Write me a Love Story Ch 7

Write me a Love Story Ch 7

CHAPTER 7

By Janet Baldey

I spent a few days mulling things over but when I thought the time was right, I asked Georg to stop what he was doing and come with me.

Sensing his mystification, I led the way past the farm and up the track. At last, we arrived and I turned to look at him.

‘Do you know anything about heavy horses?’

It was near the end of the day and we were standing at the edge of my five acre top field. The last of the potatoes had been lifted weeks ago and it was now ready for ploughing. For weeks I’d been trying to push it to the back of my mind but now time was running out.

Georg didn’t answer for a long time and when he did, something in his voice made me look at him.

He was staring into the field and I was suddenly conscious of how neglected it looked. The soil lay in ruins, dried remnants of potato plants straggling across the ruts.

‘Mein vater…uh! Sorry,’ He started again. ‘My father was a horse keeper in the last war and horses were always his great love. After the war he returned to the farm where I’d been born and from being a very young boy it was always my job to help look after the horses. I have wonderful memories of that time; rising at dawn, when the day was just a promise, the feel of the mountain air on my face and the smell of  the pines drifting on the wind…’  He shook his head.‘It is something I’ll never forget.’

He stopped talking, His eyes were locked on the horizon and I knew that the present no longer existed for him. Then he came back to me.

‘So. Yes, I do know about cart horses.’

I felt my face muscles relax as a feeling of relief flooded through me.   

I can’t explain why his answer meant so much to me and I didn’t know why the thought of Joe helping me plough the field was so terrifying. It wasn’t the horse, I knew that. Prince was a gentle giant with not a mean bone in his body. It was more to do with the look on Sarah’s face when she had told me to be careful, the gleam in Becca’s eyes and the thought of being alone up here with Joe. I just didn’t trust the man. Shuddering, I remembered the rancid smell of his body.

        

         Georg’s hand brushed my shoulder and I started. 

        

         ‘What?’

        

         ‘I said, why do you ask?’

        

         There was a puzzled look on his face and I realised that I’d been far away with the angels, as the nuns would have put it when I daydreamed in class all those years ago.

        

         I hesitated, searching for the right words.

         ‘It’s just that my husband had arranged for a man to come and plough this field but I was hoping that maybe you could do it instead,’ my voice trailed away. 

        

         ‘Does this man know about me?’

        

         I shook my head.

        

         ‘Is he a friend of yours?’

        

         ‘No.’ The word shot out with more force than I intended; flustered, I avoided his eyes.

        

         There was a long silence. At last, he spoke.

        

         ‘There is no need to worry. I will be around to do whatever you want. It will be good. I will enjoy working with a horse again.’

        

         My vision blurred and I turned my head away, wiping my eyes with the back of my hand. These days it seemed my emotions were always so close to the surface, I couldn’t always control them.

‘Thank you.’

He nodded and although I could see questions lurking in his eyes he said nothing. Instead, we stood, side by side, staring into the field, watching the shadows lengthen and creep towards us.

        

         At first, I barely noticed it. Then the sound grew louder, like the distant droning of a billion bees. We were standing on top of a hill with a clear view of the open sky. There was a dark smudge on the horizon: frowning, I watched it grow larger until my veins ran with iced water. A metal blizzard was sweeping across the sky and as it grew nearer its thunder filled my ears. Horrified I watched as wave upon wave of heavy planes lumbered overhead, making for the heart of England.

        

         ‘What are they?’

        

         ‘Bombers.’ 

 Just the one word but it filled me with horror.

        

          I stood unable to move. Vivid images of millions hearing that sound for the first time flashed into my mind. Mothers would scream as they searched for their children, there would be the sound of running feet as panicked men threw down their tools and rushed homewards. I imagined dread darkening their eyes as bombs plummeted to the ground, crushing buildings and lives before exploding into nightmarish flowers of fire.

        

         ‘We’re doomed’ I thought, with dull resignation. ‘England can’t survive this.’

The unspoken words welled up inside me until I thought I’d choke.

        

         After what seemed like an age, the skies grew quiet but still I stared into the spurious calm of the September sky. At last, I remembered the man by my side but I couldn’t bear to look at him; dreading the expression on his face. Minutes passed and at last, I glanced towards him.

