The Silvers

by Jill Smith

  Imms watches them a minute longer. Kaylee heads back to the pool. Kaya stares at him. He tells her she’s beautiful.

  “Is that your language?” Bridique asks him.

  “Yeah.”

  “It’s nice.”

  They meet Tommy next. Tommy is a six hundred pound Bengal tiger. He does not get up to greet them, but lies on his side, his great belly moving up and down, his tail twitching. “He’s pretty flabby,” Brid says. “You ought to see him jiggle when he walks.” Tommy is missing a patch of hair on one side. “He weighed three hundred and fifty pounds when we got him. Starved almost to death. Rescued from a circus. They made him jump through a burning hoop, and his fur caught fire.”

  Imms flinches. “Are circuses bad?”

  “Don’t even get me started. Circuses have this image of fucking family fun-fests, and the reality couldn’t be further from that. Not just the way the animals are treated, but the people—at least, back in the old days—the people lived like shit, too. There aren’t many circuses anymore. Thank fuck.” They move on to the bobcat’s pen, but she’s sleeping in a hollow log and won’t come out. “We do train the animals,” Brid says. “Some of them. Just basic tricks. Nothing too strenuous. Jumps, sitting, rolling over like dogs. We travel around in the spring and summer and do educational performances. The admission proceeds go toward running the sanctuary.”

  “Do you train them?” Imms asks.

  “That’s mostly Margret’s job—Margret Rose, she owns the sanctuary. And there’s another trainer, Zane. But they let me help out some.” She looks at Imms. “What do you think so far?”

  “I love them.” He watches the huddle of the bobcat in the log.

  “Me, too.”

  “There aren’t really any animals on my planet. Except the snakes.”

  “Snakes? Of all the goddamn animals you could have, you got snakes?”

  “They’re nice, though. B says the ones here are poisonous. Not the ones on my planet.”

  “Say the name of your planet. In your language.” He does. Bridique shakes her head. “I hate humans,” she says.

  “Why?”

  She doesn’t answer right away. Finally she says, “You should speak your language as much as possible. So you don’t forget.”

  Her phone rings while they’re looking at Chess, the liger, who is the most beautiful of all the cats. Bridique turns away from the enclosure and answers the call.

  “Hey, clown,” Imms hears her say. “Not much. Imms and I are at Rose. Yeah. He wanted to get out, I wanted to get out. We’re out.” She pauses. “We’ll discuss this later.”

  Imms wonders if B is mad. He focuses on the sand-colored cat. Her coat ripples as she paces, the faint orange stripes bend and straighten. She approaches the fence and presses her nose against the chain link. Imms knows she is safe. She won’t hurt him. He puts his hand against the fence. Her rough tongue sweeps his palm. He laughs. Chess licks him again and again. He is still laughing when Bridique says quietly, “Imms. Take your hand away. Slowly.”

  He obeys. Chess gives him one last look, then turns and wanders off. Imms feels sad as she goes.

  “My brother’s already pissed I brought you here. Please don’t make me take you back to him with a stump for a hand.”

  “She wasn’t going to hurt me.”

  “A wild animal, Imms. Outside of her natural environment. You never know.”

  Chapter Seventeen

  The aboveground portion of NRCSE looks like a museum. Visitors can play interactive games, look at rocks and dust from other planets and read the fun facts listed on plaques. They can have pictures taken in a space suit on a surface painted to look like the Silver Planet. The NRCSE website has links for kids and adults, researchers and educators. NRCSE employees are available to speak in classrooms, at commencements, in prisons and on talk shows. NRCSE has given tours to K-12 students, honeymooning couples, scientists, celebrities, and politicians. A river runs east of the complex, and a trail with lookout points runs along the bank. Photo opportunities.

  Below ground, where the tourists never go, are simulation rooms, a biomedical research lab, a three mile underground training complex, and a mission control center. They have stations that simulate the terrain and atmospheres of other planets. Offices, laboratories, and the barracks rooms—living quarters that have been fashioned from former cells in the now-defunct military prison NRCSE annexed. The barracks rooms still lock from the outside. The fields to the north of the facility, enclosed in chain link and barbed wire and once used as a fitness area for prisoners, are now used for training.

