The Storm Fishers and Other Stories

by Everitt Foster

floor.

  He picked up the papers and flipped through looking at her bubbly handwriting as it slurred and slanted further with each page.

  “There’s a last request form. It says, ‘Subject to availability.’”

  “What are you going to ask for?”

  “Doesn’t matter if you won’t bring Folk to see me.”

  “You have to understand-”

  “I do understand but do you expect me to like it?”

  “You could ask to visit him on the recreation deck. Maybe he’ll remember you in a good way.”

  “Oh come on.”

  “It’s not like you can get off the ship. Maybe they’ll let you have some video equipment. He could see you himself.”

  “How about a file in a birthday cake?”

  He faked a laugh. She didn’t laugh. He wrote in the request for recording and archiving equipment and they spent the evening talking about Folk’s first steps, his first words, first day of school, homework, girls, a part time job, what will he be and who will he love and will his father answer problems he can only anticipate.

  No lecture, no lesson, no proverb can replace a father’s hand in a storm.

  When the camera and archival hard drives arrived Arran set up the tripod, connected the two instruments, checked the lens, pressed record, the sat on his bed in front of the lifeless gray wall. He pressed stop, and cried for the first time since hearing his sentence.

  “I don’t know what to say. Hello maybe. Hi. I’m your dad. Here is some advice on…life.”

  He stopped the recording and thought then thought some more. Before anything else, he must learn I am good man.

  “No one is innocent in this system. Some famous mass murderer, whose name I don’t remember, you’ll probably learn it in advanced classes, once said, ‘show me a man and I’ll show you a crime.’” He stopped the tape. How does a father introduce himself to his son?

  “I’m not done fighting. I’m breaking you out.”

  “You’ll end up on your way to the Red Room too. No.”

  “I have permission.”

  “You have permission to conduct a prison break?”

  “I played by the rules. I convinced a Justice that it’s a man who is guilty, not his DNA.” She pulled a swab from a sterile container and offered it through the tray slit.

  “I won’t help you orphan my son.”

  She unfolded a picture and pressed it against the acrylic. There resting in a crib and clutching a blue blanket was Folk Engel. He had one green and one blue eye, like his father, and peach colored hair. “I’ll give you this if you use the swab.”

  He pushed back against the acrylic, his hands slid on their own sweat leaving messy streaks behind.

  “You’ll be free. You’ll watch him grow up.”

  “You’re terrible at lying.”

  “I won’t have to say, ‘Sorry you’re having girl trouble son. Lemmie sort through the files and see if your dad said anything about getting dumped.’” She held her hand over her mouth and nose. She had rubbed her swollen eyes red and her nostrils flared to match. She wiped her hand on a sterile tissue and stuffed it in the hazmat bin on the wall.

  “What if I don’t remember my life before this? Can you guarantee that I will? No you can’t.”

  He reached under the panel through the slit and waited for the picture. First moments may fade but never die.

  It had taken five years in the core reactor lab before Dr. Arran Engel earned enough of the Co-op board’s trust to design his own project. But it came with a catch. He was a nuclear engineer on his way to the gene research division. On his first morning as he walked to his new office a woman arrived with an employment ticket. She asked for directions to the corn research lab and introduced herself as Doctor Adrian Diebold, PhD in Corn Science, Faraday University. His laughed. Then like a boy punching the pretty girl at recess he said, “How exactly does one go about becoming a doctor of corn? Are there corn institutes? Corn journals? Corn-cons?”

  “Corn is a very important part of a very big economy. How do you think we feed half the solar system? Without corn science you’d be huddled around a hotplate or a Bunsen burner roasting dead rats on the end of a spork.”

  “Alright I believe you. It was just. Nothing.”

  “They need someone to assist with the selection of DNA.”

  “Yes I know. But I requested someone with experience.”

  “Why?”

  “Because. I’m looking for an expert to fill in holes where my knowledge is lacking. This is an unusual project. I’m altering isotopes within the agriculture in hopes of improving the fuel efficiency of our away shuttles.”

  “When people ask for a more senior researcher than themselves it’s because they are afraid of failure and are still looking for guidance. That’s my opinion.”

