“Right. Might scare the sharks.”
They tooled around the Bay, occasionally weighing anchor to pull up some traps while the Gleezer basked in the spring sun.
“Can I give you a hand with those, sir?” the blond Secret Serviceman asked as they dropped anchor for the fourth time around nine.
“Sure,” Laurent said. “They're pretty heavy, but you look like a strong guy.”
“I'll do my best.”
Donny was relieved to know the kid could talk. The other one, wearing a pair of sunglasses, kept an eye on the Gleezer. That was all right with Donny; he preferred working alone.
“Were you in the Navy?” Laurent asked the helpful Secret Serviceman as they hauled on a line.
“Coast Guard.”
“Good enough to know starboard from port, I guess,” Laurent said, the veins standing out on his temples as he strained at the line. “Me and Donny both enlisted in the Navy the same day.”
“You've been friends a long time, huh?”
“Donny's my best friend,” Laurent said. “Always has been, ever since we were toddlers. Our fathers were lobstermen, too. We grew up wearing yellow slickers and rain hats.”
Donny thought about his father, dead seven years now, and his mother wasting away in the nursing home in Portland. His older brother Ed had drowned in an accident while pulling traps back in 1968; he'd been only eighteen years old. Did the Gleezer have parents? Did it have brothers and sisters?
Maybe he'd do some reading about the Gleezer after this was over. When it first splashed down off an Indonesian island, the news about it was non-stop. After a few days Donny had tuned it all out, like most people. As far as his daily life was concerned, Indonesia was as far away as Gliese 581c.
But it hadn't always been like that. He'd sailed to the Far East on a destroyer in 1975. He'd wanted to see something besides the Bay and the island, to know what was out there. He was stymied, however, by the fact that the Gleezer didn't come from this world at all. It hadn't just come across the sea, it had crossed the gulf of space.
In a way, though, maybe it wasn't so different from him. It wanted to see something other than its familiar world.
The sun rose higher, warming Donny. He reflected that this was the easiest five thousand dollars he and Laurent had ever made, and they even had an extra hand to help them with the traps today.
“Mind if I ask you your name?” Laurent said to the young Secret Serviceman, “or is it a state secret?”
“My name's Fields,” the young man said.
“Where you from, Agent Fields?” Laurent asked.
“Iowa.”
“Nice place to be from,” Laurent said.
“I'm not sure I know how to take that comment,” the kid said, grinning.
“No offense meant.”
“None taken.”
“I bet you didn't see too many lobsterboats when you were growing up out in the cornfields.”
“That's a safe bet, Mr. Therriault.”
“Call me Laurent.”
A sailboat tacked into the wind and kept pace with them for a while.
“What'll we do if they approach?” the other young Secret Serviceman asked.
Towson indicated that the chopper was not far away.
“Jeez, they aren't gonna blow ‘em out of the water, are they?” Donny said, alarmed at the prospect.
“We'll keep the visitor safe,” Towson said. “That's our job.”
“Those are our neighbors,” Donny said, “not terrorists.”
“We're not going to do anything to them unless they threaten the visitor. Do you think that's likely, Mr. Doyle?”
“Only if they're New Yorkers.”
Towson didn't seem to get the joke at first, but then he smiled. “I'm from New York.”
“Sorry.”
“That's all right.”
“You a Yankees man or a Mets man?”
“Yankees.”
“I wouldn't mention that to many people around here.”
“Yes, I know,” Towson said, “but I hope we can call off the hostilities until the season gets underway.”
“That I can't guarantee.” Donny went into a long peroration about Boston's pitching staff, starters and relievers both, the powerful Red Sox batting order, and the Colombian kid who'd led the league in stolen bases last year. “He's just about invisible when he tags second,” Donny said, “like greased lightning.”
“He's quite a base runner,” Towson agreed.
Donny had hoped to distract Towson until the sailboat passed them. It continued to keep pace at a fair distance, and now he could see that someone on deck was watching through binoculars. Towson never took his eyes off it.
“We'll have to report them if they take pictures,” Towson said.