        

         He was standing quite still, his profile carved against the sky, then he turned his head and the only emotion I saw on his face was sorrow.

        

         ‘War ruins lives; people always forget that.’

He looked at me, his eyes grave. ‘I expect you think that pleases me.’ His head jerked upwards.

He let my silence stretch and then spoke again. 

‘Not so. And I will tell you why. Do you remember what I said about my father?  And how he had served in the last war?

I nodded.

‘When it was over, he came back to the farm. But, he was not the same man.   He just could not forget the horrors he’d been through. They haunted him. He’d awake screaming, night after night. In the end, it got so bad he barely slept at all. He became a wrecked man. Young as I was, that was why I had to look after the horses, and do most of the work. In the end, we found him hanging in the barn where we children used to play.’

        

         Appalled, I stared at him. His words had brought back memories of my own ruined childhood. 

        

         But then, I frowned.

        

         ‘But if you realised that, why did you join the Luftwaffe?’

        

         He lifted his shoulders, a gesture of helplessness that I was to recall many years later.

        

         ‘My hand was forced.’ He hesitated and then went on. ‘Perhaps if you lived in my country you would understand. I had no real choice. It was either that or watch my children starve. When my father died we had to leave the land and then the economy collapsed. I couldn’t find work. I was desperate. Then the Fuhrer came along with his rallies, with all the flags and the speeches. He gave us hope. People got carried along and if you had doubts, you thought of your children. It seemed the only way to give them a better life. But we were deluded. War is not the answer. I have thought a lot since being in the camp and I can see no good coming of it.’

        

         ‘You have children?’

        

         ‘Two. Gerda and Hans. I think about them all the time.’

        

         I’d never seen a man cry before. But as the tears slipped down his cheeks, he didn’t seem ashamed. Without thinking, I reached out towards him but at the last minute pulled back. At last, he raised his hand and wiped it across his face.

‘I am sorry,’ he said.

        

         Just at that moment we heard the impatient blare of a horn in the yard and   Georg looked at the sun, now slipping towards the horizon.

        

         ‘The sergeant is late today. I think he has been watching the show.’ He shook his head. ‘He will not be in a good mood’.

***

I lay staring into the darkness. I couldn’t sleep. What was it that Georg had said?  War ruins lives? My eyes filled. It had certainly ruined mine. Tears trickled down my cheeks, wetting my pillow as my head tossed from side to side. At last, I gave up and threw back the covers. The bare linoleum chilled my feet as I crossed the room to turn up the lamp. As I looked around, its dim yellow light seemed to accentuate the shadows filling the room. Under the window was the bed with its tumbled covers. Opposite was my writing desk, rarely used these days and tucked underneath, was a tin trunk. Stooping, I reached out a hand, running it over its cool surface. It was years since it had been opened although it held my most treasured possessions. They were few enough; some tattered letters, a medal with a faded ribbon, a photograph of two people, smiling into each others eyes. Each year the figures grew more insubstantial, merging into the sepia background like the ghosts they were.

        

         I remember almost nothing of my parents. A thick curtain had been drawn over my early life but occasionally the dark folds parted and a sliver of memory surfaced; the whisper of a lullaby, the gleam of a smile and sometimes, the harsh sound of screaming that gave me nightmares, although I didn’t know why. Apart from these tantalising glimpses of another life, my childhood began and ended in the orphanage where my days were shared by dozens of others all competing for few favours. I remembered most of the nuns as grim faced and ancient, far too fond of pinching and slapping. But there were exceptions, and Sister Marie-Claire was one.   At the time, I thought she was an angel and adored her with a devotion that was almost painful. In the evenings she’d gather all the children around her and read them a story before shooing us off to bed. She would  kiss us all goodnight and that one small show of affection was more precious than food to little ones starved of love.

        

         Pulling out the trunk, I opened the lid and stared at the bundle of letters. Until I was fifteen, I’d believed both my parents were dead but when it was time for me to leave the orphanage, Mother Superior called me into her office.

        

         ‘Sit down child.’ I sat on the wooden chair, amazement in my eyes; never before had I been invited to sit in Mother’s presence. As I watched the woman’s stiff figure planted bolt upright in her chair, my amazement grew as I realised the old nun was nervous. Her body was tense and the harsh planes of her face were moulded into a mask.