  B is called to Kelly Hatchell’s office Tuesday afternoon. Hatchell likes cacti and has one particularly bloated, fat-spined specimen in an Aztec-looking pot near the file cabinet in her office, caught like a frightened performer in the spotlight of a standing sunlamp. B can only imagine the disaster in store should Hatchell one day forget to close the bottom drawer of the file cabinet and trip.

  Hatchell wipes her glasses. “Howdy, captain.”

  Human Spaceflight and Operations, the division of NRCSE B works for, strives to make its employees feel like a team, a family. HSO holds an annual holiday party and monthly raffles, and is the second-ranked team in the NRCSE intramural bowling league, behind Propellants & Fuels. Yet despite this constructed kinship, none of B’s HSO colleagues have offered more than the briefest condolences. Few have said Joele, Vir, or Gumm’s names out loud. B wonders if this is the result of NRCSE’s professional heartlessness, its belief in necessary sacrifice for the greater good. HSO is probably more like a family than was ever intended, a group in which warmth, support, and loyalty are often overshadowed by fear, mistrust, and friction.

  On Hatch’s desk is a pile of news articles related to the Byzantine disaster. B has seen most of the articles before. “NRCSE mourns loss of 3 in Byzantine fire.” Mourns? Not the first word that comes to B’s mind. “Back to Earth: A survivor’s story.” Unofficial, unauthorized, about Grena. “Foreign Aid: Extraterrestrial saves Byzantine’s captain from a deadly blaze.” That one spun the straw of B’s “no comments” into journalistic gold, painting B as speechless with grief, full of wordless gratitude toward Imms.

  “Take a seat,” Hatch says. B does. The cactus in the corner has what looks like a bulbous nose growing out of its main stalk. “How is it, being back?”

  “Fine.”

  “And living with the, uh—with Imms? That’s going all right?”

  “Yes.”

  Hatch nods. “This is an incredible opportunity, you know, for us. To have Imms here.”

  “Of course.”

  “Though your reason for bringing him to Earth was, I guess, more personal than practical.”

  B’s stomach tightens. Hatchell is stumbling through whatever she has to say, and Hatch isn’t usually one to stumble. She’s carelessly confident, an awkward optimist who kisses her bowling ball and whispers, “Come on, baby, strike for me!” before sending it down the lane.

  “You bonded with Imms. Understandably so. It’s really something, isn’t it? That a creature lacking the capacity for emotion, with no obligations toward human beings, nothing to gain from aiding them—would risk its life to help you?”

  B doesn’t answer. Best to say as little as possible until Hatchell gets to the point.

  Hatchell seems to interpret B’s silence as the intrusion of some deep, abiding pain into B’s memory. Her voice softens. “We’re glad you made it, captain. I know it can’t have been easy, losing your people.”

  Vir, Joele, Gumm—B barely knew them prior to the mission. They are NRCSE’s people more than they are B’s.

  “We’re investigating exactly what went wrong with the ship.”

  B nods. If Grena’s done things right, they’ll never be able to tell exactly what went wrong.

  “Captain, I’m not looking to make things any harder on you right now.” Hatchell runs her fingers along the edge of her desk.

  “What’s the problem?�
��

  “NRCSE is, as I said, grateful for the research opportunities the Silver provides. But the decision to bring it to Earth wasn’t yours to make.”

  “All right,” B says.

  “It’s something you should have discussed with us first.”

  “Imms wanted to come here.”

  “I understand that.”

  “What could be more valuable to NRCSE right now than to have him here as a resource? For future missions?”

  “Yes.” Hatchell’s glasses are back on. “I agree. So does everyone else.” She fires off her next words, as though they’ll hurt less if they’re shot into B quickly. “You’re being asked to attend a disciplinary hearing. Just a formality. No one’s really looking for blood.”

  “Christ. What am I looking at?”

  “A month’s suspension without pay. Best case.”

  B could yell. He could protest. But it won’t help. He runs a hand through his hair. “A medal of honor and a month’s suspension. Talk about mixed messages.”