  “It’s a fair opinion, but it’s wrong. Taking chances got me here. I’m not afraid to cross long established lines or step on well-connected toes,” he said.

  “By your logic you’ll have no problem giving me a chance.”

  “Promise not to tell on me for every little protocol violation?”

  “I suppose. You promise to listen to my ideas?

  “We all need someone to take a chance on us at least once in our lives.”

  He handed her the employment slip, their fingers brushed and each smiled. He stamped it: approved.

  Five years is a long time to remember the love held in a touch. But the moment happens every day.

  “If you love me, please trust me again. Do you still love me?”

  “From the moment I saw you.”

  “Then don’t be afraid.”

  She reached out to his hand, giving away the picture of his son and the swab.

  Video 001 - “Son, if you’re watching this it’s because one day your mother’s brilliance shone bright enough to give me hope when my heart knew none.”

  It was the third month, Vulcan on the local, which is to say Venusian, calendar. Steam plumes formed in the Whitney-Schull’s upper decks from the mingling of sun and irrigation. Robotic nozzles wound through corn rows followed by fertilizer bots. They were followed by dark skinned men called shufflers, so called for their exhausted gait through the rows, inspecting husks for parasites. Adrien watched the fields from the exit to the cellular replication laboratory. When she was sure no shufflers could see she waived for her team to push a long white sarcophagus marked with life support indicators onto the elevator.

  The team brought Arran II into the Engel flat and uncased him in the family room. “How do you plan to present him?”

  The interns sat him in the lounger. There was an IV from his arm. Adrien inserted a syringe. “To whom?”

  “To them. They’re not going to like seeing him again. They’ll probably lose it even after they find out what you did.”

  “It doesn’t matter if the shufflers lose it. I have permission and I have paperwork and that’s more important than their feelings. Go into the kitchen. You’ll find a tray with covered plates. Bring it in here and put it beside him.”

  His fingers moved then his chest stuttered. His deep breathing fell shallow and he coughed. One of the interns reached for his eyelids.

  “Wait for them to open on their own.”

  “He’s not a kitten.” He opened Arran’s eyes and shone a light on a pupil that dilated without hesitation.

  “Mom?” he said.

  “Not mom.” Adrien reached to his face and ran her hand along his cheek. He tried to lift his arm.

  “I want to touch you. My hand won’t respond. I can’t lift it. What’s wrong with me?”

  “You were in an accident.”

  “Were the police just here?”

  The intern brought the tray just as he was told. “What did I miss?”

  “She gave him one too many memories.”

  “What is he talking about?” said Arran.

  “Honey you were in a coma for six years. You’re just remembering a
bad dream.”

  “Why do I feel this way?”

  “What do you feel?”

  “My stomach hurts. It’s like the acid is eating away the lining.”

  “You need to eat something.” She lifted the tray lids uncovering beef on one plate, halibut on another and cornbread on the last. He lifted a fork and knife.

  “You brought me cornbread.”

  “Yes. That’s the way you like it.”

  “I don’t like cornbread.”

  She smiled and removed the beef and cornbread. “Of course.”

  “And I’m the one with memory loss?” he rearranged the plates and sliced into the halibut.

  “What a grand test you’ve devised. Maybe you could lay out two pairs of shoes and see which one fits next.”

  “He remembered his favorite foot. It’s not proof, but it’s the strongest proof the academy will ever have. And yes, I mean carnally.”

  “Dr. Dross wants more genotype/phenotype tests before you can break the news to the shufflers. Or even people outside the lab.”

  “He can’t be the same type of man he was ‘before the accident.’ He can’t be a man who takes such careless risks.”

  “Naturally.” She sat beside him as he finished the meal.

  “Or in his case, unnaturally.”

  As the men walked out Folk, now an energy filled young explorer, walked in staring at the ground. He tossed the small blue backpack on the couch and kicked off his shoes. In the family room Adrien hollered, “Folk. Come in here. There’s a surprise for you!”

  Father and son had the same amber hair reflecting the light as the air purifier blew against their faces.

  “Say hello to your father.”

  “Folk. I- Ah- what do I say to him?”

  “Hello sir.”

  “You don’t have to call him sir. Maybe try Dad.”

  “We’ve never spoken before. Do you think he should? I haven’t earned it.”

