Analog Science Fiction and Fact - September 2014

by Penny Publications

  I should pay more attention to her, but instead, I'm poking at the insides of the pillar. "I think I know why he hasn't been able to fix this."

  She stops emoting. "Really?" she asks.

  "Possibly," I say. "You mentioned Ficus says red and not-red. How many colors can he see?"

  "I don't know," says Sara. "He's only ever mentioned red and not-red." "Never blue?

  Never green? Never yellow?"

  "No," Sara answers. "I've never learned any of his color gestures, other than red."

  "I think it's because he's colorblind. Or he sees different colors than we do. When I plugged in the pipe, I saw red, blue, and black. But the diagnostic vibrators only registered not-red. He can't tell what's broken because it's not broken in a way he can see, or his diagnostic tools recognize. I can see blue—which is an important distinction between red and black. I can see variations of "not-red"—and probably that's what's not working."

  We're ignoring the wildly contorting Ficus thrashing around behind the glass wall. Sara seems to understand what I'm saying and returns to the window to dance out an explanation. I stare, realizing I'm gaining an appreciation for the graceful moves Sara uses to communicate. Or perhaps I'm just appreciating the graceful Sara. I realize I'm staring when she puts her hands to her hips and glares at me.

  "He thinks that makes sense," she translates. "He's talking physics again, trying to tell me something about bits of something every second. I'm guessing he's talking about frequency or wavelength but I'm not sure."

  I'm (probably) right! I've won the game show quiz and can claim a prize. Now—what could I possibly want for a prize? I look at Sara.

  "Let's leave it at that," I say. "What I need to know is how red parts affect the stuff flowing around inside of this thing."

  Sara leaps to Ficus's window and gestures. Dances. Emotes relief. He gestures back. Sara puzzles for a minute, pulls out her not-a-cell phone then pauses and collects her thoughts.

  "He's changed context, you know." she says. "Almost like he is telling a fable. He started with something like 'long ago and far away.' He's talking about a good place and a bad place. Like places on a map. There's a hero traveling from the bad place to the good place. At first the hero isn't good. He's like all the other bad people in the bad place. Along the journey, he (it?) learns things from—I guess 'teachers' is probably the best way to put it. When he gets to the good place, he thinks it's normal and doesn't realize it's different than the bad place. He's become good, but good is normal in the good place. So he thinks he's still normal. The hero doesn't change, but the listener of the story changes their understanding of good or bad. Sounds like a lot of jive-talk, you know?"

  I've been working in a spaceship with a dancing girl and a sentient plant for almost three hours. Why would this story make less sense than anything else? If Ficus thinks the best way to describe the need for red parts is a fable; why not? He's got more brains than I do.

  "Is he saying the red stuff is self-aware and wants to improve?" I ask Sara.

  Dancing and motion. Puzzlement. More cell phone stroking. "No," Sara translates. "It doesn't think. But it responds to suggestions. The goo in the pipes doesn't know what it wants to do, but if you surround it with red, it will do the same. When it's red, it works."

  I look at the pipe dangling from the hoovertree. It isn't oozing red goop and I can see the interior of the pipe is red. Sure enough—the pipe is encouraging good behavior on behalf of the amoral goo. All this ship needed was a good theologian and a healthy dose of old-time religion. The Church of the Holy Red.

  I gather up my courage. "Sara," I say. "I'm going to need to plug this thing back in again. I need to find the broken connectors, and to do that, I need to test them. It will only take a minute, but tell him what I'm doing."

  Sara translates, then steps back and looks at me. "He's giving you the hairy eyeball and says this is getting risky. When you did that the last time, we lost about forty-six minutes before bad things happen. It's going to get worse each time you plug it back together. He doesn't have time to argue, he doesn't like it, but he says to make it as quick as possible. He wants to count down from five, then you need to be fast. He'll try to keep things from breaking. He men tioned the paint on the outside of the ship again."

  What I'm planning seems about as responsible as playing musical chairs in a geriatric home, but I take a deep breath, look at Sara, wish she would give me a kiss for luck like Princess Leia did for Luke before they swung over the chasm while being shot at by stormtroopers, take another deep breath to clear my mind, then watch Ficus wave a tendril five times.

