Planetfall For Marda

by Zenka Wistram

  “Where are the kids?” she said, her voice high and thin.

  “What do you mean?” Alferd said, alarmed. “They're napping in their bunk.”

  “They're gone!” Toondie said, and everyone dropped everything to try and find the toddlers. They were nowhere to be found in camp. Not under some crate giggling and trailing snot, not in anyone's crate, not hiding behind anyone's equipment, not in the middle of any of the other kids all grouped up for play.

  I got a hinky feeling while everyone was searching the campsite, so I climbed up on top of our crate, and sure enough, I saw Benjones and his brother walking away from camp, holding hands. Benjones was holding some small toy in one hand, the baby's hand in his other.

  There's no way that should have happened. The fence should have kept them as in as it keeps the critters out. Huw dropped the fence quick after I yelled down to him, and the Almarics took off across the plain to catch their children. Toondie was sobbing by then, and Udo Jalloh wrapped an arm around her to comfort her, and Deja Watson squeezed her hand.

  My own heart had all but stopped when I saw those little snot machines tooling away from camp – they're snack-sized for the Estoper NS C10, that spiked, yellow-undersided lizard thing. We have yet to see one, but nature being the jerk it often is, that could have easily become the first time we saw one.

  The Almarics got the kids back inside the campsite, and Huw raised the fence again, and walked around testing it while Phenni Almaric scolded the children and her husband got back to cooking, his face pale and set. The fence should cause a strong, averting sense of discomfort at about ten centimeters away from it. I've never seen someone walk through one, not even an angry grown ass adult, let alone a knock-kneed four year old and his drooling baby brother.

  After dinner Huw sat down with Benjones and tried to get him to explain how he got outside the fence. The kid couldn't put into words why he and his brother were off exploring, and he couldn't explain how he got outside of the fence. He said his pooka opened the fence like a curtain, and just went out. He said he and Blaines were going to go play with his pooka.

  Alferd explained that Ben's pooka is his imaginary friend, that Ben's pooka has been with the family since Ben was about two and a half years old.

  “I have a new pooka now,” Ben said, grinning. “I left the old pooka back on the station because he was scared to come with.”

  “I thought maybe your pooka was the toy you had in your hand out there,” I said. Alferd and Phenni gave me the weirdest look.

  “He didn't have a toy when I caught up to him,” Phenni said.

  “He must have dropped it,” I said, shrugging awkwardly. Or, you know, I'm an old fart with bad eyes. The latter explanation is the one I am sure Phenni was leaning towards.

  “It was my pooka!” Ben said, smiling again. “He's very little, and he talks like this – ewibwibwib – but Blaines and I understand him.”

  “Huh,” I said, and snapped my yap shut. Kids are so weird, Marda, so weird. You like these boggling little pudding creatures?

  We let the kid get back to doing his kid thing – in this case, drawing on his pad, and the adults moved a bit away to talk quietly.

  “Maybe he did have a toy, then,” Huw said. “Maybe he dropped it out there – maybe the toy shorted out part of the fence somehow.”

  “I've never seen a toy do that,” Phenni said.

  “Maybe we should have the parents quietly come test some toys on the fence,” I said, and Huw agreed.

  “We'd better be sure. If they'd wandered off after dark or in a heavier fog...” Phenni and Alferd blanched and shuddered as one. Neither their parents or their Aunt Toondie let those children out of their sight even for a moment the rest of the night. When they tucked the kids in for bedtime, Alferd stayed in the crate, angled on one of the benches so he could keep his eye on the boys while reading on his pad.

  Misty Watson was apparently frightened by the uproar, after everyone else had calmed down, I saw Rumor sitting with her, rubbing her back while Misty rocked back and forth, tears in her eyes and fingers to her mouth.

  We haven't run into a toy yet that disrupts the tent. Whatever it was that Benjones, miniature adventurer, had in his hand and dropped out there on the plain, if it really did disrupt the fence enough for the two kids to escape, at least there's nothing else like it left in camp.