        

         ‘Now it is time for you to leave us, it is my duty to tell you what little I know of your background…..’  The clipped words were enunciated with a clarity that held no hint of warmth.

        

         I sat listening to the dry voice not taking my eyes away from the woman’s unsmiling face, watching her lips as every one of my beliefs was shattered. Despite what I’d always believed, my mother wasn’t dead and all throughout my childhood had been living separated from me by just a few miles.

        

         ‘Unfortunately, after your father was killed, your mother couldn’t cope….she had a breakdown from which she has never recovered.’ Mother Superior shot a glance at me and seemed to flinch at what she saw. 

 ‘Don’t look at me like that child.  We acted in your own interests; it would have done no good to have told you before. Here take this.’

        

         She pushed a small parcel towards me with an abrupt gesture as if it was contaminated.

        

         Inside the parcel was what I now held in my hands.  

        

         Just before I left the orphanage I visited my mother in the asylum. Although I was used to institutions, I felt my heart sink as I walked along grimy corridors that echoed with the sound of my footsteps. They seemed to stretch for miles and I sensed that misery as well as dirt was ingrained in their flaking plaster. As I overtook shuffling figures clinging like drab moths to the corridors’ edges, my depression grew. Nor did it lift when I eventually saw my mother.  I was told it was one of her ‘bad’ days and try as I might I couldn’t relate to the haggard figure, with its face half hidden behind a greasy curtain of hair. I watched the woman who had given birth to me sit rocking in the corner and feelings of guilt mixed with shame flooded through me as I realised the only emotion I felt was pity, tinged with horror.

        

         I never went back and a few years later I received an official letter from the medical superintendent of the asylum.  When I slit it open, the black type swam in front of me and at last I wept as the terse words spelled out the fact of my mother’s death.

Copyright Janet Baldey

To POTUS Trump (Waffling)

To POTUS Trump (Waffling)

By Len Morgan

Waffling is an ancient Twentieth Century craft.

Without it the art of conversation would certainly be halved.

Yes waffling as a pastime brings lots of people pleasure

in these troubled times we live in it helps us fill our leisure.

But, beware the layman.  You’ll find him inhospitable,

If you say precisely nothing in as many words as possible.

Just leave him alone you’ll find that’s the best way.

He’ll soon change his mind, turn to you and say…

Something of no consequence, then proceed to elaborate,

Till pretty soon he’ll be waffling and find out that it’s great!

Copyright Len Morgan

LESSON HERE (thoughts of a twelve year old)

LESSON HERE  (thoughts of a twelve year old)

By Peter Woodgate

Countries form part of it

Ground structure is the art of it

Geography,

I hate that stuff.

Punctuation, my heads just full of it

Reading, I’ve had my fill of it

English,

I hate that stuff.

Algebra, can’t make sense of it

This equation, I’m rather tense with it

Mathematics,

I hate that stuff.

This programme, can’t get my head round it

A gigabyte, don’t like the sound of it

Computer studies,

I hate that stuff.

The world and individual greed in it

How we behave creates a need for it

Sociology,

I hate that stuff.

My chisel’s always blunt when I use it

Please, sir, it’s such a mess will you excuse it?

Woodwork,

I hate that stuff.

It’s green and I have fun on it

Sometimes I see the rabbits run on it

Grass!-

I smoke that stuff

Copyright Peter Woodgate

The Wall

The Wall

by Shelley Miller

That notorious wall
That people drink against,
And do their drugs against,
And sometimes lean against
To catch their breath.
Where lovers cry against,
And say goodbye against,
And contemplate against
Mere life and death.
That notorious wall
That people kick against,
Fall to their knees against,
And carve their names against
Just to be known.
Where shadows frown against,
And rain beats down against,
And where no blade of grass,

has ever grown.
That notorious wall
They break their hearts against,
And fall apart against,
And no one stays against
For very long.
Where some debate against
And wait for fate against,
And hope for better things
To come along.

