The Storm Fishers and Other Stories

by Everitt Foster

design,’ followed by, ‘oh she told me the project was the renovation of the Judicial Library.’ I was afraid to leave my apartment. What if. That was my life for three years; what if. I need this. I can do this. I know the beautiful. I know its awe and emptiness and fear. Maybe even reverence, if that’s not saying too much.”

  “But you can’t keep a client,” said Alina with more strawberry smoke.

  “I want my friends back.”

  “Alright. You’ll host an open house at your apartment. I expect it to be clean, efficient, practical and modern. I want at least one client. One client for your job, understand?”

  “Thank you.”

  The Drift, like all domestic-outfitted space stations, was circular, a tube around a central vertically oriented power core. The exterior was covered with independently fixed pods giving the station a white sheen with dark gray bands on the dorsal and planar sides. One of the pods belonged to the Spelter family. They named her The Hero of Our Time; the name was Vika’s idea. It was larger than its neighbors, and fixed on a lower deck, a new home adjacent to used pods. Each pod came with all the amenities including a small power source used for docking and emergency escapes (but the starborn are superstitious and never spoke of the need).

  On this particular day (the idea of ‘days’ and ‘nights’ were antiquated, but the terms are still useful for describing the human biorhythm; day being the domain of Norephedrin, the night belonging to the neuvo-dios Melatonin and for some, Quetiapine). Vika had arranged the pod like one would arrange a gallery opening. Bright white walls matched the tone of established and trusted clothiers. Starborn ladies were raised accustomed to the muted orange lights breaking the dim shadows illuminating art for the sake of conversation.

  Dooris, the intelli-door, slid open and in her artificial voice welcomed Clutch home. He tromped through the kitchen and hurled his dust covered boots down the hall and into the bedroom then wiped his hands on a towel laying across the dining room table.

  “You’re not disturbing my presentation are you?” Vika said from around the partitioning wall.

  He thought for a moment and chose not to ‘paint himself in a pink corner.’ Educated women could put aside their training and go back to guts when it came to their homes. “I didn’t know you were planning anything. And since when do you decorate at home? This is expensive. Do I look like I’m made of titanium?”

  “Abs of Titan-tempered hydrocarbons maybe.”

  “That ain’t what they’d call poetic.”

  She tried to wipe the dust from the corners of his mouth, and settled for gave him a peck on the cheek, smiled and said, “Another day in the separator?”

  “We had tourists. I had to show them how we extract the methane.”

  “Sounds like we both had bad days. ‘The Frog with the Velvet Whip’ is coming over with half the membership list of Anton's and she demands a new client or she’ll sack me. So it’s important that we make a good show tonight.”

  “Well then, Oh! I was going to give you this for Gagarin Day but tonight will do just fine,” he rushed to his pack and took out the foil wrapped rock. “Isn’t it odd?”

  “Look at those, they look like eyes. It’s like a fat woman staring me down.”

  “Maybe it would go well with our antique collection.”

  “Hmm how about I leave the dusty science to you and you leave the elegant engineering to me.” She took the artifact to an old wooden box with a crystal panel that glinted under the orange track lights. She opened the case and shoved aside a violet half-geode and a rose quartz. “There. It looks at home between them.”

  “The geode next to it makes the woman look like a king playing with his throne.”

  “Oh please tell me that’s not some roughneck euphemism for ‘the deed.’”

  “Think me that base do you?” he said in a starborn accent.

  “No. Thank you my sweet nectar,” she licked her thumb and wiped away some brown, “but go shower before the guests arrive.”

  A ding-dong-ding rang through the pod interrupting the soft notes of a classical guitar performing Asturias. Vika, preparing her face, looked up and said, “Dooris who is it?”

  From overhead came the artificial voice. “Three men in evening wear and two ladies carrying small gift boxes. Should I let them in?”

  “Yes. And open for anyone appropriately dressed through the evening. Anyone but Burtie Dunnage. That man is a toilet that won’t flush, he’s the ass that shits in my volcano cake.”

  “Your husband’s mouth is rubbing off on you.”

  Clutch was fumbling with his tie, “My mouth rubs off on her every night.”

  The door released her pneumatic valve, which sounded much like a sigh, “Neither hammer nor piston will pass without your permission. The Dooris guarantee.”

