Category: Issues

T. K. Rex

The Submersible aQuatic Cetacean Communication Robot—professionally known as SQCCR, affectionately known as “Squawker”—splashes into the harbor from the starboard side of the Charlotte’s Web at dawn. A few brilliant, cool drops hit Julia’s skin.

The heat index is already 96 and aiming for the red by ten. What must the dolphins think of the extra three degrees the world’s gained since the oldest members of their pods were born?

Maybe this is the upgrade that will finally help her find out.

“Everything’s looking good,” Parviz says through the radio, from his station by the monitors back at the lab. “Hey I’m hearing some signature whistles—it’s the ladies. They’re not too far from you.”

Julia scans the gentle blue-green waves for them, from the causeway in the distance to the houseboats down in Punta Gorda, where there were houses just ten years ago.

“There they are!” Tumelo says, pointing west with their chin. Julia’s grad student from Botswana is taller than her, even more than most people are, with a frohawk, a kind heart and a gift for 3D modeling.

Julia can see the pod, dorsal fins cutting through the shining surface of the bay, spouts and splashes getting closer. Parviz comes in on radio, “Whoa, they’re already approaching. That was fast.”

Time to get back to the lab. She misses the days of working directly with the dolphins, but it’s better for them this way.

As the Charlotte’s Web turns around and picks up speed, she catches a glimpse of them below the surface. Ten female Atlantic bottlenose dolphins, gray and sleek and strong, with their three calves. The mammals swim against, around each other, close and then apart and close again, one leaps, another leaps, three more surface to exhale.

Tumelo grins wide at Julia, then looks back out at the water, where just below the surface a dolphin is already swimming right up to the drone. “That must be Summer,” Tumelo says.

Julia nods. Summer’s the only one who hasn’t lost interest in Squawker.

Parviz confirms. “She’s definitely saying something—” a few clicks and whistles filter through his pause. “It’s processing . . . .” It’s not physically possible to be any sweatier, but Julia’s palms somehow feel even slicker than they did a minute ago. Is this it? “Oh shit,” Parviz says. “The new visuals are way better.”

Julia’s heart pounds in her chest like a storm. Tumelo grabs her arm, grip strong and smile wide.

“What are you seeing?!” Julia asks.

“Uhh . . . It looks like Squawker! It looks a lot like Squawker. She’s literally sending us a portrait. It’s crystal clear, Jules. Damn. We nailed it this time.” Victory and wonder in his voice.

“Yes! We finally did it!” Tumelo jumps up and down with excitement. “Oh, I would hug you if it wasn’t so hot!”

Julia laughs and cheers with her team. Two decades of work have led to this. The hardware, the algorithms, the past three years of fine-tuning . . . all so she could see the dolphins’ sounds the way the dolphins do, in three dimensions. She can’t wait to get back to the lab and look at the results herself.

After a lifetime of wondering, she’s finally going to know exactly what they’re saying.

What will she say back?

That night, instead of going home, they look at all the footage and the readouts from the afternoon another dozen times. Tumelo picks up samosas and biryani from the place across the street and Anusha brings Prosecco. Parviz runs ‘30s pop songs through the visualizer until Anusha drives him home. By 2am Tumelo and Julia are still there, looking over everything, just one more time.

“Right here,” Tumelo says, pointing at a monitor. “That’s the drone.”

“I wonder,” Julia says, leaning on the back of Tumelo’s chair, “if we have enough data with this yet to compose an original message. Not just mimicry.”

“Oh.” They nod enthusiastically. “I think we do. We’ve got the drone, and the dolphin, and the boat, and I still think those things are fish . . . . And then there’s all this stuff that we just have no idea what it is.” They grin, gesturing to the incomprehensible forms swirling on the third monitor.

“What do you think of it? Honestly.”

“I think . . . it’s beautiful. It could be pure expression, play, something we’re not calibrated for . . . .”

“Abstraction?”

Tumelo laughs. “Anusha definitely thinks so.”

