“I’ve had that SeaPig for eight years now. It’s reliable and I haven’t noticed anybody laughing at me,” I said, crossing my arms defensively over my chest.
“Maybe you just haven’t noticed, period.”
“I may be your mother, but that hardly makes me old and senile,” I said, uncrossing my arms and wiping my sweaty palms on the silvery material of the form-fitting jumpsuit I had worn to work that day. The idea of André actually having his own vehicle filled me with maternal trepidation. “You certainly don’t need anything flashy. You just have to find something to get you to and from school, and back and forth to work.”
“Maybe you don’t care what you drive anymore, but this is important to me.” André stopped and tried a new approach. “Please? Dad says I’ve earned the right to choose my own. I work hard.” That was true enough. At his habitat-construction job, my son had probably logged more work hours than any other kid at Marianas High. But something inside me still resisted.
I sighed. “That’s the only reason we’re discussing this. Your work schedule makes it impossible for your father and me to ferry you and your sister everywhere you have to go.”
“So you’ll take me shopping for a minisub?” he said.
I glanced up through the clear, domed ceiling of our home, my eyes unconsciously searching the ocean for any sign of Howard’s submarine returning, though I knew he wasn’t due back from his fishing expedition for another day yet. In any case, I knew that my husband wouldn’t thank me for putting off the inevitable.
“All right,” I said, giving in. “But we’ll get something used, not showy, and I’m going to insist on certain safety features. Just give me a minute to change out of my work clothes.”
By the time we reached the dealership on the outskirts of Marianasville, I was much calmer. On our way past the colorful glow of habitat domes, around the kelp fields, and past the fish processing plant, André and I had discussed the budget and ground rules, and he was grinning with anticipation. I zoomed my faithful SeaPig right into the center of the lot and parked in the first available space. André had already donned his NEMM—nose-eye-mouth mask—and waited impatiently for me to put my gear on.
Since I didn’t want to get my hair wet, I chose a full transparahelm. I popped the lower hatch and allowed André to drop smoothly into the water. I followed a moment later. The hatch closed behind us as we swam toward the first submarine that caught André’s eye, a sports model Nuke Mini, a muscle sub powered by a miniature nuclear generator. The vidsticker on its window proclaimed that it could do zero to a hundred twenty in under ten seconds.
Naturally, I was appalled. Then I saw the price. I gasped and quickly had to adjust the flow on my air condenser rebreather unit.
“You can’t fully appreciate its features without a test drive.” The voice came from behind us.
We whirled to look at the salesman in his garish plaid wet suit. He wore a vidbadge that said, WELCOME TO SUBMARINE WORLD. I’M RON.
I activated my helmet mic. “No, thank you. I think it’s out of our range, er … Ron.”
“But Mom, why not take a test drive? It would be fun,” André said with a reproachful look as if I were trying to suck all of the joy out of his afternoon.
I kept my voice calm and reasonable. I could do this. I was his mother. “There’s no point in driving the ones you can’t afford. Why don’t we try that one?” I pointed toward a compact Waterbug.
The salesman’s face fell at this much more sensible choice. The vehicle had once been red, but had now faded to a sort of rusty pink color. “It looks very fuel efficient, and it’s in our price range.” I tried to sound as enthusiastic as possible. “Can you show it to us?” The vehicle was definitely ugly. Even a SeaPig would be a step up from it.
“You realize of course that the Waterbug is an older trade-in,” Ron replied, forcing a smile. “It can’t compare favorably to the Nuke Mini.”
“My son is buying his first sub,” I told him in no uncertain terms. “He doesn’t need all of the features on the Nuke Mini. Once he shows us that he’s responsible—maybe in a couple of years—we can come back to look at a Nuke Mini, and you can help André set up a reasonable payment plan to help him establish a good credit rating.”
“Very well, then,” Ron replied as the smile dissolved from his face and was replaced by a look of resignation. He led the way toward the other sub.