  I jam the first hose and twist. Red ascends faster than before, clacking gets louder—almost painful, and the floor bounces like a trampoline. Holding on to the pillar for balance against the rocking of the ship, I attach the second, third, fourth, and fifth pipes. The pipes turn red, some blue, some black. I do my best to develop a photographic memory and remember which pipes are blue, then unplug them all.

  "He's frantic," Sara tells me in her too-loud voice. I wonder how many large chunks of the ship will survive a sudden and fiery loss of altitude and where they might land. Without asking, I disconnect one of the smaller red pipes and one of the not-red pipes I noticed during our latest flirtation with death. I look inside and smile.

  I show them to Sara so she can translate to Ficus. Inside the not-red/blue/bad pipe, I can see gouges filled with a hard, blue deposit. The red/good pipe has the same gouges, but there aren't any blue deposits. My red/not-red theory is holding water. Granted, I'm doing a lot of hand-waving, but this is the best I can do given my limited knowledge of interstellar spaceship maintenance. Ficus and Sara don't seem too bothered by my blurring of the facts. Theory doesn't matter. Solutions matter.

  "Fixing these pipes is going to be way easier than changing out the puck," I tell Sara. "It's just like the inside of a water heater. Tell Ficus we need a bunch of replacement pipe. I can tell which ones need to be swapped out, then we're good to go."

  Sara dances. I watch. Ficus is responding, but my mind wanders back to a ballet I had seen in grade school. I don't remember being as moved then as I am by watching Sara now.

  "Are you listening?" she says. She must have been saying something, but I was daydreaming.

  "Sorry," I reply. "Where are the new tubes?"

  "We ain't got Jack," she says. She's not happy. "There are no tubes, you know? Like, we don't carry spares."

  Great. Maybe these tubes don't break often enough to warrant carrying around extras. No surprise; nobody thinks to check on their spare tire until they need it. When they do, it's dark and cold and there's no gas station within five miles. No spare tire, just like no spare red pipes.

  "We need to go shopping," I tell Sara. "I won't ask if we have enough time to hop back down to Earth, because I don't want to know the bad news. Tell Ficus we need to calmly proceed to one of the exits, keep our hands, feet and vines inside the windows, fasten our safety belts, and land near the hardware store. I'm betting I know what we can use to fix this."

  Ficus declines to accompany us due to the incompatibilities of our atmospheric requirements, but does a breath-taking job of remotely piloting Sara and I down to the store. Breathtaking in the literal sense—it isn't much more than six or seven minutes door-to-door. Somebody (some-plant) is apparently in a hurry and neglected to read the warnings about acceleration limitations of the prototypical human. How they manage to do all this up-and-down over a city without setting off every radar in the United States is puzzling, but not on my current list of things to worry about. My list consists only of red things.

  The acceleration stops, we get out and run for the store. Sara can't help but stop and grab band posters from the telephone poles. I can't figure out if she is oblivious or optimistic.

  While Sara is stealing posters, it occurs to me I could simply run for home. If I hide under my pillow, Sara and Ficus will never find me. But then, the paint would get scratched when the s
paceship comes down in a huge fiery ball, crushing my apartment building, my pillow, and me. My last thought would be of Ficus, scolding me for being such a simpleton and gloating about the obvious superiority of multiple brains. Better to just get the parts.

  Dave had closed the store hours ago, so we are able to shop without explanations. I pack several boxes from multiple departments. Electrical tape (it comes packed four rolls to the box with different colors, so sometime later I'll have to find spaceships needing tape in blue, green and black). PVC pipe. PVC connectors. High-temperature engine paint (red). Glue, screws and nails. One of the two-hundred-andfifty-piece toolkits. Tomato support sticks from the gardening section. Ten spools of electrical wire (red insulation only).

  Sara dashes down the aisles, grabbing a random assortment: Red keyrings, a spray bottle of sink cleaner (pink), transparent tubing, bungie cords, a rake, a handful of novelty flashlights with lasers in the middle, some batteries, another box of gum.

  I ring it all up on my account (with my employee discount—Ficus better appreciate what a good value he's getting). I assume if I save the world from falling spaceship debris, someone will be kind enough to reimburse me for the $359.81 worth of parts.