“And then what?”
“Their cameras will be confiscated.”
“But why? Everybody's seen pictures of the Gleezer.”
“I have my orders, Mr. Doyle.”
Donny had almost been feeling friendly enough to let the government man call him by his first name, but after that exchange he decided he'd let Towson go on calling him Mr. Doyle.
“You can't blame people for being curious,” he said.
“I don't blame them for anything,” Towson replied. “I'm just following protocol.”
“Hell of a country, ain't it?” Donny said, “Regular people can't even take a snapshot of the first visitor from another planet.”
“It's not my decision.”
“No, I guess not. You're only following orders, right?”
“Yes, that's right.”
This was more like talking to a brick wall than a man, Donny thought, so he gave up trying and went back to work in silence. He was relieved to see that the sailboat had tacked to the south, without anyone aboard taking pictures, as far as he could tell. He'd never seen that particular boat before, and he wondered if it had come around the back side of the island from Castine, or maybe up from Camden.
“How's the Gleezer doing up there?” Laurent asked, as he'd been asking every few minutes.
“So far, okay,” Towson said.
“Glad somebody around here's having a good time,” Donny muttered to himself as he hefted a trap onto the deck and took a look at the contents.
“Uh, oh,” he said, “we got some trouble, Laurent.”
“Fight?”
“Ayuh,” Donny said, “this fella's missing his pincer.”
Donny found the claw in the trap, along with a two pound male.
“Ornery, ain't you?” Donny said to the battle's victor as he held it dripping up to the sunlight.
“I've been wondering about something,” Laurent said to the kid.
“What's that, Mr. Therriault?”
“Didn't I tell you to call me Laurent? How did the president get along with the Gleezer?”
The kid didn't say anything.
“I mean, what did she think of it?”
“She was courteous, cordial, and diplomatic,” Towson said, stepping in.
Agent Fields was trying hard not to laugh, Donny noticed. Maybe the President was as repulsed by the Gleezer as he was.
The Gleezer didn't seem to bother Laurent much, but that was Laurent. Nothing bothered him all that much, not even losing his wife after a quarter century of marriage. He'd probably have a new one as soon as the divorce was finalized. Donny knew a couple of widows that had their eyes on his old buddy. Now that Laurent was half-owner of this peapod, he'd have to fight off the ladies when he started dating again, especially once he and Donny really got the business going, bought more boats, hired some local boys, and sold lobsters wholesale to the big supermarket and restaurant chains.
At least they'd already put the first part of their plan into play, even if they'd gone into hock to buy the boat.
That was how Donny passed the rest of the morning, daydreaming and hauling up traps, until he noticed Laurent looking worried as he gazed aft. He was watching the three
Secret Servicemen.
Towson spoke to his boys in low tones as they huddled with him. Donny couldn't hear what he said, but he had the impression that something was wrong, especially with the way Agent Fields looked up at the net.
“Want us to haul it in?” Laurent asked.
Towson ignored him, almost as if he hadn't heard him speak. He groped his way to the gunwale nearest to the net and stared straight at it.
“What is it?” Donny said.
Towson was very somber, and Agent Fields seemed worried. The quiet kid in the watchcap looked scared. Donny glanced at Laurent, who shrugged. He hadn't heard what Towson had told his boys, either.
“The visitor's dead,” Towson said.
“Dead...?” Laurent's mouth hung open.
“How can that be?” Donny said, feeling as if he'd just fallen overboard. “It's just been laying up there, sunning itself. What could have killed it?”
“I don't know, perhaps natural causes,” Towson said. “But it's dead. All communication has stopped.”
“Maybe it's just the chip,” Laurent said.
“No, the visitor let me know that it was dying just before the end.” Towson's slate eyes didn't blink.
“Jeez,” Laurent said.
“It can't die on our boat,” Donny said, thinking about the possible consequences. There went all the dreams of capitalizing on the Gleezer's little excursion around the bay. “You never even said it was sick.”
“I didn't know,” Towson said. “There was only so much the exobiologists could figure out.”