  Of course, writing this down, it occurs to me it wasn't a toy after all. Kids pick up and play with anything. We're going to have to test anything small enough to fit in Ben's hand, and we're going to have to keep a very close eye on the littlest ones.

  And the bigger ones if they figure it out before us. Isn't like teenagers have tons of foresight and common sense. We're going to have to make it very clear that everyone stays inside the fence once it's up. I'm not even a parent and I was scared snotless when I saw them out there, so incredibly small, alone and wandering away. I don't need that kind of stress, damn it. I am old.

  I need a shot of bourbon and some sleep. Happily, thanks to my careful packing and my hidden contraband, I will have both of those things very shortly.

  Goodnight, Marda.

  Night 17.

  Dear Marda, Thank goodness for an evening as quiet as the day was. I don't think any of the parents really slept well last night, and I didn't, either. I woke up more than a few times, walked outside under my awning, only to see one parent or another out reading their pad or fiddling around outside their crate, too. Lots of wordless nodding acknowledgment to each other, because who wants to talk when their body craves sleep but their mind won't shut off?

  After the whole “pooka” episode, I didn't really feel like telling a faery tale this evening, even though the kids got shorted story and music time in all the uproar and worry over the fences yesterday. This evening I told them some Old Japan folk tales: The Two Frogs; Little Peachling; the Tongue-Cut Sparrow.

  Japanese folk tales can be every bit as dark as Celtic tales can be. Like I said, though, it never seems to bother the kids the way adults fuss it will. Their eyes get big, they ask questions or exclaim, but they never want the story stopped. And no amount of stories about loud messy kids getting eaten seems to keep a kid from being loud and messy.

  Odd little brains they have sometimes. So imaginatively literal.

  Little Catrin talked to me some about her faeries tonight, and I did ask her if Trevor and Liberty ever asked her to come outside the fence. May as well head that off right now. She said no, but that Trevor and Liberty could pass back and forth through the fence whenever they wanted. They didn't ask her to come out because she told them she was not allowed to leave the fence after we circled the crates in the evening.

  “So what all do you and the pointy-head faeries talk about?” I asked. “We talk about clothes and the crates and they like to play with my pad. And we talked about stories and drawing and my mom's harp. And why Benjones and Blaines are so much smaller. Trevor says you smell very different and at first he thought you were a different kind of animal than I am.” She giggled.

  “Hmmph,” I grunted, grumpy. “Old men do smell bad.”

  “You don't smell bad,” Catrin quickly assured me, concerned for my feelings. “You just smell like grandfathers do.”

  Then... I hate this story, it's stupid, but then...

  “I wish you were my grandfather,” she whispered right into my hairy ear, then hugged me quick before I could escape, and galloped off to play with her friends.

  I swear I could hear Huw snickering from the other side of camp. I swear I blushed just like Elyan around Iris Blue Watson.

  So stupid.

  I realize I haven't properly introduced you to the incorporated groups yet. I figure the Porpoise Blues group is the larger group, so I'll start off with them. Done talking about kids for the night anyway. The central figure of the Porpoise Blues group is Doc Raines. Everyone else in the group is a friend of his from college, most recent grads or newly certified, just like he is. His name is Rufus, an
d he has messy gold-brown hair, and dark almond eyes. Like the Watsons, his genetic heritage is difficult to discern, but the eyes hint at Asian ancestry. I never cared about ancestry until I started hanging around with you; you're so crazily interested in other human beings that ancestry fascinates you as part of the story of what makes a certain human that certain human.

  There's also Soren Hinrick and Annya Sanford, of course. Soren's ice-blonde, still a bit raw-boned in youth (except maybe the one he broke, still casted). He's got green eyes (probably of Icelandic ancestry – the weird little bits of your knowledge that bump around in my head sometimes, that's probably where I'm crazy). His leg is healing nicely, now that I mention it. Doc Raines is pleased.

  Annya Sanford is a year older than Soren, and very darkly funny. Her hair's as blonde as Soren's, and her eyes are hazel. If there's a bit of sarcasm to be had (and I don't get to it first) you can bet Annya can come up with it. She's intelligent, scattered, and like I said, funny. Annya's a botanist.