“But do you think so? Tursiops has been around at least five million years, and the dolphin braincase has barely changed in twelve million. They’ve had the biology to communicate with this level of complexity six times longer than we’ve been capable of spoken language. We know they have the mental capacity. We know they’re capable of abstract thought. And now we finally have a way of teasing out which words are literal representations of our world, and which aren’t. Those are the ones I want to understand next, Tumelo.”

“I’m with you, Dr. Redhearth. It’s all very exciting.”

Julia swallows the last of her warm prosecco. “You’re bilingual.”

“Trilingual, actually,” Tumelo grins. “Why?”

“Nice. So you know how learning a new language expands the way you see the world, the concepts you have access to.”

“Oh definitely.”

“Imagine what new concepts they could bring into our world, Tumelo.”

“Or us to theirs, Dr. Redhearth.”

True. Julia nods and thinks of all the trash in Charlotte Harbor. All the violence in the news. The extremists and the propaganda, the dead zones in the Gulf . . . . But maybe . . . maybe an outside perspective is just the thing the human world needs.

Or another glass of Prosecco. She pours the last splash of the last bottle out into each of their mugs. “To Summer.”

“To Summer.” Tumelo smiles warmly.

It’s room temperature and flat. What had they been talking about before the dread seeped in? Something about how long dolphins have been capable of language. “You know,” Julia says, swirling her mug, “they’ve had time to evolve their languages into things we might not even understand. Nam-shubs, obscure allegories, ways of communicating we’ve only imagined in science fiction.”

“Look at you, Dr. Redhearth, getting into the telepathic dolphin comment thread! If the Redditors could see you now!”

Julia laughs heartily. “I am not saying they’re telepathic! But since you went there, we know they can target sound like a laser beam, right? So what’s stopping them from triggering the speech centers of the brain directly and making us hear English words, with enough practice? I’m just saying!”

“You’re just tipsy, is what you are!”

“That. Is true.”

“Listen, Julia. Tomorrow, I’m going to start composing our first original animation. And we’re going to finally prove to Summer that our little Squawker isn’t just a novelty. And then, one piece at a time, we’ll figure out what all that other . . . stuff . . . is. Tonight, you better call a car, OK?”

“Tomorrow’s Saturday.”

“And?”

The whole team is at the research center, glued to the monitors streaming Squawker’s feed. Summer’s smooth, gray form fills the video, and her usual chatter streams in through the speakers. It’ll take time to process that part of the conversation, but right now, Julia is trying to remember to breathe, palms sweating, waiting for a momentary lull in Summer’s monologue to press the button. To share, for the first time, something in Summer’s language that isn’t merely mimicry.

And then it’s there, the break, and Summer waits. Usually this is when they play what she just said back to her, and they go back and forth till she gets bored or the other dolphins call her away. But this time, Julia hits the key that plays the statement they spent a solid week composing out of scraps of sound, testing and retesting to make sure it reproduced in three dimensions as intended.

On the screen, it looks like what she hopes Summer sees: a 3D rendering of Squawker and a dolphin in motion, swimming together. The computer generates the caption: SQUAWKER AND DOLPHIN SWIMMING TOGETHER. The sound is just a set of squeaks, indistinguishable to Julia’s ears from thousands she’s heard before, most of it outside her hearing range entirely.

What follows is a moment of curious silence, Summer turning her head to look at Squawker closely with one eye, then swimming around it, examining it the way she did the first time she met the drone two years ago. The gathered scientists all hold their breath.

Then a barrage of squeaks and whistles, and Julia thinks she recognizes the same squeak they just sent, repeated several times, but she can’t be sure.

The translation comes in. A perfect 3D rendering of Squawker and a dolphin swimming side by side. The machine translation captions: SQUAWKER AND DOLPHIN SWIMMING TOGETHER.

There’s so much to analyze here, Julia’s thinking, as a murmur rises, and becomes a cheer, and Parviz starts high-fiving everybody. Tumelo, grinning wide, asks Julia if they should draft a press release.

Before Julia can even wrap her head around that, Summer swims away abruptly.

“Oh shit, we didn’t scare her off, did we?” Parviz asks.

“Not this dolphin, she’s fearless,” says Tumelo.

