Origin. Stephen Baxter

skinned. There is blood on the mouths of the men. The rabbits fall to the ground.

      The children with no names fall on the rabbits. They jabber, snapping at each other. The children’s small faces are bloody. The adults push the children aside, and growl and jostle over the rabbits. All the people work at the meat, stealing it from each other.

      Grass and Cold throw some pieces of meat on the fire. The meat sizzles. Their hands pick out the meat. Their mouths chew the burned meat, swallowing some. Fire sees that their mouths want to swallow all the meat. But their fingers take meat from their mouths. They put the meat in the mouths of their babies with no names.

      Sing groans. She is on the ground near the branches. Her nose can smell the food. Her hands can’t reach it.

      Fire is eating a twisted-off rabbit leg. His hands pluck meat off it, and put the meat in Sing’s mouth.

      Her head turns. Her mouth chews. Her eyes are closed. She chokes. Her mouth spits out meat.

      Fire’s hands pop the chewed meat in his mouth.

      Sing is shivering.

      Fire thinks of a bower.

      There are branches here, on the ground. He has forgotten that they were used to transport Sing. He keeps thinking of the bower.

      He makes his hands lay the branches on the ground. He thinks of twigs and grass and leaves. He gathers them, thinking of the bower. He makes his hands pile everything up on the branches.

      He makes his arms pick up Sing.

      It is sunny. He has no name. Sing is carrying Fire. Sing is large, Fire small.

      It is dark. His name is Fire. Fire is carrying Sing. Fire is large, Sing shrunken.

      He lays her on the crude bower. She sinks into the soft leaves and grass. The branches roll away. The grass scatters. Sing falls into the dirt, with a gasp.

      Fire hoots and howls, kicking at the branches.

      One of the branches is lodged against a rock. It did not roll away.

      Fire makes his hands gather the branches again. He puts the branches down alongside the rock he found. His hands pile up more grass. At last he lowers Sing on the bower. The branches are trapped by the rocks. They do not roll away.

      Sing sighs.

      Every day he makes a bower for Sing. Every day he forgets how he did it before. Every day he has to invent a way to fix it, from scratch. Some days he doesn’t manage it at all, and Sing has to sleep on the dirt, where insects bite her.

      She sings. Her voice is soft and broken. Fire listens. He has forgotten the rocks and the branches.

      She stops singing. She sleeps.

      People are sleeping. People are huddled around the children. People are coupling. People are making water. People are making dung. People are chattering, for comfort, through rivalry.

      Beyond the glow of the flames, the sky is dark. The land is gone. Something howls. It is far away.

      Dig is sleeping near the fire.

      Fire’s legs walk to her. His hand touches her shoulder. She rolls on her back. She opens her eyes and looks at him.

      His member is stiff.

      ‘Hoo! Fire!’

      It is Loud. He is on the ground. Fire’s eyes had not seen him. Fire’s eyes had seen only Dig.

      Loud’s hands throw red dirt into Fire’s eyes. Fire blinks and sneezes and hoots.

      Loud has crawled to Dig. His hands paw at her. His tongue is out, his member hard. Her hands are pushing him away. She is laughing.

      Fire’s hands grab Loud’s shoulders. Loud falls off Dig and lands on his back. He pulls Fire to the ground and they roll. Fire feels hot gritty dirt cling to his back.

      Stone roars. His scar shines in the fire light. His filth-grimed foot separates them with a shove. His axe clouts Loud on the head. Loud howls and scuttles away.

      Stone’s axe swings for Fire. Fire ducks and scrambles back.

      Stone grunts. He moves to Dig. Stone’s big hand reaches down to her, and flips her onto her belly.

      Dig gasps. She pulls her legs beneath her. Fire hears the scrape of her skin on red dust.

      Stone kneels. His hands push her legs apart. She cries out. He reaches forward. His hands cup her breasts. His member enters her. His hands clutch her shoulders, and his flabby hips thrust and thrust.

      He gives a strangled cry. His back straightens. He shudders.

      He pulls back and stands up. His member is bruised purple and moist. He turns. He kicks Fire in the thigh. Fire yells and doubles over.

      Dig is on the ground, her hands tucked between her legs. She is curled up.

      Loud is gone.

      Fire’s legs walk.

      Fire stops.

      Dig is far. The fire is far. He is in a mouth of darkness. Eyes watch him.

      He makes his legs walk him back to the fire.

      Sing is lying on a bower. He has forgotten he made the bower. Her eyes watch him. Her arm lifts.

      He kneels. His face rests on her chest. The bower rustles. Sing gasps.

      Her hand runs over his belly. Her hand finds his member. It is painfully swollen. Her hand closes around it. He shudders.

      She sings.

      He sleeps.

      Emma Stoney:

      If this really was the close of Malenfant’s career at NASA, Emma thought, it could be a good thing.

      She wasn’t the type of foolish ground-bound spouse who palpitated every moment Malenfant was on orbit (although she hadn’t been able to calm her stomach during those searing moments of launch, as the Shuttle passed through one of NASA’s ‘non-survivable windows’ after another …). No, the sacrifices she had made went broader and deeper than that.

      It had started as far back as the moment when, as a new arrival at the Naval Academy, he had broken his hometown girl’s seventeen-year-old heart with a letter saying that he thought they should break off their relationship. Now he was at Annapolis, he had written, he wanted to devote himself ‘like a monk’ to his studies. Well, that had lasted all of six months before he had started to pursue her again, with letters and calls, trying to win her back.

      That letter had, in retrospect, set the course of their lives for three decades. But maybe that course was now coming to an end.

      ‘You know,’ she said dreamily, ‘maybe if it is ending, it’s fitting it should be like this. In the air, I mean. Do you remember that flight to San Francisco? You had just got accepted by the Astronaut Office …’

      It had been Malenfant’s third time of trying to join the astronaut corps, after he had applied to the recruitment rounds of 1988 – when he wasn’t even granted an interview – and 1990. Finally in 1992, aged thirty-two, he had gotten an interview at the Johnson Space Center in Houston, and had gone back to his base in San Diego.

      At last the Astronaut Office had called him. But he was sworn to secrecy until the official announcement, to be made the next day. Naturally he had kept the secret strictly, even from Emma.

      So the next day they had boarded a plane for San Francisco, where they were going to spend a long weekend with friends of Emma’s (Malenfant tended not to have the type of friends you could spend weekends with, not if you wanted to come home with your liver). Malenfant had given the pilot the NASA press release. Just after they got to cruise altitude, the pilot called Emma’s name: Would Emma Malenfant please identify herself?