“Tommy sit down and put your seatbelt on, we’re landing,” Izzy says, checking all of the kids’ belts before sinking into her seat, even after the whole journey she still can’t believe how soft it is. The academy’s space shuttle is far fancier than the ones she can afford.
Her eyes dart between each of her students as they walk through the busy city. Even though they have plenty of attendants, it’s her first school trip and there’s an itch in her brain saying she’s going to lose a kid on another planet. They reach the line for the main event mercifully quickly, and of course are allowed into the express lane designated for prime seating. Nothing but the best for these kids: the progeny of lords, celebrities, and CEOs.
Izzy stands in this most auspicious of places, feeling like a fraud. She’s never really belonged anywhere. Three months ago she was a bus driver and four months before that she was a nurse. She pushes down the bad voice, holds her chin up, takes in the children before her, and starts with an easy question, “Who can tell me why this is so special?”
All hands go up. She points at Crissy, a shy, tiny slip of a girl. “A new Rokurirou is only born every three or four hundred years, so every birth is celebrated world-wide.”
Izzy mentally gives her an extra point for not calling them tree aliens. “Good, that’s correct. How do they sustain themselves with births being so rare?”
“They don’t die.”
“You’ve got the right idea. Can anyone elaborate?”
Tommy jumps in place, hand up like he’s trying to catch a cloud, she nods at him, “They live for a bazillion years.”
“Bazillion isn’t a real number!” Jamie yells.
“Okay, what’s your answer then?”
“They live for thousands and thousands and thousands of years.”
“That’s right, good. And why is there all this yellow?”
Half the hands go up. She points at Alice.
“Their eyes see differently to ours, each different shade of yellow is a completely different colour to them and what we see as yellow are their brightest and most celebratory colours.”
“Well done. Why is there only a birth every few centuries?”
Only three hands go up. She notes this as a topic for them to do more on.
“They have very low fertility.”
“That’s correct. They do have very low fertility, but another thing is they always have had. Though it’s not uncommon to see drop offs in fertility in a species. It’s very rare for a species to thrive while having this throughout. The low fertility also means the majority of people don’t even try to have kids which further reduces the birth-rate. Those who do try generally don’t expect to get pregnant, it’s a bit like when adults play the lottery.”
*
They reach their room, only a pane of glass between the class and the birthing suite. There are hundreds of little twigs protruding from the mother— Tirtriso’s— back. Izzy can see why they only do this every few centuries. She pushes a button for the shutter to lower. It had been quite a job to convince the organizers, without offending, that they wanted to be part of the before and after celebrations without viewing the actual birth. Izzy steers the kids to the other side of the room, where they can see the parade in full swing. The joyous music sounds so sombre to the human ear, but most of the kids are pressed up to the glass in delight anyway.
*
Then the messages start coming through. Something’s wrong. Izzy doesn’t think, just barges through the door. The newborn isn’t breathing. The doctors are panicking. This isn’t something they’re prepared for. They are a hardy species, living for many millennia, problems with people under two hundred years old is practically unheard of. Doctors are there to ensure the mother’s health.
“The tube doesn’t fit.”
“It’s the smallest we have. Keep trying.”
“You need something else,” Izzy says quietly. She’s ignored.
The doctor keeps trying to fit the too large tube in.
She has no place here, no knowledge of their physiology, but that’s never stopped her before, “Listen! The baby’s too small, that’s never going to fit!”
They turn to her then. “We have nothing else.”
“Then we make-shift something, put some bits of other equipment together.”
All of their eyes, all of their attention, is on her now. They all know what rests here. “How?”
Izzy steps closer. “Show me what you’ve got.”
Once she sees their equipment it isn’t hard to jerry-rig something, she had to do this a few times when she worked at a hospital in the rougher outskirts.
And the baby is breathing.
*
It’s a couple of hours later, when the parade is dying down for the day, she lifts the shutter, with Tirtriso’s permission, so the kids can see what they came here for.
“I want to see the baby tree alien!” Tommy says, running into the room before anyone can stop him.
“Sorry,” Izzie says, rushing in behind him, “Tommy, we don’t call the Rokurirou that, and you shouldn’t be in here.”
“It’s fine,” Tirtriso says, “Let the others come in also, come all of you, come, let my baby meet you.”
The kids pour in, clustering around swarm-like. “Careful,” Izzy says. It’s not too late for an inter-stellar incident.
“It’s good. I believe this is the first time a Rokurirou newborn has ever met another child, a moment for our history.”
Izzy watches the children coo and blow raspberries and talk at the baby and wonders what it must be like to be the only child on a planet.
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