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When news of our colony’s first murder hit the net, I’m afraid I barely noticed. I was too distracted by the discovery that my native garden was talking to me. Well, for a given value of “talking.” It was pretty low-bandwidth communication. I’d eat produce and start having powerful intrusive thoughts about a single concept. I wondered if I should report the psychoactive effects to Exoplanetary Studies, which had ruled these growths safe to eat. But then it dawned on me that all the concepts were ones that might concern a garden. Like “rain.” Or “heat.” Or “zipbits” (the wildlife