“Mom,” André said to me over the private microphone, “I need to do this myself. It’s my first time, and you’re doing all the talking. It’s embarrassing.”
“Okay.” I raised my hands in mock surrender. “I’ll keep quiet. But don’t forget this is for transportation, not to impress your friends.”
He nodded as if he had heard the lecture a thousand times before, not just once on our way to the dealership. “I know, and it has to be safe enough to withstand a nuclear blast. I’ve got the whole list of your requirements right up here,” he said, tapping his forehead just above the NEMM rebreather.
André was exaggerating for effect, of course. But not by much. Agreeing to let him take the lead from here on out, I made a motion across my mouth as if applying emergency water sealant.
Keeping my vow of silence, I watched as Ron of the plaid wetsuit gathered himself to launch into a full-fledged sales speech, even though I could tell he was not impressed by the Waterbug. “This minisub’s a beauty, all right. She’s got low usage, sturdy crash webbing, an economical smooth-spurt engine, dual rudder controls, and not a speck of wasted space.” He gave me a conspiratorial grin, grown-up to grown-up, that was as false as his phosphor-glow hairpiece. “Very sensible.”
I didn’t answer. André peered into the vessel through its front viewbubble, then turned toward Ron and gave him an okay-just-try-to-impress-me look, and rattled off a series of questions. For once, apparently, my son had done his homework.
The salesman tried to keep up and had to make frequent reference to the datascreen on his wrist. Long before the man finished explaining the lack of warranty, the almost nonexistent cargo capacity, and the inadequate max speed, I could tell André’s mind was made up, so I knew that his final question was just for show. “And where do the passengers sit?”
“Ahh.” Ron tugged at the collar of his garish tartan suit. “In the, ah, the interest of economy and, ah …” His voice trailed off. “Actually, it’s a one-person vehicle.”
André gave me a glance and spread his hands as if that clinched it. “I’m afraid we’ll have to keep looking, then. See, I need to be able to pick up my little sister from her aquaballet lessons. I can’t even take my mom out for a test drive in this thing, much less take care of Reina. At this rate, I might as well get an AquaScoot. It’s cheaper, faster, and even more fuel efficient, plus it has room for a passenger.”
As I said, I’m a mom, and I’m not completely oblivious. André was playing both of us. I knew that one of André’s primary purposes in buying this vehicle was to be able to go out on dates without wearing the protective gear and portable ACRU rebreathers that would be required on a Scoot. It was a clever stroke, of course, to mention that only with an appropriate vehicle would he be able to free up even more of my time by picking up his sister from school and lessons. I knew, of course, he had no intention of purchasing an AquaScoot, but Ron did not. And his dealership did not sell AquaScoots. I saw his face pale by at least two shades of blue-green when he realized that any chance for a commission was about to swim away.
Suddenly Ron’s concern seemed to be all about safety. “An AquaScoot? With no protection from reefs, predators, and submersibles that don’t watch where they’re going? Besides, when you consider all the excess gear you’d need—sonic repellents, ACRU units, helmets—you would hardly save anything at all. And it’s so uncomfortable. Come with me. I think I have just the thing.”
Obviously, the plaid panderer finally understood whom he needed to please an
d was playing to André for all he was worth. “Hold on,” Ron said, grabbing onto a loop on one of the continuously cycling transportation cables that crisscrossed the submarine lot. André and I each caught a loop and we were whisked away to the outskirts of the lot, where we all let go of our cables. Ron gestured with a flourish toward a sleek, flashy minisub in neon yellow. “I think that you’ll find this is much more to your liking. It just came in.”
I shuddered to think what the price would be. The slick vehicle was far too new to be within our price range, and maybe just a bit too sexy for my son to own. I was about to suggest that we keep looking when I remembered that I had promised to keep my mouth sealed. I decided to wait.