“She’s telling the pod. Look,” Anusha says, and points to the Camera 5 monitor with a slender hand and an eager sparkle in her black-lined eyes. In the distance, Summer joins the pod, and the speakers all around the room play their faint, far away chatter.

Julia is certain she hears sounds that make up SQUAWKER AND DOLPHIN SWIMMING TOGETHER repeated among the pod. Summer’s telling them what the drone said, she has to be.

It’s working. Real communication is finally possible. The weight of so many years of doubt starts lifting.

But what happens now? For a moment she feels almost dizzy.

The pod follows Summer back to Squawker. Summer whistles at the drone, and Julia would give anything to know what she’s saying right now, but there’s a short delay in processing. For now, there’s only one response. Julia hits send.

SQUAWKER AND DOLPHIN SWIMMING TOGETHER.

The pod erupts in chatter. So many speaking so fast simultaneously they’ll never pick it all apart.

Later, analyzing everything, Summer’s parting phrase that day stands out. It’s a vivid image of herself and Squawker swimming side by side, just like in the message they sent, but now surrounded by the pod. In the recording, Squawker has no reply. But Summer waits. She waits until the pod begins to leave, and call for her, and then she finally, slowly, turns and swims away.

POD SWIMMING. FISH. POD CHASING FISH. CATCHING FISH. EATING FISH. SQUAWKER EATING FISH.

Julia only has so many phrases to respond with. She pulls up the new VR interface Parviz designed and adds a file from the weather category they explored last week.

SQUAWKER EATING SUN. She makes up for the drone’s lack of a mouth by simply having it absorb the sun, swallowing it whole through its solar panel fins.

Summer gives the drone a sort of side-eye. SUN, she repeats. Incredulous, maybe? Then a string the computer isn’t confident about but might be a dolphin jumping so high it gets lost in the clouds. Julia laughs. That can’t be it, but wow. It’s almost a joke, almost a fable. Could they really have those? Anything is starting to seem possible.

In a stroke of insight, she commands the drone to surface and start charging up its solar fins. Through its cameras, Julia floats virtually upward through the green, wet world that surrounds her in VR. Summer follows, chattering so many things so fast the computer can’t keep up. When the fins unfurl, Summer squeaks, and the computer catches: SQUAWKER EATING SUN. SQUAWKER EATING SUN. SQUAWKER EATING SUN.

Julia wants to try something else. SQUAWKER, HUMAN. The human form she picks is a bit of public domain 3D clip art, a blonde woman in a bikini, frozen in a front crawl stroke.

Summer’s response makes her laugh out loud. SQUAWKER EATING HUMAN.

SQUAWKER AND HUMAN SWIMMING TOGETHER, she replies.

HUMAN, BOAT, [UNINTELLIGIBLE]. NETS. FISH GOING UP. [UNINTELLIGIBLE] DOLPHINS AND HUMANS SWIMMING TOGETHER. [UNINTELLIGIBLE] HUMAN SHOOTING AT DOLPHINS FROM BOAT.

The last image isn’t one she’s seen before from Summer, but it’s clear as day, the gun is there in the man’s hands and the shockwave of the gunshots distorts the whole thing in a sudden burst. The machine translation is dead on.

A few years ago some drunk asshole took his motorboat out into the harbor and started shooting at the dolphins playing in his wake. Two females were injured, and a calf was killed. Julia was livid. The whole mess sped up the team’s decision to use drones exclusively, to keep the dolphins from getting too comfortable around boats, from forming any relationship with humans at all.

Summer’s expression of the event chills Julia. Not just because they both remember the same painful incident, and not just because it’s finally proof dolphins can translate what they see above the water into 3D burst-pulse language. The thing that feels like a storm surge on a doorstep is the fact it wasn’t even Summer’s pod.

And Summer isn’t done. DOLPHINS SINKING. [UNINTELLIGIBLE]. She claps her jaw, flashing pointed teeth.

That’s a threat behavior. Julia replies with: DOLPHIN SWIMMING. HUMAN SWIMMING. SQUAWKER SWIMMING. HUMAN DOLPHIN AND SQUAWKER SWIMMING TOGETHER.