  The return trip is just as dramatic and awe-inspiring as the first (as in screaming "Awwwwwwe, Noooooo"), but Ficus has a self-serving interest in our safe arrival, so the bumps and gee's are survivable. Stepping out of the box, I notice the floor oscillations have increased. It's like a fun house, except fun-houses at the circus don't burn up on reentry.

  My plan is to replace the malfunctioning pipes with PVC, painted red on the inside. It's not going to be pretty, but it might last until they can get to the Interstellar Quikee Mart to obtain proper replacements. I'm assuming the red goo won't dissolve the PVC. If my flesh is still attached, the tubing might work okay. Probably not a sound assumption, but desperate times call for making things up and ignoring whatever facts might stand in the way.

  I use a small electric saw to cut open the pipe, then spray the insides with red paint. I'm trying not to goop it on because it probably needs to dry before the red goo runs through it. But who knows, I'm guessing at most of this anyway. I set it aside to dry and start measuring the gaps between pipes and pucks.

  Between sightseeing trips to Earth, unauthorized experiments with pipes and creative dance sessions with the plant, we have less than two hours before an unwelcome splashdown. Unfortunately, things aren't fitting. Paint isn't drying. Access ports are apparently designed for plant tendrils, not ape-hands. Ficus supplies a constant stream of useless advice and dire warnings of impending disaster. He has mastered the art of irritation.

  Red paint is smeared across my clothes and everything is slippery. I'm sure I've skinned my knuckles, but can't tell if it's blood or paint. I'm considering telling Tall-Purple-And-Bulbous my complete plan and leave him to fix the thing. But I realize this would involve trying to describe it to Sara, who would describe it to Tall-Purple-and-Bulbous, who would gesture back a critique, which Sara would have to translate, which I would have to answer, which Sara would have to translate, etc. That's when I get back to reconnecting the frobulators.

  "Ficus," I shout after a particularly unhelpful piece of advice is translated by Sara. "If you're such a smart piece of broccoli, why don't you just come in here and put this in the right place? And Sara, be sure to tell him I called him Ficus, as in a smelly, dime-store plant!"

  Sara is staring at me. Dammit. I am so frustrated I could spit. I throw a pair of pliers across the room—a totally unsatisfying gesture when it hits the wall and floats back. Sara turns to Ficus and translates. Ficus wastes no time shaking his stems in response. Sara watches, dances back, then pauses. She turns away from Ficus to look at me.

  "He says to tell you he overestimated your ability to help." Sara looks tired and upset. "He thinks you should leave before time runs out." There is about an hour left before paint-scratching commences and we are all short-tempered. Nothing like an impending fireball to rattle your cool.

  It's thoughtful of Ficus to give me a chance to save my skin, but I see three problems: First, I would be riding back to Earth in a metal box being driven by a plant preoccupied with his impending demise. Second, Sara. Third, I'd never get another chance to save the world. WWLD? (What would Luke do?)

  I float over and grab the pliers. "Tell him," I talk to Sara, but look at Ficus. "Tell him I will redouble my efforts."

  Sara patches things up with Ficus. I glue the PVC pipe back together (red inside) and try to cram one of these pipes into the puck. The connection is behind a plate and a something else. My knuckles get reskinned.

  "Sara, would you hold a flashlight so I can see?" I ask. Sara floats up behind me and touches one foot to the ground for an anchor. She again reminds me of a ballerina I semi-ignored on that grade school field trip. Sara snaps the switch on one of the novelty flashlights and I snap back to the here-and-now as well. The diagnostics go crazy under the not-red light. Between the rocking of the ship, the thrumming of the diagnostics, and the skinning of my knuckles I am ready to scream. The pipe refuses to fit into the puck and I can't get enough leverage to force it into place. I grunt and swear, wrenching the pipe and jostling against Sara. She grips the flashlight, changing it to laser mode. The diagnostic pads stop vibrating.

  Maybe I'm doing this wrong. PVC pipe isn't working. It doesn't fit and I'm not going to be able to cut, paint, and trim enough before we scratch the paint against the North American Continent. But red lasers work; at least, according to the diagnostics. I step back, cross my arms and think for a minute.