“Allow me to present the Subatomic,” Ron said, “with twelve independent propulsion jets and eight customizable attitude jets, plus six brake rotors, complete with energy-recapture turbines. She’s had some heavy usage, but for the price, this minisub is a steal. Compact and safety conscious, the Subatomic can carry the driver and three passengers—or the driver, one passenger, and a generous cargo when the rear seats are—”
“We’ll test drive this one,” André interrupted.
Ron obligingly cycled open the lower hatch for us, letting André enter first to get into the pilot’s chair. I took shotgun, and Ron, folding himself into the rear seat, closed the hatch again. While we all took off our masks and fastened our crash webbing, he picked up his spiel where he had left off. I sat back in my seat, which was comfortable—perhaps a bit too comfortable—and André punched the ignition.
“The Subatomic’s TruGyro steering system,” Ron droned on like an annoying commercial, “never loses track of its orientation. It boasts a wired microperiscope that shoots a tiny camera to the top of the water to let you keep track of conditions on the surface, then retracts again at the touch of a button.”
André grabbed the steering gyro with both hands and hit the accelerator, throwing us all back in our seats, which quickly adjusted to support our backs and heads. A nice feature. Without slowing, André curved the minisub around toward the Test Drive area and plunged us into the Level 5 Hazard Course. A forest of wriggling fake seaweed swallowed us in darkness. I bit my lip, digging my nails into the seat’s armrest. I would have cried out, but a moment later, the minisub’s exterior lights winked on. The floods illuminated the course before us, while my son’s face lit with an equally bright grin of fierce enjoyment.
Then, from out of nowhere, the tentacles of a gigantic “squid” reached for us. André pushed the Subatomic into a sideways spin and plaid Ron’s sales speech ended with a squawk. In spite of the quick change of direction, the ride was surprisingly smooth and quiet, and the dynamic crash webbing didn’t cut into my neck as it did when I made sudden maneuvers in my SPig.
Illustration by David Furnal
Just as I began to calm down again, now that we were out of the squid’s reach, the heads-up display blinked a warning signal. André tapped the brake rotors, tweaked the attitude adjustment jets on the left and lower hulls, and accelerated upward in a smooth curve as a giant coral reef loomed ahead of us. I gulped and closed my eyes, expecting a crash or the screech of coral scraping metal.
But the sounds never came. André started quizzing Ron on things like the number of spare universal jets in case one should go out (three), backup ACRU units (two portable NEMMs), and warranty (two years). Not bad for a used vehicle. I opened one eye to see that we were entering the cavern portion of the obstacle course. I quickly shut my eye again. That was when André started his negotiations—both of the cave passages and of the price.
I heard the occasional ping of the warning sensors and felt the almost instantaneous adjustments my son made in speed, orientation, and direction. In the background, André and Ron continued their bargaining while I cringed deeper into the passenger seat. It was amazingly comfortable.
“You can open your eyes now, Mom,” André said, and I realized that I had actually started to relax. “We’re out of the hazard course and almost back to the dealership lot.”
I blinked my eyes open to see that he was right. We were almost back, and André was driving at a safe, respectable pace, observing all of the traffic laws of the sea.
“Did you hear the final price, Mom?” André said with a note of uncertain hope in his voice.
“No,” I said, bracing myself for sticker shock and already preparing for the unpleasant task of talking my son out of the sub he had so obviously fallen in love with.
Ron quoted me the number of credits, which was, as I had suspected, higher than the amount we had budgeted for, but not nearly as high as I had expected. It was, in fact, quite reasonable, considering the sub’s excellent condition, well thought-out safety features, and luxury options. But André was a teenager. He didn’t really need to start out with all those bells and whistles. In fact, it would probably do him good to start with a more humble vehicle. I certainly had.
Just as André was about to start his turn into the sub lot, a plump green SPig came barreling out at us. It shouldn’t have been much of a problem considering that SPigs can do no more than thirty at their top speed, but the teenage driver was distracted. The young man, obviously not paying attention, had turned to speak with someone in the back seat and hadn’t seen us yet.