Summer replies, adding her own signature whistle to the established dolphin form: SUMMER-DOLPHIN AND SQUAWKER SWIMMING TOGETHER. She doesn’t mention humans.

“I guess I don’t blame you, Summer,” she mutters to the monitors. “We’ve been dicks, haven’t we?” The shooter in the motorboat didn’t even go to jail. He didn’t even lose his boat. He didn’t even lose his gun. She wants to believe that would have gone differently if it had been a human child killed, but this is Florida, after all.

She tries to keep the abstract as downplayed as possible, but everyone sees through it. The moment it’s up on the conference website, Julia starts getting messages from colleagues.

“You did it, didn’t you?”

“Is this what I think it is?”

“Holy shit I can’t wait to see this talk.”

“I’m literally imagining you showing up on that stage with a dolphin in some kind of land suit, please tell me that’s your plan, Julia!”

Even the most well-meaning responses from people she’s known for years make her palms sweat when she sees them.

She’s jet lagged from the flight to Vancouver, and nervous on the stage the way she always is, but when Summer’s picture comes up on the screen she can’t help but smile.

“And that’s Summer, interacting with our drone this past July, a few weeks after the upgrades. And now I’ll play some clips from our conversation that day.”

She goes to the next slide, and the squeaks and buzzes of burst-pulses fill the hall from every speaker, while the 3D animation of their meaning plays, overlaid on the video of Summer holding a fish between her teeth. FISH, the caption says, with Summer’s perfect 3D render of the creature she just caught. FISH, the drone repeats. They do the same with SNAIL, BEER CAN, and SCALLOP.

After apparently finishing the lesson to Summer’s satisfaction, Squawker says, CHRYSANTHEMUM. Tumelo made the 3D render from a scan they’d taken at a diner table when the team was out for lunch.

“We wanted to see what she would do with something she’s never observed before.”

Summer swims away.

“Wait for it . . . .”

She comes back a moment later with a sea urchin clinging to a frayed yard of orange rope. It does resemble the chrysanthemum, as much as anything in Charlotte Harbor. The crowd laughs, then starts applauding.

By the time her talk is over and the line for questions stretches out the door, she feels a thick accomplishment set in like cooling rain. Her cheeks begin to ache from smiling.

She calls on the first person in line, one of the young cynics who gave a talk last year on how it’s probably all pretty nonsense, just like birdsong.

“All the so-called ‘words’ you’ve shown us today are still basically mimicry,” he says. “No different from a lyre bird replicating the sound of a chainsaw. So, I applaud you for finally getting these images into focus, but is there any indication in any of this that the dolphins are doing anything but playing?”

And what’s so wrong with that? Deep breath, Julia. Be nice. “There is,” she answers calmly. “Most of what we’re picking up from the rest of the pod is still unintelligible. Can we definitively say everything we don’t understand is something profound? Of course not. A lot of it is probably gossip, which we know humans use for social bonding. Some of it is probably fun nonsense, the way we make up words when we sing. The big breakthrough here is that now, with a few words we do understand, we can start to learn the rest. Next question.”

An older man she’s only met a couple times is next. “Well, this is more of a comment than a question.” A few groans come from the audience. “This research is very interesting, and if it can be successfully replicated with more than one dolphin, I have to say it seems like it might be enough to start seeking legal personhood again.” A few people clap, most nod.

“You might be right. I hope you’re right.” Julia shrugs and smiles. “Who knows, maybe this time next year it’ll be Summer up here doing the presenting.”

Polite laughter. Everyone here knows it’ll be years before they understand the language enough for Summer or some other dolphin to declare their personhood, without ambiguity, in a court of law. And even then, laws tend to wait as long as possible to change.

The whole team gathers after, greeting her with high fives and hugs outside the conference center. “Drinks on me!” Parviz declares, and belts out a sea shanty as they walk along Vancouver Harbor to the hotel bar.

Oh what do you do with a talking dolphin?

What do you do with a talking dolphin?

What do you do with a talking dolphin?

Register her to voooote

Anusha, still laughing at Parviz’s antics, stops and leans over the rail, pointing out at the water. “Look, orcas!”

