The Storm Fishers and Other Stories Page 4

Holmes once said, once you’ve eliminated all possible alternatives, whatever is left, however unbelievable must be correct.”

  The Mudfoots looked at the crowd forming on their back lawn. Their eyes met, they shrugged in the silent couple’s language saying, “close enough.”

  ‘Day 3, Test 2’ he put the pen down then snatched it up again. ‘Maybe after testing concludes, and awards are handed out, create petition to change the date nomenclature to BF and AF? It would certainly clean things up.’ he scribbled in the margin.

  The next day Digby left before sunrise and was gone all afternoon, arriving home well into the celebration. He walked with his chin high and went right for his shed. With the door closed and his palms sweating he made some further notes next to a drawing of a remote control, and beneath that were several pages formatted like a screenplay. He wrote: “expected reaction, momentary panic and chaos, followed by peace and applause.”

  There was a knock on his door and Calinda yelled, “Come out, come out tinkermouse!” He kept working but laughter and joy invaded his lab, as did music and sweet smells. Digby stuffed the journal and a remote control under his jacket and sunk out across his lawn. It was nearly sundown on the last day of the Founders Festival. Most of Faraday Station gathered around the Mudfoot home to grab the last of Nobit, tell a few jokes , share garage brewed beers, and watch the New Year arrive together.

  Digby laid an extension ladder against his house and climbed to the roof where Aventine and the children had assembled a blanket, an old umbrella and a few food trays.

  “Weren’t you going to wait for me?”

  “I felt like you were going to hide in your shed all night.” She made him a plate.

  “I was working on something.” He snatched his dinner from her hand and dug in.

  “Sorry for assuming.”

  As the Sun fell and the stars came out more people migrated to their roofs and the neighborhood shushed as much as a festival could. First came the slow rise of classical instruments turning in the distance.

  “We have a good enough life together, don’t we?” Aventine said.

  Digby put the plate down, gulping his last bite as he fished a pair of small speakers from the picnic basket. The turning continued, and he fiddled with the knobs clearing away the static. The crackling finished just as the orchestra played the triumphant first notes of The Battle Hymn of Tharsis Montes. Looking across the neighborhood roofs one would see many Martians bowing their heads, a few veterans standing and saluting the sky, as if they themselves had served at the time of the Founding, and fewer still folding their arms, enduring the anthem.

  Red lasers created a proscenium above the station. With slow and deliberate motion, a point of light, blinking like a cursor, drew the stoic faces every Martian school child memorized. The music changed and the dot was joined by more dots and with invisible speed they created, in three dimensions, the setting of the Food Riots. When fighting erupted music and lasers were joined by fireworks. After the riots came the story of the raid on Galapagos Ridge where the rebels fought the Martian Authority. Then came the raising of the flag at the Victoria Crater Spaceport. The story moved some to tears. A few, including Rose, had fallen asleep during the political explanations. Digby held Felix on his lap and whispered to him explaining an alternate version of history while a newly awakened Rose sent messages to her friends every twenty blooping seconds.

  Aventine smiled to herself watching Digby and Felix. She tapped Rose on the shoulder and said, “Go tell your father what you came up with this afternoon.”

  She shook her head no, and went back to the light show.

  “This is the part they always get wrong. The rebels weren’t doing anything wrong. They were just hungry and looking for some scraps to sell so they could eat,” said Digby. He shoved Felix off his lap and took up the remote control.

  “What are you doing hon?”

  “Science.”

  Aventine sighed, “Kids get off the roof, your father and I are going to have a married people discussion.”

  Digby flipped a switch and the remote dashboard lit up.

  “I can’t do this anymore.”

  Fingers on the pitch and yaw controls, thumbs on throttle and parachute.

  “Please put that down and talk to me.”

  Blue and red explosions reflected in her eyes; her last ounce of hope followed his arm point to the sky.

  “Watch.”

  The explosions over the rebels never occurred. Instead the rebels turned and fired on the Martian Authority. The uniformed soldiers turned and ran down the banks of the crater, the rebels chasing and shooting, fireworks overhead began exploding in unpredictable ways. They exploded closer and closer to the surface in chaotic patterns.