  Then there's Randi Jones, no relation to Benjamin Jones, hero of the Orphean Outpost. She's closer to thirty than the others in the group, and at first, unfortunate looking. The proportions of her face seem just so slightly off it's hard to tell why you want to stare at her face, that first time, in confused distaste. Since I look at everyone with distaste, at least she didn't catch on to me, and it isn't long before she looks much more appealing; sheer force of her charming personality. Her eyes – beautiful, liquid dark eyes – are just a little too big and a little too close, despite being, as a feature, actually lovely. Her nose has been broken and badly set, and seems disproportionately long for her face. Her face as a whole is delicately boned, but gaunt, her lips thin and her mouth wide and down-turned.

  I like her quite a bit. She's capable and knowledgeable, compassionate and non-judgmental without being a soft-headed idiot about other humans. I think she's got a crush on Doc Raines, but so does Annya. Annya's also got a crush on Soren, though, so I doubt her crush on Doc Raines is serious. I suspect Randi's crush – as carefully secret as she keeps it – is deeper.

  Thankfully I am not stupid enough to meddle in that drama. And despite the potential for drama, none of the Porpoise Blues group has tossed any melodramatic fits. Despite the couple of glances I've caught of Randi looking at Doc Raines with that look in her lovely eyes and the more than a few of Soren gazing at Annya and Annya gazing at Doc Raines, Soren, and Hans Erdich from the Black Moon group, the Porpoise Blues group appears to very much value their friendships. I suspect there will be no vying for the attention of handsome young Doc Raines; if Doc Raines ends up picking one of them for a girlfriend over the course of the next year (and he almost inevitably will pick someone, human nature and sex drives being what they are), the other will be happy for Doc Raines and their friend.

  Ok, I kinda hope he picks Randi, in part because Soren is so clearly in love with Annya. Also because Randi would be a good helpmate for Doc Raines. Randi's degree is in education, but like Bets Almond, she intends to spend some time while here producing a book. She is still employed by one of the schoolwork companies as well, and gets and submits work via beacon.

  The last member of that group is Dan Bascomb. He's a geologist, gay as a peony, and a tinkerer of no small skill. He had an ugly breakup just before Doc Raines signed up for this trip, and was cajoled by Doc Raines – a childhood friend and close friend right up through their college years – to come nurse his heartbreak on a new planet. I like him, too, and you know how I feel about liking people – I don't like it at all.

  If only he weren't interested solely in men – not a drop of bisexuality to be found in him, he told me over dashboard chess one afternoon, with a wistfulness that spoke of the serious lack of serious romantic prospects he expects to find on Estoper - I'd think he and Randi would be perfect for each other.

  Because I like both of them. A little. For young people. We started talking about relationships and boring crap like that because he asked me if I'd been married back in real life, as he dryly refers to the Commonwealth.

  “My wife's name is Marda. She chose this planet, she's the one who wants to settle a new world. She's back home for now, until we get settled and I can send for her. Write to her every night,” I said.

  “She couldn't come with?” “Wanted to. Things happened, like things do. I'll send for her later when the settlement's ready,” I answered shortly, glaring at the dashboard speaker. I don't like talking about it. I don't like being away from you, and I certainly don't want to discuss it with anyone but you.

  Kid's perceptive enough that he backed off and told me a bit about his own love life, instead. Poor idiot's a romantic, but I wouldn't call him that to his face. He's young, but I can see it in him – he wants that domestic homebody's dream; a lifelong partner to love until death, children, a dog, a little house.

  Ok, that's it. I'm getting... allergies or something.

  Goodnight, Marda, beautiful Marda.

  Night 18.

  Dear Marda, It won't be long now until we're at PS 4, or “home”, and we can start building our town. A few days, a week at most, barring something catastrophic happening. And now that I actually put that into words I feel like finding some wood to knock on, but there's none handy.