They all stop and look. Julia sees a spout, then three tall black dorsal fins, out near the bare wood spires of a sunken forest. It was still an island last time she was here.

Tumelo declares heartily, “They send their congratulations, Dr. Redhearth!”

“I wonder if we could explain all this somehow to Summer when we get back?” Anusha muses, tracing a slow line across the condensation of her beer glass. The water drips on to the reclaimed wood of their corner table.

Behind Anusha, up above the bar, someone’s set the television to a news station, which Julia has more or less successfully ignored all night.

“Yes! I could throw together a whole sequence for her,” Tumelo says. “I wonder how much of it would make sense to her though?”

“I bet she thinks airplanes are some kind of bird,” Parviz says.

Anusha laughs a little. “I think she knows they’re machines. When they fly low? All that noise? Come on.”

“But does she know what a machine is? Does she know Squawker is a machine?” Parviz counters, and finishes his third glass.

The television centers in on Florida. A red trajectory cone that was pointed at the panhandle yesterday has shifted south. Way south.

“Shit.”

The others follow her gaze.

The meteorologist’s voice finds its way across the bar to them, “This might remind some of our long-time viewers of Ian back in ‘22, or even Charley in ‘04, if you were around back then—”

“Checking our flight.” Parviz already has his phone out. A moment later they all get the notification: canceled.

“What do we do?” Tumelo asks. “I’m from a landlocked country.”

“Do we have someone who can go to the lab and get the hurricane shutters down?” Anusha asks.

Julia nods, already swiping through her contacts.

The room she’s splitting with Anusha has two oversized blue beds, stylized wall art of orcas and salmon by a local indigenous printmaker, and an inset television that takes up most of the widest wall.

All they can do is watch.

Watch as the too-warm water of the Gulf of Mexico feeds the hurricane enough to grow from category four to category five.

And in the morning, after barely sleeping, all they can do is watch, still in their pajamas, Anusha’s hand over her mouth in shock, Julia too frozen with her arm around Anusha to answer Tumelo’s knock on their door, as a category six makes landfall.

Julia’s mom has a hundred million mugs. There’s one from their Grand Canyon trip when she was nine, one each from all five tech companies Mom built apps for in the ‘20s, and of course the one from Bermuda that Julia gave her when she went for research as a grad student. There’s a dolphin on it. Like her favorite Florida mug back at the lab. The one that’s probably at the bottom of Charlotte Harbor now with everything else.

Julia pushes the dolphin mug back into the crowd and grabs the two handmade ones they found at a garage sale once when she was seventeen. She fills them up with coffee and meets Mom out on the side deck, where the late-spring sun has warmed the air enough that she can barely see the steam rise off their drinks.

“Ooh, you brought coffee! See, this is why you’re my favorite.”

“Ha. I’m your only.” She can’t quite bring herself to smile back, but she tries.

“You know I think I saw a fluke out there,” Mom says, pointing with her chin while she cups the hot mug with both hands. “Couple spouts.”

To the west, past a swathe of blooming coastal prairie and a grove of twisty windblown pines, the cold Pacific Ocean crashes into the state of Oregon, gnawing off a chunk with every wave.

Julia grunts, and sips her coffee, leaning back into the wooden deck chair.

“You know,” Mom says, “They still do those whale watching trips I used to take you on in town. Different folks running it, nice couple though. I could book us—”

“Mom, stop. I don’t want to go whale watching.”

“I know.” Mom sighs. “You’re depressed. I get it.” She sets her mug down on the little rusting table that she’s kept out here for twenty years. “But honey, this is your life’s work. You’ve got to get back up on your feet. It’s been six months.”

“Are you sick of me already?”

“Never! But Julia, seriously. There has to be something you can do instead of sitting around here playing video games all day.”

“I’m not . . . .” Who is she kidding? Every few days she brings out a VR headset with the intention of re-watching Squawker’s old recordings, the ones saved to the cloud, taking notes or something, maybe getting a new insight. But every time she puts it on, she stares at the folder for a few minutes, and inevitably opens Elder Scrolls VII instead, where she can be a hot elf mage with easily definable and imminently achievable problems to solve for the rest of the day.