Copyright Shelley Miller

WHAT IF? (part 3 & Last)

 WHAT IF?  (part 3 & Last)

  By Richard Banks

                                                   

Having listened to Sarlek’s long appraisal of the dilemma that was North Korea she was not short of good advice. She remembered her mother’s maxim that ignorance of a subject was no reason for withholding an opinion. She had begun by suggesting that the leaders of China, North Korea and America should simultaneously come to their senses and start being nice to each other, but this was rejected on the grounds that no one could override the basic programming that determined their personalities. They were as they were, as was everyone else on Earth. All he could do was subtly manipulate the lesser events around those he was attempting to influence. It was cause and effect; even the fluttering motion of a butterfly could sometimes cause a hurricane. She wondered what a butterfly was and the relevance of hurricanes. Possibly he was more drunk than he looked.

         “What if,” she said for the thirteenth time that evening, “the United Nations occupied North Korea with a multi-national peace keeping force that included American and Chinese soldiers.”

         He grimaced, “and risk the launching of their missiles. Who knows how many countries might be hit.”

         “Then what if the North Korean people did it. I mean, rise up in revolt. After all they must be totally fed up with all those sanctions.”

         Sarlek shook his head and took consolation in another glass of bubble wine. “It wouldn’t work they’d all be killed and even if they were successful who’s to say that the Government they formed would be any better than the present lot.”

         “So, what do you suggest?”

         He replied darkly that he was considering an assassination or two. Kim Jung-un was a definite starter but he might not be the only one. “It’s like this,” he continued, “behind every problem is a person. Get rid of the person and you get rid of the problem.” Noting the look of horror on Mia's face he hastened to reassure her that the person who first said this was an earthling called Stalin who went on to murder millions of his countrymen. On reflection, he considered this was not such a good idea.

         Behind every person,” she murmured. That sounded familiar and then she remembered what her mother had told her; that behind every great man was a savvy woman who knew a good deal more than she was ever likely to be given credit for. So, who were the wives? As usual Sarlek was a mine of information. She learned that the President of China was married to Peng Liyuan, an elegant folk singer who was almost as well known in China as her husband, while Melania Trump, the American First Lady was a former fashion model born in what was then the Communist Republic of Slovenia. As for Kim Jong-un’s wife little was known except that Ri Sol-ju was in her early twenties and was responsible for the cutting of his hair. Clearly she had a mischievous sense of humour, and being the fun loving girl Mia took her to be she would definitely enjoy hanging out with the other two.

         Sarlek looked puzzled. “What, you want them to meet up? How is that going to help? They’re not in the loop when it comes to foreign policy.”

         Mia raised her eyebrow and resisted the urge to elbow him in the ribs. “Are you sure? Why don’t you give it a try.” Why not, he thought. Everything else had failed. What harm would it do.

                                                                 *****

        

         It was the work of a single morning. Sarlek dangled the bait and the Executive Director of Melania Trump’s favourite charity snapped it up, as he did all good ideas. He wondered why he hadn’t thought of it before. Having confided his good idea to his PA he instructed her to invite America’s First Lady to a fund raising concert in Sapporo, Japan at which Peng Liyuan had already graciously agreed to perform.

         “But what about South East Asia?” Asked the PA.     

         “What about it?”

         “The concert’s in Japan. If we invite Melania the region’s leaders will expect their wives to be invited.”

         The Director looked thoughtful but was not to be dissuaded from his good idea. “What the heck. Invite them all.”

         On the evening of the show Sarlek observed the Director greet Melania at the stage door and with much ceremony escort her to a seat in an executive box. As the lights dimmed another VIP to accept the Director’s invitation made a less heralded appearance. Having quietly slipped out of her country on the pretext of visiting an ailing comrade Ri Sol-ju was now continuing a pleasurable day by attending the free entertainment provided by her bourgeois hosts. To her surprise their generosity extended to an after concert party that allowed her to mingle with an array of well heeled people who seemed in little need of the culinary hospitality now on offer. In a room conspicuously short of comrades she immediately attached herself to Peng Liyuan, and was politely commending her performance of a Cantonese folk song when they were unexpectedly joined by Melania.

         Sarlek turned up the volume on his monitor and listened intently. What happened next was up to the women, but to his disappointment none of them were talking politics. This should not have surprised him. Politics was something they heard far too much of. Their husbands talked of little else, even in the bedroom they talked politics, had nightmares about politics, were sometimes woken in the early hours of the morning by political aids talking politics. At a girl’s night out they had better things to discuss. Of these the clothes each other wore were of particular interest. It was, in fairness to them, part of the job they were required to do. They dressed to impress and could not help but be impressed by the expensive attires of their fellow wives. There was much they could learn from each other and soon they were exchanging the names and addresses of their favourite fashion houses and the independent designers who worked for whoever paid them most. Of particular interest were Ri Sol-ju’s shoes, the creation of a revered craftsman who apparently worked for next to nothing.