  With an enthusiasm born of comic-book heroism, I rip out all the PVC. Easy to do since it wasn't fitting anyways. I slice up a piece of the transparent tubing, jam it in the puck and duct-tape it to the red goo pipe. I grab Sara's hand with the flashlight laser and point it at the pipe. Right on cue, red goo shyly oozes up the pipe, following the line of the laser. The diagnostics are happy, red goo is flowing into the puck and endorphins flood my brain.

  "That is bitchin'! Gimme five!" Sara screams. I'm still holding her hand with the laser so it's only natural to give her an enthusiastic hug and a big fat kiss on the mouth. Oh. The kiss was unexpected and we both pull back in embarrassment. Awkward pause.

  "Yes. That was cool," I turn from Sara to admire my work. Even Ficus seems to be pleased when Sara tells him, although it's difficult for me to read much into his combination foxtrot and macarena. I start slicing tubing. This is going to work.

  It takes a precious half-hour, but I've covered all the joints in red electrical tape. Left a bit of blood smeared around the sharper internal parts (not my intent, but it was a nice touch, so I don't clean it up). Sara helps me glue and tape sticks into a scaffolding to support the lasers. Wires run from the flashlights feed power from the batteries. The toolkit is scattered and floating around the room. It is a mess.

  "Tell him we're ready to try this thing," I look at Sara. I am pleased. I flip on the lasers with an improvised dance step of my own making.

  The lasers work with a vengeance, red goo charges up the tubes and busts loose at the puck. I've forgotten lesson number one about wearing eye protection and am given a refresher course in proper safety protocols. Red goo sprays Sara and me. Diagnostics angrily inform us of the event—ever-so-helpful. My eyes sting like paint thinner in an open wound and Sara is curled in a floating ball, moaning in pain. If I had a can of mace, I'd spray myself in the face to reduce the pain. Blinking through massive tears, I flip off the lasers. Ouch, ouch, ouch.

  I glance at Ficus, who is hula dancing behind the window.

  "Sara." I nudge her. "What is he saying?"

  Sara unfolds and tries to clear her eyes. Blinks. Wipes. Looks up at Ficus.

  "He says it worked." Her eyes show extreme pain, but she has a huge, dopey grin. "It's not perfect, but it will do for now. He wants to come out and see it for himself."

  Sara takes my hand and I follow her to the door of one of the
connecting rooms. Stepping inside, the door seals with a hiss. From one of the closets, Sara retrieves bottles of water and we improvise an eyewash station. Our eyes are red and teary, but I lose the urge to gouge them out of my head.

  Sara blinks and looks out the window. The room is filling with a yellow-green mist.

  "What's the mist?" I asked Sara.

  "Chlorine. He's cycling the atmosphere so he can take a look."

  Ficus's door opens and he slides into the engineering room. I realize the gesturing plant I have seen through the window is only a stalk protruding from the top of a slug-like body. I've seen this before: overweight customers carrying potted plants. Unlike them, he moves with a graceful, pulsating ripple toward the center of the room. Tendrils reach toward the vacuum-cleaner-column, touching the diagnostic panels. He takes the roll of duct-tape and smoothly repairs the blown tubes. I wish I had three-foot long fingers.

  He flips on the lasers and it works like a charm. I look at Sara. I look at the column. How beautiful, I think.

  For almost five minutes, Ficus admires my work, then perambulates over to our window and performs a quick dance step for Sara.

  "He's impressed. He wants to know if you'd like to stick around," Sara said. "He says you're good with solving problems. Or you've got long fingers. Maybe long tendrils. Again—this doesn't translate quite right, but it's a compliment. He's referring to you as an expensive piece of meat."

  This is an abrupt and unexpected turn of events. Fifteen minutes ago, I was uncertain if I had any future except as an overcooked cheap piece of meat experiencing a rapid return to Earth. Now I had an invertebrate plant offering me a bright future as an interstellar fixit guy.

  "How often would I get shore leave?" I asked. I should have asked about the benefits package but it's hard to think after being maced.

  "On Earth? Every couple of years," she says. "Like, this isn't one of our frequent stops. But I'm not sure how relativity twists that around. Ficus has a different sense of time than I do, so it's hopeless to ask him to figure it out. You'd be able to stop by occasionally, you know?"