  Then came laughter and applause and a voice over the sound system.

  “We would like to apologize for the disruption folks. Some practical joker has taken advantage of our open RF frequency. Things will be normalized momentarily.”

  The fallout streamed closer to the ground and people stopped laughing. The dashboard was still lit, but the controls didn’t respond.

  “What did you do?”

  “I didn’t think they would get control back so soon.”

  Fire streamed down the sky like striations around an impact site. He smashed the parachute button. But it didn’t work.

  Then came screams.

  Flame and detritus cascaded across the neighborhood. People jumped from their roofs and rushed inside their homes. Neighborhood automated sprinklers shot up extinguishing many of the fires. Husbands and wives rushed their children into fallout shelters as roofs ignited in the dry summer night. Some houses collapsed under flame. Others were new enough to be constructed from fire retardant materials. A cohort of firebots zipped across the treetops shooting foam from fire to fire.

  “We’ve got it under control folks. So sorry about the interruption. The Martian Fire Authority is already out and so too shall be those fires,” said the voice on the speakers.

  The firebots hovered over the Mudfoot home shooting a wide arc of foam on the roof. RT and Calinda held each other standing on the front lawn. Digby ran to their side. The house shifted and the roof fell in. The veranda collapsed tearing the kitchen open. The family room still stood alone in the center. But the walls were charred and sundered.

  The firebots left when the damage had been contained.

  The Futter home was safe.

  Digby dropped the remote. “I didn’t think there would be so many- I didn’t think they would be stupid enough to try and take control back.”

  An engine revved. He looked over his shoulder in time to see Aventine had loaded the children in the flatbed and launched off without a goodbye. Moments later the Martian Authority arrived. A circle had formed around the Mudfoot house watching RT, Calinda and Digby stand motionless and speechless.

  “Sir, is this your remote control?” said the officer.

  Digby breathed deep, turned to the officer and said, “Yes. I am the man who conducted tonight’s experiment. Digby Futter is the name, I kept careful notes and am willing to speak with your most esteemed scientific minds regarding-” and he extended his hand.

  “We got him,” the officer said pressing his ear-piece. His partner cuffed Digby. “Wait, what is the meaning of this?!”

  “You’re under arrest for arson, signal interference and bot-jacking.”

  “I’m not under arrest. It was a scientific experiment!” Digby looked at the Mudfoots and said, “Tell them it was a valid experiment. Please. Please tell them. The experiment was open and repeatable and I took notes. Just like in real science. Those are the homeowners, they’re friends of mind.” When his words failed he plead with his eyes. He even thought, just for a moment, of offering to share credit.

  Calinda dropped RT’s hand and walked toward the remains of their garage.

  “My wife and I are going to the Foundry and then to our home ship. I hope one day you’ll le
arn from your well-meaning mistakes. It’s taking everything in me to forgive you. And we do, we both forgive you. But you are not our friend.”

  At the courthouse people peaceably lined the streets to watch, mock or pity Digby Futter. Doctors and Engineers took the day off, schools watched on closed circuit intranet connections. Even janitors and merchants and quantum mechanics, hoping their children would one day be doctors and engineers and scientists, all stopped to watch the Arsonist of Faraday Station strut, in a brand new suit, nose so high one would think he was starborn, from jail to judge’s bench.

  The court held a full audience. Behind the defendant’s bench sat Alfred and Sharon enduring the gaze of eye and lens. Digby looked at his father and felt like he had written the first chapter in “The Life of Digby Futter, Scientist” and was proud his father sat front row.

  When asked how he plead he stood, cleared his throat and said, “I plead not guilty by reason of Special Inevitability.”

  “That’s not a valid plea. Guilty, innocent or incompetent. Those are your options,” said the judge.

  “Not guilty by reason of Special Inevitability.”

  The young judge glanced at Futter’s lawyer and sighed. The lawyer cocked his head with pity, turned to the judge and shrugged.

  The judge thought a moment and said, “Times like these the law allows a little leeway. When it is obvious the accused is seriously ill the court may come to a decision on his behalf. Is that understood Mr. Futter?”

  Digby steadied his