Fire Fire!’

      Fire lowers his hands. It is not night. The sunlight is bright. The world is red and green and blue. He blinks.

      Maxie has gone away.

      Fire sees Sing on her bower of leaves. He walks towards her. He has forgotten Maxie.

      Maxie is at his feet. ‘Here I am, here I am!’ Maxie stamps his foot. Red dust rises and sticks to Maxie’s white flesh. ‘You have to try, you silly. You have to play it right. Try again, try again. Eyes, Fire, hands, Fire.’ He covers his eyes.

      As the sun climbs into the sky, the game goes on. Every time Maxie disappears Fire forgets about him. Every time he comes back Fire is surprised to see him.

      Fire grows hungry. Fire thinks of himself in the forest, eating nuts and berries and leaves. Fire lopes towards the forest.

      ‘Come back, come back, you nasty!’ Maxie falls to the dirt and howls.

      Emma comes running to Fire. ‘Fire, are you going to the forest? Can I come with you?’

      Fire. Forest. That is what Fire hears.

      ‘Em-ma,’ he says.

      Emma has blue hair. Fire frowns. He thinks of Emma with brown hair. Fire’s hand touches Emma’s hair. The blue hair is smooth like skin. It has bits of white vine stuck to it.

      Emma says, ‘It’s just a hat, Fire. Just parachute silk.’ She puts the blue hair back on her head and pulls the vines under her chin. ‘Can I come to the forest?’

      There is something on Emma’s chest. It is bright red. Berries are bright red. Fire touches the berry. It is hard. It is stuck to a vine. The vine is around Emma’s neck. His teeth bite the berry-thing. It is hard, like a nut. His teeth cannot break the shell.

      Emma pulls it back from him. ‘It’s my knife, Fire. I showed you yesterday. And the day before. And the day before that. Look.’ Emma touches her knife. When she shows him again, there is a red part, and a part like a raindrop. There is a spot of light behind the raindrop, on Emma’s hand. Emma is smiling. ‘See, Fire? The lens? Remember this?’

      Fire sees the raindrop and the light. He hoots.

      Emma steps away. ‘Emma hungry. Emma forest. Fire forest. Emma Fire forest.’

      Fire thinks of Emma and Fire in the forest, gathering berries, eating berries. He smiles. ‘Emma Fire forest. Berries trees nuts.’

      Emma smiles. ‘Good. Let’s go.’ She takes his hand.

      The forest is a huge mouth. It is dark and green and cool.

      He waits at the edge of the forest. His ears listen, his eyes see. The forest is still.

      His legs walk into the wood. His feet explore the ground, finding soft bare earth. His arms and his torso and his head duck around branches. He is not thinking of how his body is moving.

      His eyes learn to see the dark. His nose smells, his ears listen. He is not aware of time passing, of the sun climbing in the sky, of the dappled bits of light at his feet sliding over the forest-floor detritus.

      He sees a pitcher plant. It is a big purple sac, high above his head. His hands pull it down. There is water in the pitcher plant. There are insects in the water. His hand scoops out water and insects. He drinks the water. It tastes sweet. His teeth crunch the insects.

      Emma is here. He has forgotten she was here. He gives her the pitcher plant.

      Her hand lifts water and bugs to her mouth. She coughs. She spits out insects.

      His eyes see a cloudberry plant. It has white flowers and pink fruit. His hands pull the fruit from the plant, avoiding the spiky brambles. His mouth chews the berries.

      Here is Emma. Her hands explore the blue skin on her legs. Now she has a soft shining thing in her hands. Her hands open a mouth in the shining thing. She feeds the mouth with berries. He can see them in the stomach of the shining thing.

      She holds up the shining thing. ‘This is a bag, Fire. These berries are for Sally and Maxie. I can carry more in the bag than I can with my hands. You see? …’

      He thinks of Sally eating berries. He thinks of Maxie eating berries.

      He thinks of Sing, on her bower. He thinks of Sing eating berries. His hands pluck berries. His mouth wants to eat the berries, but he thinks of Sing eating them. He keeps the berries in his hands.

      His legs move him on. Soon he forgets about Sing, and his mouth eats the berries.

      He finds a chestnut tree. It has leaves the size of his hands and sticky buds and nuts. Beneath the chestnut something white is growing. His hands and eyes explore it. It is a morel, a mushroom. His hands pull great chunks of it free, and lift them to his mouth.

      Emma is here. Her hands are taking nuts from the chestnut. The nuts want to hurt Emma. He slaps her hands so they stop taking the nuts.

      His ears hear a grunt, a soft rustle.

      He stops thinking. He stops moving. His ears listen, his nose smells, his eyes flicker, searching.

      His eyes see a dark form, squat. It has arms that move slowly. He sees eyes glinting in the green gloom. He sees ears that listen. He sees orange-brown hair, a fat heavy gut, a head with huge cheeks, a giant jaw.

      It is a Nutcracker-man.

      The Nutcracker-man grunts. He lifts pistachio nuts to his huge mouth. Fire can see his broad, worn teeth, glinting in the dappled light. The Nutcracker-man grinds the nuts between his giant teeth.

      Fire’s mouth fills with water, to tell him it wants the nuts.

      Fire stands up suddenly. He rattles branches and throws twigs. ‘Nutcracker-man. Ho!’

      The Nutcracker-man screeches, startled. His arms lift him into a tree and swing him away, crashing through foliage, bits of nut falling from his mouth.

      Fire pushes through the brush. His hands cram the nuts into his grateful mouth.

      Emma is here. Her hands are taking nuts and putting