         How, asked Melania, could he afford to make such exquisite footwear at a price that scarcely covered his costs?

         “How could he not,” answered Ri. “Better a poor shoemaker than an ex-shoemaker who asked for more.”

         “But these are shoes to kill for,” persisted Melania. “Could he not make some for me?”

         “But that would be treason,” explained Peng. “I’m sure you wouldn’t want to kill the shoemaker.”

         Melania said this would be nearly as bad as not having the shoes. Of course she didn’t want  him to come to harm, that would do no one any good, but surely there must be a way around such foolishness; even in Slovenia they traded shoes.

         Ri sighed. If only it was shoes. Was there a decent coat maker in her country? No, there was not! And, because of the economic sanctions she had to make do with the rag trade creations of a third rate tailor called Na Faw Long. Not even his removal to a labour camp had improved his work.

         Peng said that it was indeed a shame and that she too was a victim of the sanctions. No more could she get those lovely, floral dresses that North Korea used to export. The Chinese equivalents were simply not of the same standard and, to add insult to injury, were three times more expensive. What was wrong with the world that such injustice could exist!

         Melania ordered another round of drinks and declared that if their husbands were incapable of looking after the well being of the world they could, at least, pay attention to the needs of their wives. It was time these men were made to understand their suffering. Enough was enough; the redress of their grievances could no longer be delayed.

         They clinked glasses and made plans to meet again. As they consulted their diaries a red streak passed high overhead before dipping down into the sea. The Director approached them with the grave demeanor of someone about to impart bad news. It was another missile, he said. In the interest of safety all flights in and out of Sapporo had been cancelled. He feared they would be delayed for at least eight hours. The women were not pleased. This was, they agreed, the last straw.

                                                                    *****

It had been a hectic four weeks but now Mia could relax, look out of the window at the rapid passing of stars. In two more days they would be on Alpha. Until then they were free to enjoy the many privileges that came with an executive cabin. She looked across their day room at him sending a voice mail to his parents. They were nice, warm hearted people like she thought they would be. She had not expected them to be present at the Consummation Ceremony, or indeed the other members of his family, but their vocal encouragement had certainly inspired Sarlek. She wondered what other rituals and ceremonies lay ahead, perhaps it was better not to know.

         As the attentive wife of an important official she would shortly take his new uniform from the clothes cupboard and give it a careful brush. It did not need brushing of course, she had done so only that morning but she sensed the pleasure it gave him to see her do it. Indeed her sewing on of his extra stripes had made him almost foolish with gratitude. Only she, he declared could have done so with such exquisite needlework. The needlework had in fact been that of a professional seamstress, but there was no need for him to know that, just as there was no need for Sarlek's superiors in Strategic Command to know that it was she who had solved the problem of North Korea. Not that anyone other than herself would ever know. After that third bottle of wine at Maxi’s  Sarlek’s recollection of their conversation was hazy at best. She, however, with her two brains, remembered every word.

          Sarlek turned off the computer and yet again reflected on the surprising success of his efforts to defuse the North Korean missile crisis. The wives had certainly played some part in the subsequent actions of their all powerful husbands but the absence of any mention of wives in his training manual encouraged him to think that his earlier measures to encourage détente had, after a slow start, proved successful. Nevertheless it was a good idea of his to involve the wives. It showed that he was not afraid to think outside the box, to see solutions not apparent to others of a less flexible turn of mind.

         He looked fondly at his own wife who having brushed his jacket was now ironing the trousers of his uniform. What a help she was to him and so interested in the minutia of the real life problems he now faced. Of course her understanding of such matters was too limited to be of any practical assistance but the speaking of his thoughts often opened his mind to solutions that might otherwise have been overlooked. This was especially the case when he had consumed several bottles of wine. No one enjoyed a hangover more than he; they were so full of good ideas, and when he was unable to remember what they were his dear wife was always there to remind him. With his brains and her steadfast support they would go far. Alpha was no more than a stepping stone.

