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rigorous structure of harvesting that began early in the First Pass near the sun’s third planet, ceased as Malmur disappeared behind the sun, and continued when Malmur passed the third planet again on the way back out. Then Malmur was plunged into darkness, a darkness so long and terrible nothing could survive on the planet’s surface. The Malmuria themselves went into a cold sleep in specially designed units and were awakened only after the First determined it was time.
    Cicoi did not know how the First knew it was time, but in each Pass that Cicoi had experienced, the First had awakened the population at the exact moment.
    Cicoi had been among the early arisers for a hundred Passes now. He was considered one of the young leaders, someone who would come into his strengths a hundred Passes in the future.
    He was not prepared to be a Commander now.
    Cicoi’s upper tentacles rose and fell. His eyestalks floated around his face before he turned all of them to the valley below. He had to remember—it was important to remember— that once that valley had been great. And now it was no different from the rest of Malmur. Covered in black solar panels, dark and dusty and empty underneath the panels.
    When Cicoi awoke on this Pass, he was a general, yes, but a young general. And since then he had been promoted.
    He had become, with no special training, Commander of the South. He had known that he was in line for this position. But he had expected ten Passes of instruction, ten Passes of apprenticeship, and ten Passes of guided rule before he ever took over the position from his predecessor.
    But his predecessor, and his predecessor’s generals, had all reported to the recycler without having to be instructed to do so. They were no longer useful as living beings. They were killed, their bodies changed to much needed fuel and stored until the long journey into the dark night.
    Such was the price of failure.
    Cicoi’s tentacles drooped further. The very thought of the losses overwhelmed him.
    In all of Cicoi’s memory, indeed in the memory of all Mal-muria, even the Keepers of the Stored Memories, no ship had ever been lost during a harvest. No disaster had ever struck on the third planet. Always, the Sulas had been sent and retrieved. Sometimes the creatures of the third planet had fought, but never in a meaningful way.
    This time, the creatures had developed into a stronger people. They had technology, which they had never had before. They were able to destroy seven ships.
    It was a disaster of untold proportions. Even now, when he should be examining the losses, trying to compensate for them, Cicoi preferred to stare into the valley below and imagine times long past. For he knew what the losses meant, just as all Malmuria did.
    They meant that thousands of his kind would not be able to wake up on the next Pass due to the lack of ships to harvest food. They meant that thousands of his kind on this Pass would have reduced rations, making the long, cold sleep much more dangerous. The birthrate would be reduced for many Passes to come, until a balance was again reached with the number of harvester ships and the population.
    He would not make those decisions. He would not decide whose rations would be cut or whose chance at procreation would be denied. Nor would he decide which workers had to forgo rest in order to repair the damage already done, to build more Sulas, and to attempt—since it had not been attempted in a thousand Passes—to build more ships.
    No. His task was in some ways ethically easier, but practically much more difficult.
    He had to figure out how to minimize those losses. He had to find ways to improve the yield on the next Pass, to harvest enough food with the equipment they had so that some of the losses below would not be as severe.
    If he had the experience his predecessor had, he might make the right decisions. But Cicoi was new to the job, without training, and fearful of the consequences. He had seen the