  Hatch cracks a smile. “I hear you, captain.”

  “What’s worst case?”

  “Worst case, we’d let you go.”

  Which would almost be a relief. B’s not sure what he’d do for work instead. Something low-stress, relaxing. Then it hits him, what this could mean. “And Imms?”

  “Imms would remain the property of NRCSE.”

  “Property?”

  “He would remain in our custody.”

  “I won’t allow that.”

  “You wouldn’t have a choice. You have custody of Imms now because you are an employee of the Center. Because you know Imms best and can provide him with a more human environment than we can at this facility. But from what I’m hearing, Biomed isn’t satisfied with the amount of access they have to Imms. Neither is Psychology.”

  B“I bring him here once a week to be tested and interrogated. I submit reports—”

  “Start bringing him twice a week. We’ll see how that works for everybody.”

  And what happens when NRCSE wants three visits a week? Five? What happens if NRCSE finds out Brid and Imms are at Rose Sanctuary right now without permission or supervision? He clenches his hands into fists, not sure who he hates more at the moment, Hatch or Brid. “He won’t live anywhere else. He can’t—he trusts me.”

  “Twice a week. It’s all we’re asking. And I’m sure we’ll find a way to show our appreciation.”

  B raises an eyebrow. “My hearing?”

  “You’ll get the month’s suspension. A slap on the wrist.”

  “A fucking hammer to the wrist,” B mutters. “I can’t afford a month off.”

  “I’ll see if I can’t get it down to two weeks.”

  So it’s like that. Hatch orchestrated this little pissing match to demonstrate to B that NRCSE is in control, and that B’s act of subversion in bringing Imms here will be leveraged against him whenever NRCSE needs his cooperation.

  “What does Biomed want with him?”

  “That, I do not know. Take it up with Dr. Hwong.”

  “What about Grena? Does she have a hearing?”

  Grena had agreed to bring Imms to Earth. She’d been nervous. She’d wanted to tell NRCSE before they left. Wanted to ask permission. But she’d agreed.

  Hatchell hesitates. B suddenly hopes that someday Hatch will trip and fall into the waiting cactus. “She’s agreed to work on the Breakthrough II mission,” Hatch says. “Scheduled to depart late next year. She’s helping train new crew members.”

  “So those who cooperate—”

  “Escape with their hide.” Hatchell offers a grin that looks sympathetic but isn’t. “Twice a week.”

  “Twice a week. As long as Imms isn’t hurt.”

  “Nobody’s looking to damage the goods.”

  B will consider not shoving Hatch into her cactus his good deed for the day. “Is there anything else?” he asks.

  “That’s it.”

  B rises.

  “You coming to bowling on Friday?” Hatch asks. “First match of the season.”

  B heads for the door. “I never did the team much good. You’re better off without me.”

  Chapter Eighteen

  Bridique drops Imms off at B’s but doesn’t come in. She says she has to help Mary with dinner. Imms thinks she doesn’t want to talk to B.

  B is in the kitchen on his laptop. “Hey. How were the cats?”

  “Great.” Imms can sense that B is trying not to seem angry, which is almost worse than him being angry.

  B shuts the laptop, stretches. “Surprised the entourage let her take you out.”

  Imms hesitates. “We didn’t tell them.”

  Something drops, or vanishes, Imms isn’t sure how else to describe it. One moment, a feeling is between them, a warmth, a relief at being together that trumps even B’s anger. The next moment, everything is cold. They might be strangers.

  “How did you get out?” B’s voice is low.

  “Through the hedge.”

  B says nothing. The shame Imms experiences now comes slowly, an answer to the chill in the room.

  “I didn’t—”

  “Don’t do it again. That’s all I want to say about it. Understand?”

  “Okay,” Imms says quietly.

  “What do you feel like for dinner?” B’s tone normal now, but it’s the kind of normal that takes effort.

  “Spaghetti. No sauce?”

  “Just noodles?”

  “Yeah. Do we have apples?”

  “Sorry. I meant to pick some up, and I forgot. It’s been a rough day.”