         The ironing over, Mia was now returning his trousers to the clothes cupboard. He wondered how long it would take her to discover the fur coat he had brought her. She had only to open the wardrobe containing their household linen and there it would be in that pink box with red bunting.

         She saw him smiling and smiled back. How he liked to spoil her. She wondered if he had brought her that fur coat yet, the one in the on-board shopping mall that she had admired but dismissed as being ridiculously too expensive. His pleasure in giving it to her would be almost equal to her pleasure in wearing it. A good man was all the better for the care of a good woman and she was determined to ensure that he was happy, successful and blissfully unaware that his best ideas were not always his own. Her mother had taught her well.

The End

Copyright Richard Banks                           

A New way out

A New way out

by Rosemary Clarke

Alice looked once more at the bright shiny clean kitchen, longing now to see it once again covered with foodstuffs and thronged with people: the silence was painful.  Shaking herself she pushed to remember the sacrifice her daughter was making at the care home, staying in her own home to keep any disease from her children; the least she could do was look after the kids.
Jamie and Sarah were still asleep she'd imagine although since they had been delivered to her in their pyjamas, many tears from each of them as they were torn from their mother... their quietness now was cruel to witness.
Alice had never felt so powerless as she did now, but she must think how to be the clown, how to cheer two very hurt and unhappy children who worried daily about their mother, avidly watching each Covid19 programme and any medical website: the silence gave her food for thought..in the quiet she wondered what her mum would have done when she and her sister were children...cut out dolls were not what modern children would be interested in...then it hit her.
"Come on you two, up!  We're going to have some fun but you've got to help me first get everything together!"
They were both up and dressed already, looking at her blankly over their phones: Alice pretended bravado.
"Well come on!"
Sarah spoke first, the choke in her voice noticeable.
"Don't want to."
Alice touched the child's fragile shoulders feeling bones like a baby bird despite her ten years.
"Look, your mum wouldn't want you to be sad would she, so let's see what fun we can have eh? Then you can both tell her all about it."
"But there's no one to play with!". Said Jamie.
"Nonsense, there's me; we can have lots of fun!"
Both children looked puzzled.
"Come with me!"
In the loft, reached by pull-down ladder Alice had stored many things from her childhood and now, she felt, was the time to bring them out.
Alice opened crates and trunks filled with clothes and games and pastimes.  Jamie's face screwed up quizzically as he picked out some large rolled rectangles and circles cut from hessian sacks that had once been used for potatoes and other root vegetables.
"What's this for? How do you play this?"
"Rugs." She said proudly.
"What instead of carpet, were you that poor?"
Alice smiled.
"You hook wool into it and make rugs. Of course, you have to have two to make it thick enough to work on."
Sarah picked up a collage Alice had made at junior school.
"Can we do this?"

When their mother called that evening Jamie and Sarah excitedly babbled on about rag rugs, collages and the three of them throwing a ball to each other in the garden - Jamie could throw the farthest - away from each other.  Megan sighed happily as she gazed at them all from Sarah's mobile.
"Well, your day has been very eventful!"
"Are you okay mum?" Sarah asked.
"Fine, better now I know you're both happy and you know what, happiness is the thing that keeps the workers going; that's the best medicine you could give me."

Copyright Rosemary Clarke

Symbiant (Part 1 of 2)

Symbiant (Part 1 of 2)

By Len Morgan

I looked up with a start, eased my wheelchair back, as my monitor alarm sounded.  The upper third of my screen flashing red, synchronizing with the main alarm in the control room.

"What's happening John?"  Nils, my fellow controller waddled over.  Breathless from the exertion. He gazed over my shoulder at the screen.

"Looks like another Shepherding unit has gone offline," I said.

        

"Mmm.  Nothing I can do to help there, I'll go kill the alarm."

I muted the monitor, and opened the map of our sector and located the unit in the upper left quadrant of the circular screen, twenty miles west of its last reported location.  It flashed twice more then it was gone.  I watched on helpless as the shoal it had been herding broke up.  Without a herding unit to keep them in line they form smaller shoals and head off in all directions.  It'll take days, maybe weeks to round them up, a good percentage will never be recovered.  The main alarm was silenced and Nils returned to his station. 

Nils shook his head, "What causes units to go offline like that?"

"Your guess is as good as mine chum. Most likely its processor is fried, like the other defective units we recovered two weeks back."