“Yeah I thought so,” Mom replies to Julia’s trailed-off thought.

DOLPHIN SINKING.

“What’s the point, Mom? What’s the fucking point of trying to talk to dolphins when people are killed and displaced by the millions in these floods, and storms, and fires, and plagues? Every fucking year. I should be helping with the rewilding efforts out here, or doing climate science, or joining the protests or doing eco-terrorism, anything, anything that actually might help slow this planet’s fucking freefall.”

“Honey,” Mom says. “Leave the ‘eco-terrorism’ to the pros.” She winks. Julia suddenly wonders where she really was all last week, but before she can finish that thought, Mom continues, “I can’t believe I’m the one who has to tell you this, but dolphins are people too. And we share the same fucked up world. And they still need you.”

How can I help anybody when I’m the one drowning?

Julia’s phone vibrates in the pocket of her sweatpants. She sighs and takes a peek. Parviz. He’s been volunteering with the recovery effort since it started, texting her photos every few days that she can’t bear to look at. But this time it’s a phone call.

“Answer it!” Mom says.

She rolls her eyes, and does.

“Jules!” Parviz sounds different. Brighter. Sober. “You’re not gonna believe it. We found Squawker!”

The Charlotte’s Web, patched up from its encounter with a downtown Punta Gorda sports bar, sputters to a slow drift out near the debris-strewn strip of sand that was Boca Grande a year ago.

Parviz leans on the rail by Julia, joining her in awe of the destruction. There are no words for it.

But it’s not why they’re here.

“Wish Tumelo was with us for this,” he says.

“I’m working on their visa,” Julia replies, brushing a windblown curl out of her eyes. “If this is our pod, maybe we can get some funding, speed it up a little.”

Assuming the pod made it through the storm. Assuming Summer, or any of them, still remembers Squawker. Assuming any dolphin gives a shit and has the patience to start teaching them again.

“Hey!” Anusha yells from the cabin, pulling her headphones to the side. “I got the signature whistles! Three matches so far!”

If one of them was Summer, Anusha would have said so. Julia’s heart starts pounding anyway. Any familiar dolphin is better than none, and they were all interested in Squawker at first. Maybe it’s been long enough the novelty effect will work again.

But Summer . . . . She might still turn up. No reason to assume the worst.

“There they are!” Parviz points and grins wide.

Julia sees them. Three dorsal fins slip through the water, then another two, one so small it’s barely visible. A new calf.

She wonders what the little one’s signature whistle sounds like.

“They’re gonna be so stoked to see Squawker again,” Parviz says.

Where’s Summer?

When the drone is in the water, Julia heads to the cabin, where Anusha hands her the headset and makes room on the small bench. Their new onboard equipment is a joke compared to what they lost, but it’s all they can afford for now, and the Charlotte’s Web is the closest thing they have left to a lab.

Through Squawker’s cameras, she sees the dolphins in the distance. And the rubble on the sea floor, stretching as far as the blue-gray visibility allows today. Mailboxes, planks of wood, entire cars, palm trees with dead algae-laden fronds still on them, swaying in the current where they stick out from the sand.

And a few fish. Maybe, if the Gulf wasn’t too warm and too acidic, a coral reef would grow out of the ruins, over time.

She sends out a call to the pod, an image of Squawker. Maybe someone will recognize it.

A couple dolphins turn to look, and she’s hit with a barrage of echolocation clicks. One swims toward her, fast.

The rendered visuals are low poly and the translation lags, but the message is unmistakable.

SUMMER-DOLPHIN AND SQUAWKER SWIMMING TOGETHER.

It’s her. Julia catches her relief in her throat. “It’s her! It’s Summer!” she says out loud, and sends Summer’s message back as quickly as she can. Parviz and Anusha cheer.

“I’m texting Tumelo!” Anusha says.

Summer slides against the drone excitedly, knocking it off-kilter for a moment in a dolphin version of a bear hug. Then she hovers in the water, in front of Squawker’s front cameras, and unloads.

SUMMER-DOLPHIN SWIMMING [UNINTELLIGIBLE]. SHARKS EATING SQUAWKER. SQUAWKER CAUGHT IN NET. BOAT EATING SQUAWKER. HUMAN SHOOTING SQUAWKER.

