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Speculum Anima

Of all the unfamiliar life on Baleman’s planet, mirror fungus was the most curious – though it took a while to know them.

Six weeks after their unplanned landing it fruited, swelling from the earth as they slept. A huge, gelatinous mass: stubby projections, and shallow invaginations where portholes would be; dappled pigmentation reproducing the name written on the hull of their own module. Weird mimicry.

Vika had run tests – a harmless fungal mass. Non-poisonous. Edible. A bounty of protein, with rations running low and little hope of rescue.

They ate, and the world became a better place. Nourishment brought hope, acceptance of this new life. And ever and again, the fungus would appear, adopting familiar forms, refining, adapting.

Stern stepped out one night, full of the stuff. Unfamiliar constellations sparkled, drawing him onwards; he floated, light as a feather. He heard a whisper, turned and saw her. Naked, beckoning. He collapsed into her arms. Darkness fell.

No trace remained to greet the morning.

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