"It has to be hardware, stands to reason..."

"All I know is that’s the seventh unit lost in six months and all below 200 feet."

“A unit a month. It can't go on. At this rate, we'll have lost a third of our stock by years end."

"The General Manager thinks this one could push us into the red, and you know what that means…"

.-...-. 

Three weeks later we were down another unit.

"The Shoals spread all over the North Sea, Irish Sea and North Atlantic.  Bastards," Nils thumped his desk.  "All our species are of known genotype and can be identified to the shoal of origin."

"Huh! You know fish rustling's rife. There are plenty of hungry bellies in the third world.  What would happen if inspectors tried checking the fish on their plates?" 

"They'd be committing suicide," said Nils. "Then there's the black zones. Not regulated by the common fisheries policy 2078. Rustlers trawl those waters for wild and unaccompanied shoals."

"Despite the total collapse of wild fish populations in 2056, they still don't give a hoot for species husbandry."

  

The PA system interrupted their conversation:  'Mr. Sturroch the GM will be holding an emergency meeting in the main hall in 15 minutes.  Attendance is not optional.'

.-...-.

"You will all be aware of the setbacks we have encountered over the last year.  They have been costly and we are a small company in comparison to some of our competitors.  Obviously, we cannot sustain losses of this magnitude indefinitely.  Therefore the board of directors have decided that in the best interests of both shareholders and staff we need to take immediate action."  He paused and opened a document folder containing a single sheet of paper and started to read aloud.   "We have choices to make.  The official receiver can be called in to wind up the business, or we can try to sell it as a going concern to one of the larger offshore fisheries.  The latter may result in the continuation of our employment.  The board has decided to put it up to tender, in order to maximize the return of our shareholders' funds.  I'll hand you over to the Chairman Derek Wilberforce who wishes to say a few words about our accomplishments over the last half-century."

"Thank you for stating the position so succinctly Mr Sturroch,"

(Half-hearted applause.)

"As you will all be aware, we were the first company in the field.  If we hadn't taken steps to recreate and rebuilt fish stocks there would be no fish left in the sea and the world would be the poorer for it.  The cloning techniques we pioneered to restore stocks of cod, haddock, herring, and flatfish were initially illegal in Europe, but fortunately not in international waters.  At first, we tried to corral fish stocks.  That was abandoned in favour of herding with small manned submersible craft.  By 2085 automated submersibles replaced human fish-herders these proved to be a more cost-effective solution.  Then, three years ago, the failures began.  We Attempted to bridge the gap by recruiting human fish-herders once more.  Just a handful of recruits and returnees signed up.  We are not the only company in this situation but our position is dire.  There will be negotiations underway over the next month, and we will keep you informed of progress.  That’s all I have to say.  This concludes the meeting, thank you for attending."

.-...-.

Three weeks later, I arrived for my shift in a low state.  Staff morale, in general, was subzero.  We were all waiting for the axe to fall.  At any moment a receiver could be appointed to wind up our operation, and that would be that!

.-...-.

"John Whitely?"  The man standing by my terminal smiled.

"That's me," I said, a cold shard of fear spreading up my spine.

"Geoff Smythe," he offered his hand, so I took it by reflex.  "I'm the new GM.  Mr Sturroch has been reassigned. Come into my office John, we need to discuss your future."  He headed towards his office and I followed. His name was freshly painted on the door.  He collapsed into the ample chair behind his desk. "Nice to meet you, at last, I've heard a lot about you and read your company history. It's impressive!  So, I won't keep you in suspense, 'North Sea Fisheries' will become a subsidiary of 'Continental Shelf Fisheries' as of noon today.  We at CSF are not, as you might think, letting people go."  He paused to take out a pen and sheaf of papers from his desk.  "On the contrary, we intend to become the largest and most successful fisheries in the Northern Hemisphere but, we do have a problem."

"I see." Here it comes.

"Relatively speaking, we are newcomers to the industry.  We need experienced men like yourself to train new recruits.  It takes a certain kind of mind to be a good herder, as you know.  We need your skills and expertise to get our new approach technology online."

"Mmm..."

"Don't say anything yet John, let me tell you about your exciting new future.  You will be on the management team pay scale, then when we go live with the 'new approach' you'll be our wet manager, responsible for everything that takes place beneath the waves."