  Emma, the service-bot, hovered from party goer to party goer holding a tray with one hand and asking in a synthetic, but comforting, starborn accent whether the patrons would like a glass of champaign or wine. From time to time she interrupted her deliveries to comment on the lovely, warm and historical design. “Is this not one of the finest examples of early twenty-third century Venusian decoration you’ve seen on our ship? As authentic as the originals, and I saw the originals.” So subtle with her wording. Clutch was glad Vika rented her for the night. She could implant within guests’ minds a desire to purchase, via quoting fashionable holographiers, or talking obscure designer biographies. A well placed compliment could elicit an “Oh yes yes, isn’t she wonderful,” or an “I’ve always wanted one of his originals,” from the panicked starborn.

  Master Doana Ruess, MFA, an ergonomic artist to all the finest people, a woman of sixty plus years and not shy about showing her age or mental acumen, made a quiet effort to track down Vika. “Is it not a little, shall we say politely, ‘tasteless’ to use a robot to entertain your guests?”

  “It’s common on most rec vessels, and is quite fashionable on habitat stations as well.”

  “Well, this is a mining operation full of mud faced, rough neck, doodlebug science mongers isn’t it.”

  “That’s a little chimpish. If it weren’t for those doodlebugs we would be freezing, suffocating, or bored to death, wouldn’t we?”

  “Chimpish? Oh please don’t misinterpret my words dear, you throw a darling celebration, but,” she looked around, centered her eyes on the glass case, “it appears someone has defiled your designs. Some rockhound put a door-jammer under your display case. I bet it was Master Dunnage. He was speaking aloud of his displeasure for such a bold choice. You know Dunnage of Dunnage and Daughters Design? Came to fish from your stream. I bet he snuck in by dressing in last year’s fashions so your door wouldn’t recognize him. I don’t see his two heifers.”

  “That rock was a gift from my husband. He found it on the surface. He’s a mining geologist.”

  “I didn’t mean to offend. Forgive my ignorance. Your home is so beautiful I assumed you were educated in a finer school.” She caught her words, “which is to say, most engineers would know better than to be so bold. And I mean that as a compliment.”

  “My father was an actor and my mother an artist. We have hardly a scientist or engineer in our family, save Clutch and myself.”

  Several rough-faced scientists stood in a corner drinking chocolate stout homebrew from personalized steins and laughing too loud. Clutch said, “Lemmie ask ya: if an astronaut dropped trou in space and farted, would he keep going to infinity?”

  “Uh, momentum says yes,” said a blonde woman with age around her eyes.

  “Can you imagine-” Patrons watched the rockhounds break out laughing at unacceptable gestures involving the ‘netherspace.’

  “Clutch is his name? Um,” Ruess pointed to the case and reverted to her default setting, “Do you know what Missus Dross said to Missus Flux and Missus Dunnage? It’s so juicy I almost kept it to myself.” She lowered her voice to a whisper, “She said there was a beautiful glow from the eyes and she felt a warmth radi
ate from the hands. Can you believe those superstitious lollybobs? Their brains are no higher than swamp chimps!”

  And so went the night for Vika and Clutch. One glass at a time their guests attempted to out-snark each another. And eventually every guest was caught in the radiance of what they were calling ‘the artifact.’ In hushed tones a man approached the Spelters and asked, “On which part of the surface did you find something so special?”

  “In the shaft outside one of those elevated platforms,” said Clutch.

  “It’s called a dais,” said the man.

  “Yea it was near one of the ones we set up for some guys who gave all a few months back.”

  “I knew it!” and the man rushed off to join the others in hushed tones. Names were exchanged on the way out the door, but no clients came of that evening. Just before bed Vika instructed Dooris to adjust to the default style and restore their bed to a more comfortable setting. Clutch fell asleep when he hit the sheets. Vika lay awake, in defiance of her quatiapine, wondering whether to show her face tomorrow.

  Dooris buzzed several times before Vika answered. She was still in her pajamas and sat in the family room watching the production of hamlet ‘in the round’ as recorded by the Scurvy Dogs Comedy Troupe from Faraday University. “Is it Master Antipova?”

  “No. I don’t recognize them. But they are wearing real silk and I detect hard currency. You know what that means.”

