The Barbican

As the jurors continue to explore and argue their way throughout the treetop city, they are interrupted by a soft insistent chiming, rather like the tolling of a distant bell. By twos and threes, they make their way to the heart of the alien city, where several of the main roadways flow into a central plaza. Here there are the largest buildings they have seen so far, framing the plaza and all facing a strange archway in the middle of the plaza. The archway's material seems more like metal than the substance used to build the roadways, stairs, and buildings. It is from here that the chiming originates.

When they have assembled, there is a flicker of light that runs along the outer curve of the arch, then a snapping sound like the crack of a whip. Before the echoes have faded away, a stylized figure appears next to the arch. Tall and slender, its proportions are not human, but it is more humanlike than anything else they have seen on this world.

"Greetings." The voice is neutral, neither male nor female. "Your presence is appreciated by this humble one. Welcome to the final city of the Arbai." The figure tilts its head. "This humble one is the keeper of their memory. The historian of their crime. The witness to their penance. But this humble one cannot judge what should come to pass, and it is this deficiency you may remedy."

The figure folds its hands before its chest. "They knew they were dying when they came here, and did not seek to escape their fate. This was to be a final place of fellowship, until they all had faded away. They thought they would not interfere with any other intelligence on this world. There were no roads, no cities, no machines. They thought it was a safe place for them to die.

"When they realized their error, they retreated to this island. But they had no children of their own. They wondered: Could the creatures here become children of the Arbai heart? Could they be the final Arbai legacy, when all else had fallen to dust?"

The figure pauses and unfolds its hands. "They had not sought to shepherd a younger race before. They thought the Hippae only needed to hear the explanation of how they change from Peeper to Hound to Hippae to Foxen. Such a marvelous dance from form to form. How could the Hippae fail to celebrate their wonderous cycle?" The figure bows its head. "They did not know the Hippae would refuse this knowledge. They did not know the Hippae would seek out the emerging Foxen and drive their bodies, blood, and bones into the soil of their homeworld. The Arbai did not know the Hippae would celebrate the death of their future rather than embrace their coming change. And so they retreated higher, away from those they had tried to teach, and turned their thoughts instead to their own coming change."

Another pause, another tilt of the head. "If you have questions, this humble one will answer."

The dark green patch on the horizon grows as they continue to make their way across the grasslands, though they smell the marshy vegetation long before they can make out the trees. The sight gives some of them a second wind, eager to get somewhere out of the sun. Others quicken their steps at the thought of finishing whatever strange task has been set before them and returning home.

As they draw closer, they see more spots where the ground has been trampled. Sometimes it's that strange design noted earlier, but sometimes the ground and grasses are stained with old blood and bits of ... something. The more sensitive do not wish to look too closely.

The sky is not quite the shade of blue a human would expect to see. The sun is just a little too orange to be Earth's sun. But most astonishing of all are the sights and smells that greet each unwary and unsuspecting visitor:

Grass. Patches of low soft turf, thick and plush under foot, dotted here and there with small wildflowers. Tall fountains of grass with heavy seed heads nodding in the breeze, wisps of potential offspring occasionally falling, twisting, drifting elsewhere. Wide-bladed, razor-edged grass rather like the yucca plants found in the American Southwest. Thick-stemmed grasses with regular segments from root to tip, and long narrow oval leaves, almost like bamboo. Grass that rustles with the passage of unseen creatures, close at hand or off in the distance.

The many species look almost familiar, almost Earthlike in their shapes and textures, but not always familiar in color. There is grass that is bright green, and yellow, and brown, but there are grasses growing in scarlet waves, undulating gently with the wind. There are grasses almost as blue as the sky overhead, or almost as orange as the sun. Grasses that begin with violet at the root and gradually shade to lavender at their tips. A riot of color and scent, and yet oddly unified, as if one is standing in a vegetative ocean.

This may be a prairie, but it is nothing like Kansas.