"But, I'm no manager."

"No matter, you'll receive all the training you need.  Now, do you have any questions?" 

"First thing, how many units will we be allocated, sir?"

"Just call me, Geoff management are on first name terms."

"Okay, Geoff.  How many and how soon?"  I warmed to his informal style.

"What do you need?"

"Three would be an ideal working team for this sector." I paused for thought.  "Five would enable us to round up the scattered strays before they're snapped up by rustlers.  Then the two extras could be used to bring back strays from other sectors.  Then when normal operations resume they'll provide backup for our maintenance program."

"You can have four units for this sector, but I believe two will be sufficient in normal circumstances."

"You asked me, and I told you what we need."

"Don't misunderstand me, you've never worked with units as efficient as these."

"I've not heard of any groundbreaking new developments.  If there had been, I would know.  It's my job to know," I said.

"So, what do you know about Crystal Minds?"

"CM's?  I thought they were a means of reducing prison populations by storing the felons mind in a cube while his body is borrowed by someone who needs it."

He nodded, "Well that's part of it.  But, most criminal minds are rehabilitated within three to six months; that's if they're capable of rehabilitation.  Yet they are sentenced to serve anything from three years to life."

"Then why are the sentences not set lower?" I asked.

"Because society's perception of justice is half a century out of date."

"So someone gets the use of a body for the period of their sentence?"

"You've got it John, and the re-educated CM's get to be gainfully employed for the balance of their incarceration."

"Your using felon CM's to run our units?"

"That's the plan.  Do you have any objections?"

 I thought for a while.  "Do they know what you're doing?"

"They can either remain under program control, running scenario's and simulations for the balance of their sentence, or they can volunteer for gainful employment as herders, strato pilots, or Air-Taxi jockeys." He reached for the intercom, "My usual Tina, and Strong black coffee for Mr Whitley." 

"You've done your homework."

"Thank you.  Actually, there are a thousand potential uses for CM minds, and they get paid the going rate for the job. Credits accrue in their personal accounts.  Volunteering provides them with funds and training for a career when they're returned to their bodies.  It's preferable to the boredom of perpetual simulation or inactivity." 

"Well, if they're volunteers..."

Geoff's assistant arrived with coffee and sandwiches. "Thanks, Tina."

"I had no idea CM's could be linked to machines or real-time systems. Other than humans of course.  That's a whole new concept."

"You know John, this is only the beginning.  Our techno's have even linked them to animals like horses, sheep, and dogs.  They've been existing in a whole range of symbiotic relationships.  They not only retain their humanity they lead full productive lives as symbiants."

"That's an impressive undertaking," his enthusiasm was infectious, and I was warming to the possibilities.

"I saw the holo-pic on your terminal John.  That's a great family you have there?"

I swallowed coffee and gazed out the window.  A strato-copter was being unloaded, "That holo was taken eight years ago, before my accident."

"What happened?"

"They left because they couldn't stand my mood swings any longer.  I don't blame them, I'm not proud of that period in my life.  It was eight years ago.  I'm over it now," I felt moisture on my cheeks and brushed it away.  It didn't help.

"I meant how did your accident happen."

"I was out in the duo-sub, with a trainee who couldn't cut it.  He lacked the required sensitivity and reaction speed required in fast-flowing currents.  Not everybody develops the subtlety and delicacy of touch, you know.   After months in rehab, I wound up in this damned chair, paralyzed from the waist down." Anger railed up inside me and I hammered the wheels on the chair in frustration.

"John, I never intended opening old wounds..."

"Worst thing was not being able to control a sub and do my job," I looked into his eyes.  "In my dreams I'm whole and back in the place where I belong, swimming free."  The tears came anew, "I do hate self-pity."

He looked straight back at me, "I'm sorry, I had no idea."

"No, Galicia and I were drifting apart long before the accident.  The final straw was when I alienated my son Josh in a self-pitying drunken rage; I don't drink anymore.  He's thirteen now, I still see him on school holidays.  It's being beached that hurts me most of all." 

"I can believe it," he said.

I nodded.  "Well, I guess that's life."  I wiped my eyes on my shirt cuff and smiled.  "So I guess you'll be withdrawing the job offer?"

"Not at all, we desperately need your expertise in the water," he said.

To be Continued/…

Copyright Len Morgan