  “How was work?” Imms asks.

  “All right.”

  Imms gets a glass of water and feels B’s eyes on him as he takes a cup from the cabinet.

  “We’re gonna start going to NRCSE twice a week,” B says.

  Imms looks up. “Why?”

  “It’s important that the NRCSuckers know more about you, to help you adjust.”

  Imms bites his lip. B hates taking Imms to NRCSE. He thinks Imms shouldn’t have to go at all. Has he changed his mind? “Okay.”

  “They’re starting to investigate the fire.”

  “What happens if they find out we lied?”

  “They won’t as long as we stick to our story. It’s just gonna be a pain in the ass. They’re gonna ask more questions. I don’t want to answer more questions.” B taps the table with one finger. “I’m not normally—I don’t usually condone lying. Just so you know.”

  “Condone?”

  “I’m not okay with it. I don’t do it. But in this case, it’s just better for you, for both of us, if we don’t try to explain about you and Joele.”

  “Because you’d have to tell them I started the fire.”

  “Joele started the fire.”

  “Joele only had a small fire. I knocked it down. I made it grow.”

  “She was torturing you. But if I tell them that, they’ll—I don’t know what they’ll do. They may not understand or believe the truth.”

  Imms sits at the table. “Vir didn’t do anything. When the fire started. She didn’t move.”

  “Vir wasn’t well those last few weeks. Maybe not for a long time before that. Why’re you chewing your lip?”

  Imms stops. “I don’t know.” He never used to take his own blood, but now sometimes he likes using his teeth to peel fine layers of skin from his lip until he gets a sharp, salty taste.

  B gets up and sets out dinner supplies. “How’s Brid? She get on your nerves?”

  “She was nice. We watched movies.”

  “Yeah? What?”

  “Blue Valentine. And Pocahontas. I liked that one a lot.”

  “Which?”

  “Pocahontas.”

  “That’s a kid’s movie.” B fills a pot with water and sets it on the stove. “It’s for children.”

  “It was good.”

  “Like that trashy western you like so much, that’s something a ten year-old would read a hun
dred years ago.”

  Imms is silent.

  “If you want a place in this world, you really ought to act like an adult. You are, right? I mean, on your planet, you’re considered fully mature. So what’s with this sneaking through hedges and watching cartoon movies?”

  For someone who doesn’t want to answer questions, B asks a lot. Imms doesn’t know why he bites his lip or likes kids’ movies. He doesn’t know the answer to Bridique’s question, What fucking’s like with B? Or Josh’s question, How is he liking Earth?

  B says, “I get what the NRCSuckers don’t—that you are human, and you have a right to an independent life. But I brought you to Earth, and you’re my responsibility.” B breaks spaghetti over the pot. Throws the dry noodles into the boiling water. “I want to keep you safe.”

  “B?” Imms says uncertainly.

  B turns and takes Imms’s face in his hands, which are warm and moist from being over the steam. B looks into his eyes. “Why is it so hard to understand? I’m making sacrifices to protect you. Do you see why I might be upset when you put yourself in danger?”

  “I wasn’t in danger. Bridique just took me to see the cats.”

  B releases him and turns back to the stove.

  Imms is silent. He wants to stay silent. He wants to go sleep by a lake where B can’t find him. The scars on his chest hurt.

  “Sorry,” he finally offers.

  “Don’t be,” B says. “I’m the one who fucked up.”

  *

  B seems to relax over the next few weeks. Each Friday they go to dinner at Mary and Bridique’s, and Imms looks forward to this. They go to the park. People stare, but Imms follows B’s lead and doesn’t look at them. They walk the wooded trails. The leaves are yellow, orange, gold, deep red, like blood. When he first saw the red leaves, Imms wanted to ask B if they were hurt. But he had a feeling that was a question that would make B laugh at him. Leaves can’t hurt. That’s why it’s okay to walk on them. Now he knows that the color is from trapped glucose in the leaves. He has been reading about trees in a National Geographic book series B bought him. He’s getting good at reading. He practices writing, too, every day. Printed letters, and lovely, unbroken cursive.