  “Word spread. Turn the house around. Go back to night’s design.”

  “There isn’t time. They’re talking about going away.”

  “Fine.”

  There was a bottle of unopened champaign on the kitchen counter. Vika snatched three flutes and filled them without a care for the head. She dashed down the hall, throwing her PJs on the unmade bed and flinging dress after dress on the chair. “Let them in, give them a drink, and help me pick out something lovely!”

  “My name is Menelaus Peek and these are my assistants. My time is valuable. I’ve got three galleries to see today so I’ll be curt.”

  “What can I help you with?”

  “We’re not interested in your design skills. Sorry to disappoint. I want to buy your artifact. Twenty-four hundred chitin. I offer that for an unvalidated piece of art. Let the risk be mine.”

  “I can’t that’s something my husband gave me. He gives me something from every moon, asteroid and comet we visit. It’s worth more than money. To me.”

  “It’s worth nothing if it’s just a rock,” said the anemic male assistant on his right.

  “Do it in the name of science,” said the svelte woman to his left.

  “I’m an industrial engineer.”

  “Then do it in the name of beauty,” said Menelaus “It’s worth too much to sit on a glass shelf. If it is worth anything.”

  “What do you want with it?”

  “Run a few tests. See if it possesses what has been called a vivification property.”

  “Who called it that?”

  “Your guests. One of them suffered pain in her back. After spending a few moments in front of The Artifact she was healed. I want to see if it was true.”

  “What kind of moon dust have you been sniffing?” said Vika.

  “I’m not on anything. And my offer is serious. I don’t care whether you think we’re loonies. I know what your people think of us and the truth, deep as space itself, is this: we don’t care. None of us do. Just take your money and go splurge on grease for you and your dirt-born boot monkey,” said Menelaus.

  “It’s been a while since I held my nose walking through the upper decks, stank rises don’t ya know, but back then insults weren’t a viable currency.”

  “This is more than you’ll make in five rotations. Just take it, give us the artifact, and we’ll be on our way.”

  “It was a gift from my husband and it’s not for sale. Good day. Sir.”

  “You love helping people I can tell. If you give us the artifact we can test it for you and determine whether it has some vivification power.”

  “It doesn’t. It’s a rock.”

  “Rocks have properties just like all matter. Why is it so hard for you people to believe that perhaps there are properties to the universe we’ve not yet unearthed? What makes you think it’s natural? None of us know what’s beyond the Kuiper belt.”

  “I’m tired of arguing. Please leave my home.”

  “You’re keeping what belongs to all of us. You have no right,” said the svelte assistant. She stepped toward Vika shaking her finger, “My father is dying. My brother lives in pain.”

  “It belongs to all of us,” said the anemic.

  “Why are you being so stubborn? Don’t you see what this could do? Or do you not care about the rest of us?”

  The woman paced the floor circling the glass case. “That’s it isn’t it?” She pointed to the little figure. “It looks the way I thought it would when I heard about it.”

  “There are three of us and one of her,” said the man.

  “Don’t be so vulgar,” Menelaus said opening his case.

  “If I sell this to you it invalidates who I am and what I believe. And therefore a contradiction to my life, and my love for my husband. Please leave my home.”

  The woman stepped to Vika’s face again, “Others need that artifact. It was here before us and it belongs to all of us. What right do you have to keep it for yourself?”

  Vika stood her ground. The woman gritted her teeth, squinted her eyes; her hands shook and her face flushed red. She raised her hand. Vika braced her body for a strike that never came.

  “I wouldn’t. You’d call the rangers.”

  Vika inhaled deep and said under her breath, “If you don’t leave my home you won’t be the one taken away by rangers.”

  Menelaus pulled his people back, whispered in their ears, and said upon reaching the door. “A very good day to you - Missus - Spelter.”

  The next day, with Clutch still away, there was a knock, and Dooris said, “There is a man and woman, well dressed, with a boy waiting for you. Should I let them in?”

  “What do they want?”

  “To speak with you in private.”

  “Let ‘em in.”

  She stood to greet the family. They pressed their son forward, though he stumbled and his neck had trouble supporting his body. He held, in his tiny hands, a gray and brown marsupial called a petmonk. “We’re Nebula and Dromida Salt, and this is Kelt. Thank you for seeing us, we know you must be busy, what with all the whirl and rush around your new treasure.”