  By the time he was five Folk had developed a love of making his mother squeal with horror at his agricultural discoveries. He would uncover an ‘unknown’ insect or fungus and deliver it to her in a natural state and laugh as she ran in horror. Making him smile was important enough to jump on the occasional counter top. Once he came home early and found her examining a worm bisected and prepared on a slide. The game wasn’t as fun anymore.

  The Gymnetis Stellara, called a flower beetle on Earth, is black with yellow markings like a tiger and has an orange swatch on the back shell, as if it had been brushed by the Venusian sun. Stellara was not usually found in corn. She chose to put the species on the co-op’s farm rotation to increase the pollination of the stalks. This did not please her supervisors who insisted on carefully controlled clones. But it greatly pleased Folk who insisted on showing Mom every new pattern and telling what the figures looked like.

  Arran had been informed he was on leave until being cleared by the behavioral science panel. A man can only sit at home for so long. His father’s arrival provided Folk with a new unsullied partner for his game. “Dad, let’s go look for bugs for mom. This is what they look like.”

  “Why not check for a new species? Surely there has been some adaptation since their introduction from Earth.” Arran pulled a tablet from his bag and rested under a conical steel irrigation spout on the edge of the field.

  “Sit with me. This is a man named Linnaeus. See, he sent his students, called his Apostles, all over Earth to name every creature no matter how big or how small.”

  “Did they name them all?”

  “No. In point of fact it would be impossible to name everything because what we hold in our hands and name today will give birth to something new tomorrow.”

  “So if a baby is born, it’s not the same as its parents.”

  “Well, yes and no. The same, but different in some small way. And you see, the Apostles of whom there were twelve, were among the first adventurers.”

  “What does that mean?” Folk took the tablet and clicked on a link to Australian Fauna.

  “It’s the most important revelation in all of human history. I am like you but I am not you. We are the same,” Arran took the tablet and rested it on the ground, “but we are different. Not just you and I, but all of us. From this truth son, we can understand everything that makes life worth living.”

  “Like what?”

  He thought for a moment. The first answer must be the strongest. “Love. Adventure. Exploration…Beauty. Those little differences, those tiny imperfections make the ever changing world alive and beautiful. And us with it.” Folk had the tablet again and scrolled through images of a world lit only by fire.

  “What was the ship called?” he said.

  “There were many ships. And I don’t know the names of them all. I’m sorry.”

  The field buttressed a port-like loading dock shelved with hundreds upon thousands of yellow plastic boxes set aside for grain. Folk rushed to one of the larger boxes and pulled it towards his father. “What are you doing?”

  “I’m making ‘the IRV’- what is a good name for a space ship?”

  “What should it do?”

  “It should be a true vessel of good people and good speed.”

  “Exploration and Research Vessel Goodspeed.” Arran took the permanent marker from his pocket protector and scribbled the name on the side. He pointed to a dolly left unattended. “I’ve got an idea.”

  After a quick job on the vessel, Arran loaded Folk into the pilot’s chair and shoved the rectangular box down the loading ramp, into the perfect rows of identical corn and as it picked up speed, jumped in the back. Folk stood on the helm ordering his engineer to increase power. And with each order Dad jumped out, pushed a few more feet and kept going. The vessel was well designed for speed, but the controls were lacking and the wheels, which did not turn (Yet. Every captain has plans for his ship.) plowed past shufflers who yelled in a language not quite English. They blew through mists as stalks and leaves slashed a few tiny cuts on the arms. Oh the price of exploration must be borne by the brave! Finally, the Goodspeed came to a rest in the shadow of a hovering station with dozens of men in white coats looking down.

  The explorers disembarked looking side to side. Their hands shook with tiny plastic lasers ready for anything. The port was nowhere to be found and the fields were as silent as open sea; the stalks blew like waves from an unseen wind source. Folk searched the nearest stalk.

  “I found one! It’s a new one too!” said Folk.

  “May I inspect your find sir? A new find requires careful scientific scrutiny.”

  “I suspect these little beasties came in from the lake. Look yonder,” he pointed to the irrigation spouts peppered across the horizon, thrashing up a sheen of water cascading down into puddles illuminated with an undulating rainbow of color.