“Was it very old?” Laurent said.
“We don't know how long its species’ lifespan normally runs.”
“It came here to die,” Donny said, beginning to understand. “It came all the way to Earth just to die.”
“I'm afraid so.”
Donny looked up at the strange shape suspended over the Bay. “I wonder why?”
“Maybe it didn't want to make the folks back home unhappy,” Laurent ventured.
The two young Secret Service agents swung the winch around, and Donny ratcheted it down until the Gleezer lay on the deck, still as a stone. Nobody spoke for a long time.
“The poor thing,” Laurent said at last.
The men stood in a circle around the alien's corpse.
“Did it suffer?” Donny asked.
“What?” Towson said, still staring at the Gleezer.
“Was it in pain when it died?”
“It seemed peaceful,” Towson said, as if he were answering someone a long, long way away.
“Should we put it in its tank, sir?” Agent Fields asked.
“Yes, I suppose we should,” Towson said.
“What good will that do the Gleezer now?” Donny asked.
“None, but we don't want it to decay. The chopper will lower a sling to take the tank back to the mainland. There's a team staying at the suite who'll examine it.”
“Frank's gonna have to make some room in the hotel freezer,” Donny said.
“Yes, we may have to do that until arrangements can be made,” Towson said. “But for now, let's get the visitor inside the tank.”
Donny worked the winch. Towson turned the tank on its side, and the two younger Secret Service agents guided the dead Gleezer over to it. They tilted the net until the Gleezer's remains slid into the environmental tank. Once Towson was sure it was completely enclosed and the tubes were coiled inside the tank, he gently shut the ramp, now positioned as the lid. The tank hissed as it locked.
Donny didn't know whether to admire Towson's professionalism or to be contemptuous of his coolness. He decided to give the man the benefit of the doubt. Towson would probably be forced to retire from the Secret Service after this incident.
“Do you think one of us should say something?” Laurent asked.
“Say something?” Towson repeated.
“A prayer,” Donny said.
“Would one of you like to offer a few words?”
It was silent except for the gulls. The boat rocked back and forth. They all gazed at the Gleezer's tank. No one spoke.
“Here comes the chopper,” said the Secret Serviceman whose name Donny didn't know.
The approaching helicopter made a racket overhead and dipped as the sling was lowered toward the deck. It was the work of only a few seconds to lift and secure the environmental tank inside the sling. Everyone stood back as it went up, their clothing snapping like flags in the rotor's wind.
They watched the helicopter fly back toward the island.
“I guess you'll want us to take you in,” Laurent said.
“If you don't mind,” Towson said.
Laurent went back into the pilot house.
“I'm sorry,” Donny said to Towson.
“Thank you, Mr. Doyle,” Towson said.
“What will they do with the ... body?” Donny asked.
“I don't know,” Towson said. “Dissection, most likely.”
Donny nodded.
“It's too bad it can't be sent home.”
“Yes, it's too bad,” Towson said, “but a lot can be learned from its remains.”
“Why do you suppose it came here?” Donny asked.
“As far as I know,” Towson said, “it never revealed anything more than its desire to visit our world.”
“And now we'll never know.”
“Probably not.”
“Imagine...” Donny said.
“Imagine what?”
“How lonely it must have been.”
Towson nodded. There was no more talk until they said goodbye on the pier.
“Thank you, gentlemen,” Towson said, “on behalf of your government and myself personally.”
“We got paid pretty well,” said Laurent, as the two younger Secret Servicemen climbed into the AIV.
“Not enough,” Towson said. He shook hands with Laurent and Donny, and got in to join his men. “Goodbye.”
“Bye,” Laurent said.
The door slid shut and the AIV backed itself up and turned around, heading up Water Street. It passed a couple of kids, who paid no attention to it.
Donny and Laurent watched until it was out of sight.
“Let's get those lobsters in the tank,” Laurent said, after awhile.
They climbed back aboard and got to work. The Gleezer's strange scent lingered, but it was fading quickly. Donny separated one berried female from the others, and was pleased to see that her eggs were clear, not orange.
