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Not sound. Syntax of mass. Each weight-shift was a word. Each cluster was a sentence. A heavy thud meant here . A light drift meant there . A sequence of three heavies meant danger . A rapid alternating pattern meant join .

Then the ground shook.

Aris watched from a ridge as the harvesters descended. The great carousel formed—thousands of Cygiso overlapping, rotating slowly. They began their weight-language, but faster than she'd ever seen. A staccato of thuds and lifts, a percussion of presence. cygiso

Aris watched the Cygiso settle back into their slow, silent carousel. They did not pursue. They did not gloat. They simply returned to their conversation: heavy, light, here, safe, we, we, we. Not sound

A Cygiso was a translucent, gelatinous disk about the size of a dinner plate, drifting a meter above the violet moss. It had no eyes, no mouth, no apparent organs. But it had mass—exquisite, variable, intentional mass. A Cygiso could make itself as light as a pollen grain to ride thermals, or as heavy as a lead ingot to sink into the spongy ground and hibernate. Each cluster was a sentence

Aris transmitted her findings. The linguists back on Earth were ecstatic. The military, less so. A species that could manipulate its mass at will? That could make itself heavy enough to crack a starship hull? That was a weapon waiting to be aimed.