  I just knocked on the grass. I am glad no one saw me do it. I'm going to put our dome toward the outside of the village, and claim a nice big garden for us. We all get the amount of space we've paid for, so it's not like I can just say “Ok, here we are, this half of Estoper is mine” but I can be sure to pick s plot that has plenty of fertile space. The settlement area itself is not going to be nearly as flat as the plains have been up until now; even though it still appears flat now, I've noticed we're going uphill.

  We'll go uphill, then wind down a natural path marked on our GPS maps, and find ourselves on a broad plain above the tide and potential flooding, but with what looks like a wonderful view of the ocean, assuming we can even see it through the fog.

  We're told the fog is much lighter near the ocean, though. I hope there's fish. Old men should be able to fish. Edgerift had some decent fauna studies for the land areas, as few species and sparsely populated as the planet is, but very little information about what's in the oceans.

  Once we're settled, the xenobiologist, botanist and xenobotanists and the ecologists can start their studies. They'll be roaming the plains all over again, but hopefully coming home to the village every night. Doc Raines will set up his clinic. We'll set up our town hall/schoolhouse and the gathering gazebo.

  The Gethins, the Watsons and the Almarics will park close to the center of the village. The two incorporated groups will too, and the rest of us will range out a bit more, though we're to stay within eyesight. Since the fog reduces the distance of eyesight, Huw agrees I can park out as far as they'll still be able to see a light burning at our dome; we'll still all have the dashboard coms and the beacon, if there's trouble, I'm close enough to come help, and they're close enough to help me.

  That's plenty close. Once the year is up and Edgerift decides to open the planet for more settlers, if all goes well as they plan, maybe you and I can move a bit farther out and a bit closer to the ocean. I suppose it depends on if Huw needs me closer.

  Alis Gethin and Randi Jones have begun planning out a schoolhouse. Once everything is set up, we can arrange for drops of materials; food is already scheduled to drop near the settlement. They, and the tech/civil engineer in Black Moon, believe they can build a schoolhouse out of sod brick and simply allow the grass to grow over it. The way the grass intertwines naturally and the toughness of the roots (you really have to yank that stuff out) should provide some good structural integrity. Windows and other structural details will arrive by drop, of course at a cost if Edgerift doesn't agree to the expenditure.

  I've already decided, because I know this is exactly what you'd do if you were right here, to offer to help with or cover the costs. If only there were woods nearby, we could make our own schoo
l furniture. Edgerift's book claims there's forests on Estoper, but there don't appear to be any notable ones near our settlement. I'm sure, though, we'll find some sort of building and crafting material.

  The built-in bunks are all repurposeable, we can take them down and break them into parts for benches, tables or non-built-in beds. You and I have plenty of extra bunks, I'm sure we can easily furnish the school with those. Since we'll be starting out with a combination schoolhouse/town hall, the benches and tables I can put together from the bunks will serve for town meetings too.

  Like our first town meeting about what to call our town. There's more than a few ideas floating around out there, but I just have two: Mardabell and Femiboro. Or Femi's something, like Femi's Bay. I've talked a bit about the idea to Udo Jalloh, and he grinned, looked a bit touched.

  “When we get there and see it, if it should have Femi's name on it, we'll see what to call it then,” he said. Not bad advice; if the place is secretly a suckhole, I don't want your name attached to it, much less Femi Jalloh's.

  Right at this moment little Ayo Jalloh, Jelly Watson, Masumi Kimura, and the Gethin twins are playing catch through the middle of the campsite. Kojo Jalloh's done his little brother the enormous favor of allowing them to use his prized football, and back and forth and to and fro flies this black and white comet at the speed of excited shrieks.

  I feel like warning them that they're going to break something. All our stuff's secured, though, so I need to just stop being an instinctive curmudgeon and let the kids blow off some steam. The older girls are hand-sewing tiny clothes for odd-looking fashion dolls – all elongated and crowned with bushels of hair. The teenagers are playing instruments; Iris Watson can't play an instrument yet, but her singing voice is pretty nice.

  She didn't want to sing at first, crumbling inwards in utter, flabbergasted shyness at the suggestion. Then she started singing, very quietly.