The path of the other vessel would intersect ours dead on. I drew in a sharp breath and stifled a scream just as the other driver noticed us and began frantically trying to maneuver in another direction. But his ungainly vehicle refused to cooperate. I heard a strangled yelp from Ron in the back. André, meanwhile seemed completely unfazed as the warning signal began to ping. I slapped my hands over my eyes, but then spread my fingers and watched in terrified fascination.
Tapping the brake rotors, André twirled the gyro steering downward and threw the upper and side attitude adjustment jets on full so that we dove directly beneath the wallowing SPig. Instead of a jarring crash that would likely have disabled both vehicles, all I heard was the tiniest squeak, as the SPig’s bulky rudder scratched against our hull for a bare fraction of a second.
Once clear of the other minisub, André steered the Subatomic on a slow, gentle curve back into the dealership and parked it at its original slot while I struggled to breathe normally again.
This was no time for debate. I knew what I had to do. André had wanted to make the final decision, but he couldn’t afford this choice without me.
“We’ll take it,” I said. I glanced at André. “We’ll split the cost.”
The next day was Friday and, as promised, André swung by to pick up his little sister Reina from aquaballet on his way home from school. Howard and the rest of the submarine fishing fleet were home from their expedition with a large catch, so the four of us—Howard, Reina, André, and I—had dinner as a family for a change.
André regaled us all with the tale of the previous day’s shopping expedition and test drive, as well as the story of his first day at school with his new minisub.
“You drove a good bargain, Son,” Howard said with an admiring chuckle. “Literally. Why don’t we all go out for a spin after supper?”
“Could, uh, could that wait for tomorrow?” André said, his face growing pink. “I kind of have a date tonight.”
“Who with?” Reina blurted. “Do I know her? Does she go to your school?”
Howard cleared his throat, cutting off the stream of questions. “Don’t stay out too late, Son.”
“I won’t.” André wiped his mouth with a napkin and excused himself from the table. “I promised Mr. Martinez I’d have Etsuko home early.”
I stared at my son in amazement. André was going out without us, on his first date alone. Howard grinned like the proud father he was. I, however, was not quite ready to let go. “Wait. What kind of date? Where are you going?” I asked as he headed for the front floor hatch where the Subatomic was parked.
He turned, g
rinned at me, and shrugged. “Where else, Mom? To watch the submarine races.”
An Itch
written by
Christopher Baker
illustrated by
JENNIFER OBER
* * *
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Christopher is a writer from rural England with a particular interest in folklore and how the magical intersects with the mundane. His work often explores themes of nature and identity, and how stories are tied to particular environments. Having recently graduated with a First (the highest degree classification in the UK) from the Warwick Writing Programme, Christopher is now writing novels and teaching on the side. When he is not writing, he is usually going for long walks with his three dogs, painting, or playing violin. Follow him @CSBker.
ABOUT THE ILLUSTRATOR
Jennifer Ober was born in 1993 and grew up in the small town of Los Lunas, New Mexico, a few minutes south of Albuquerque.
Growing up in the beautiful and culturally rich Southwest, Jennifer had a passion for storytelling through imagery, especially painting. Her parents nurtured these artistic interests by connecting her with the local art community and encouraged her to pursue a career in the arts. Through the years, Jennifer was inspired by the classical masters and her longtime mentor Ricardo.
Her passion for fantasy, however, came from her childhood immersion in classics such as Tolkien’s Middle-earth, Star Trek, and Star Wars. In addition, Jennifer’s passion for animals emanates throughout her life, evidenced in her early paintings and work experience with animals. Her current artistic practices culminated all these passions into the pursuit of creature design.
While translating her skills in traditional materials into the digital realm, Jennifer is currently completing her master’s in illustration at the Savannah College of Art and Design in Atlanta and working as a freelance illustrator. www.oberillustrations.com
L. Ron Hubbard Presents Writers of the Future Volume 35 Page 34