  “I’m afraid we’ve got a garden familiar here captain. A beautiful flower beetle. Unique but alas, the same species again.”

  “No I don’t believe so. The Great Venusian Falls might be near the headwaters of the river mister Engel. Perhaps we should check for new species there. I’m quite sure I shall be shown correct,” said Folk.

  “Doctor Engel. If you please my good captain. I’ve worked quite hard to attain a respectable prestige and no lollybob of a ship’s pilot will deprive me of the true and proper status of an award bestowed by her majesty.”

  Folk squinted as his eyes turned toward the sun and said, “You mean mom?”

  They played explorer every day. And every day their play became more intricate until Arran’s rapidly increasing engineering skills had overtaken play and they stood inside a solid and true ship with an engine, navigation and a microscope recently commandeered from the nanobiology lab. Adrien rushed from the elevator to the craft, crouched beside Folk and said, “What the name of the vessel sir?”

  “We shall call her, ‘The Grand Beedle.’”

  “What’s a beedle?”

  “Like the ship.”

  �
��You mean the Beagle?”

  Arran held a can of black silicone paint, brush dripping drops on the deck, “What have we decided?”

  Adrien stood back arms folded. “He wants to name it after the Beagle, but he’s pronouncing it wrong.”

  “It’s play. There is no wrong,” said Arran.

  “Go away. We built it ourselves.”

  “Excuse me young man?”

  “Hon, cool it,” he held the small of her back and spoke under his breath, “I’ll handle him.”

  “Oh you’ll take care of him? A month. Seven years. Seven. Years. And I’ve never been-” she gestured to the cornfields and wiped her nose. “I’ll see you at home.”

  “Wait. Folk, go tell your mom you want her-”

  “It doesn’t work that way. I’ll see you at home.”

  Arran crouched at the nose of the ship and said, “I’ve got a good name.”

  “What?”

  He gathered more paint and in slow strokes drew the silhouette of an apple tree and underneath wrote, ERV FLOWER OF KENT.

  “Take a picture and at dinner tonight, tell mom we named it for her.”

  In the month since his arrival Arran had transformed the library into a studio apartment with a bed in a lounger and a desk doubling as a table. Adrien brought his food in and left it next to a pile of paper. His computer was off. “Why don’t you download the new research on the tablet and save some space?”

  “I don’t know.” He clicked his pen and set it in a jar with an assembly of old fashioned engineering aids. “Did I always love the feel of paper?”

  “That’s; I’m not sure. He,” she caught her words, “we never kept paper around. We liked a clean house. It’s less efficient this way.”

  “Have you ever done this?” Arran lifted a book, cracked the spine and dust flew up.

  “No I haven’t.”

  “Wait,” he ran his nose through the spine inhaling the smell (as well as dust, dry glue and probably a few dead bugs). “That smells good doesn’t it? Here.”

  “Ew, no it’s just decomposing glue. It’s artificial vanilla.”

  “It smells good doesn’t it?”

  “I’ll bake you a cake.”

  “Do I like cake?”

  “Hey. Not to interfere, but I think Folk would love it if you ate with us. Maybe just tonight. See if you are ready.”

  “Yea. Yea I can do that.”

  “And if you want,” she folded the blanket in squares and laid it over the back of the crimson lounger, “You don’t have to sleep here. I’m ready. I think I’m ready.

  “Yea. Okay,” was all he could say through his surprise.

  Crews of agricultural vessels like the Whitney-Schull ate for free. That was the good news for new scientists and their families. The bad news; most of their meals consisted of one or two crops that were prepared in a variety of ways. Adrien Engel had become an adept at ‘the art of zea mays.’ There were more than three dozen dishes with a flavor profile suitable to any Terran table she had perfected. Raising a boy alone on a scientist’s fixed salary meant being creative. Though it was never easy, she enjoyed the inventions.

  Her men sat around the table as she proudly brought Folk’s favorite dish. She named it a ‘flotilla,’ that is, tortillas filled with synthetic beef and banana peppers harvested from the ‘nightshade deck’ opposite the ‘maize deck.’

  “I called it a flotilla because it’s a tortilla that looks like a boat sail. When Folk was first