After a while, he had an idea.
“I got a name for the boat,” he said.
“What is it?”
“The Gleezer,” Donny said. “Like it?”
Laurent looked out at the Bay for a moment, and then said, “Yes, I do.”
“Know what else?”
“What's that?”
“I think I'm gonna call my son tonight.”
“Good idea,” Laurent said. “Let me know how Little Donny's doing, will you?”
“I sure will.”
“I'll call my girls too. See how everybody is.”
“You gonna tell ‘em?” Donny asked.
“Tell ‘em what?”
“About what happened today?”
“I guess so,” Laurent said, after a moment. “It's not something we can keep quiet, anyway. Might as well tell ‘em.”
“Ayuh.”
They went back to work baiting traps.
Behind them, the sea rolled on as it had for billions of years.
Copyright (c) 2008 Tim Sullivan
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* * *
Department: NEXT ISSUE
JANUARY ISSUE
James Tiptree, Jr. wrote “Love is the plan the plan is death” and the January issue of Asimov's takes both states to heart with several tales exploring love before, during, and after death by some of science fiction's greatest talents. We begin with Damien Broderick, and his first story for Asimov's in over twenty-four years: “Uncle Bones,” a funny, and
somewhat disconcerting, tale of a young man's troubled relationship with his uncle. The trouble is that his uncle's, well, dead, though not exactly ... and that's only part of the problem! Mary Rosenblum returns with a taut tale of the future's nature preserves and the lengths some people are willing to go for a little morbid entertainment in “Lion Walk.” If you think you have relationship problems, why not let Will McIntosh defrost a hapless “Bridesicle,” still trying to find true love amongst all the stiffs of the future, to put things into perspective; while Nancy Kress's heroine takes on the ultimate technological control freak in “Unintended Behavior.” Of course, they can't all be pre- and post-mortem fantasies: Larry Niven laments the loss of more than a simple moon base in “Passing Perry Crater Base, Time Uncertain"; Robert R. Chase presents the complications of negotiating with aliens “Five Thousand Light Years from Birdland"; and E. Salih, making a strong Asimov's debut, not to mention his first fiction sale, sends one determined collector far back in time to acquire “Messiah Excelsa” by any means necessary.
OUR EXCITING FEATURES
Robert Silverberg contemplates the true meaning of “Hic Rhodus, Hic Salta” in his Reflections column; James Patrick Kelly invites us to “Hear Now” in On the Net; Paul Di Filippo brings us “On Books"; plus an array of poetry you're sure to enjoy. Look for our January issue at your newsstand on November 11, 2008. Or you can subscribe to Asimov's—by mail or online, in varying formats, including downloadable forms, by going to our website, www.asimovs.com. We're also now available on Amazon.com's Kindle!
COMING SOON
new stories by Nancy Kress, Brian Stableford, Judith Berman, Rudy Rucker & Bruce Sterling, Bruce McAllister, Chris Beckett, Kristine Kathryn Rusch, William Barton, Carol Emshwiller, Kate Wilhelm, Michael Cassutt, Jim Aikin, Jerry Oltion, and many others.....
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* * *
Short Story: WELCOME TO VALHALLA
by Kathryn Lance & Jack McDevitt
Jack McDevitt has been on the final Nebula ballot eleven of the last twelve years. His novel Seeker won in 2007. Two new books have just been released: The Devil's Eye, his sixteenth novel, from Ace; and Cryptic: The Best Short Fiction of Jack McDevitt from Subterranean. Jack's co-author of “Welcome to Valhalla,” Kathryn Lance, is a lifelong Wagner fanatic who is returning to science fiction after an absence of several years. She is the author of two adult SF novels and more than twenty YA fantasies and mysteries. Kathryn currently lives in Tucson, Arizona, with her husband and four cats. In 2002, Kathryn traveled to Berlin, where she saw all ten of Wagner's major operas presented in a two-week period.
Asimov's SF, December 2008 Page 5