  “Not so much, nothing I can’t handle.”

  “We saw on The Investigative Mind, you know that e-periodical? We heard you have been working hard to help the genetically unfortunate.”

  “I’m sorry what do you mean?”

  “We’d like to use your artifact. It’s for our son. We’ve only got a few more weeks with him, and well, even if it can give him a few more years, even months, we’d be forever in your debt.”

  “My-” she hesitated, “What do you think that rock can do for you?”

  Dromida leaned forward as if to share a secret, and said, “It has healing powers. Everyone says so. All the best people have assured us they’ve been treated. We can’t pay, our lifestyle doesn’t afford such things, we have to keep up appearances, you know for the sake of business.”

  “You don’t go to the doctor so you can dress well? Yet you want me to treat your son with, and let me assure you this is true, a rock.”

  Her husband stepped forward, “It’s not a rock. We know what you have. Everyone does. It was in The Mind. And besides, all our friends told us how you helped them. So maybe for us? I run the most fashionable of stores and you can take your pick of fine gowns. Nothing for next season, obviously-”

  “Shut up you greedy chimp! Give her next season’s fashions. Who cares which deck she lives on.” Dromida shook her head, running her hands through her curly blonde hair with fury. “It’s my son’s life!”

&nbs
p; A smile grew from Vika’s face. “Come with me then. And promise you won’t tell anyone.”

  “Thank you,” Dromida clutched her breast as the tension in her shoulders faded.

  They stood before the glass cabinet. Vika removed the rock and rested it upon a white columnar end table. She dimmed the lights, save the one above overhead. “Stand in front of it.”

  They pushed the boy forward.

  “Not him. You.”

  “Us?”

  “Yes it works through you.”

  “I don’t understand,” said Nebula.

  “Neither do I. It’s one of what your people call The Great Mysteries. Now repeat after me. Ogga-lala-booga-lama-boo-ka-homie-boom.”

  The parents looked at one another with hope for the first time in years. Together they said with a slow, joyful melody, “Ogga-lala-booga-lama-boo-ka-homie-boom.”

  For a silent moment the parents looked at their son. “Do you feel anything?” Kelt shook his head and clutched his petmonk. The little brown furball looked around licking his paws staring up at the boy.

  Vika said, “Maybe we need to try harder. Here like this. Ogga-lala-booga-lama-boo-ka-boom.” Though the words were the same, she folded her arms behind her head, thrust her hips back and forth, spun around, and shook her butt like a bee.

  “Ogga-lala-booga-lama-boo-ka-boom.” The rump shaking continued. Then they waited some more. And after a moment, the door slid open and Clutch yelled, “You’ll never believe what we found today! Where are you?”

  “In the family room. We’ve got company.”

  “What are you doing?” said Clutch.

  “Using the healing power of the artifact.”

  “It’s a rock, just like this one.” He pulled a calico colored tetrahedron from his backpack and laid it on the table.

  “What healing powers does this one have I wonder,” Dromida said picking it up, with hope in her eyes.

  “I’m going to say no more than that one.”

  Clutch knelt to the boy and looked him in the eye, “Son do you feel any better?” Kelt shook his head again.

  “It’s not working. You made a fool of me for nothing,” said Nebula.

  “You made a fool of yourself when you rang our buzzer.”

  “You’re keeping its power for yourselves. We’ll see about this. Give us the artifact. We’ll investigate it for ourselves. We have friends in high places.”

  “It was a gift from my husband. No.”

  Nebula stepped to Vika’s face. Once more she refused to be moved. The only sound came from the air purifier’s low hum. Clutch stepped between Nebula and his wife. Vika brushed him aside, “I’ve done everything I can to help. Please leave.”

  The Salts shoved their son forward, “For peace’s sake; we don’t want to call the authorities.”

  “Call the rangers then. I can no more stop you from stealing my gift than you can force a rock to heal your son.”

  One night, not so many weeks away, Vika heard clang thud clang thud crack, and the screech of metals driven by an engine. She stood up, rushed around the bed and threw a robe over her teeshirt. Clutch unlocked the cabinet and removed a rifle, set the scope, installed the energy pack,