Was she . . . worried about the drone? She goes on.

SUMMER-DOLPHIN ALONE, SWIMMING IN EVERY DIRECTION [LOW CONFIDENCE]. [UNINTELLIGIBLE]. BOATS SINKING. [UNINTELLIGIBLE]. HUMANS SINKING. DEBRIS [LOW CONFIDENCE] SINKING. TREES SINKING.

There’s a layer to the visuals that looks like something from the weather category. This is what the hurricane was like for her, it has to be.

Summer still isn’t done. SUMMER-DOLPHIN [UNINTELLIGIBLE] SQUAWKER. SUMMER-DOLPHIN LIFTING SQUAWKER TO THE SURFACE. [UNINTELLIGIBLE]. SQUAWKER [UNINTELLIGIBLE]. SQUAWKER SINKING. SUMMER-DOLPHIN [UNINTELLIGIBLE]. SUMMER-DOLPHIN PUSHING SQUAWKER TO LAND. SUMMER-DOLPHIN SWIMMING ALONE. [UNINTELLIGIBLE]. SUMMER-DOLPHIN WITH POD [UNINTELLIGIBLE].

“Damn, Summer.” Parviz says. He must be watching the cabin monitor. “Am I seeing this right? Did she go looking for Squawker after the storm and . . . .”

“She tried to help it by lifting it up to the surface,” Anusha says, in awe. “It’s what she would do with a sick calf, but . . . she also knows Squawker eats sunlight.”

“And then when Squawker still wouldn’t talk to her, she brought it to shore,” Julia says.

“Maybe thinking humans could help it?” Anusha wonders. “Maybe she knows we made it after all.”

“We found Squawker on the beach near the lab,” Parviz says. “Fuck. This explains why no one noticed it on the first pass. She hadn’t rescued it yet.”

It takes a moment to sink in.

“How do dolphins thank each other?” Julia breathes.

No one has an answer. Not yet. Not for years, if years are something they still have.

She has far more to thank Summer for than just saving Squawker.

Getting back out here, facing all their ruined equipment, all the ruined lives and homes. Joining Parviz and Anusha in the volunteer efforts while they were waiting for the boat’s repairs. Seeing the restaurant owners and fishermen and the people from the laundromat, all the neighbors of the lab who she never gave a second thought before, all working together to rebuild, stopping in the rubble to contain their sudden tears. She only came back to be a part of that because Summer saved her drone.

Summer’s endless patience, curiosity, collaboration . . . they’ve kept Julia afloat so many times.

And the simple fact that Summer’s always seemed to want to learn, to bridge the gap between them, just as much Julia . . . .

She leans against the hard wall of the cabin and bites her lower lip to hold back the tide of feelings.

Summer waits for her response, head cocked, eyes searching the cameras.

Kelsea Yu

Bruce is seventeen feet long and would’ve weighed around two tons when he was murdered by a trophy hunter. Killing rare creatures for sport is supposed to be a relic of the past now that most of the world’s wild animals are some level of endangered. But for some, the desire to prove something runs deeper than the fear of punishment. Thanks to a bartender’s tip about a local bachelor party bragging about plans to go shark hunting, the Marine Conservation Enforcement Guard made it to the dock in time to confiscate the kill. A year in jail and ten thousand dollars later, Bruce’s murderer has apparently paid his debt to society, but it was too late for this white shark.

And, maybe, for all of the white sharks. Only two sightings have been reported in the past three years, neither confirmed by experts. Scientists have been shouting for decades that we’re killing an estimated 97–99% of our ocean’s apex predators, and now that we might actually have done it, there are suddenly rallying cries. Humans love to begin caring about an animal as soon as it’s about to be wiped from the planet. Too bad that by then, there’s almost nothing we can do about it.

But with Bruce, whose body was flash preserved and taken to a conservation lab for immediate regrowth, we’re trying anyway.

We can’t reanimate him, or grow a new Bruce. It’s too complicated. We’ve never had enough specimens to fully understand shark biology, and full-body cloning laws are prohibitive enough that it would take us years just to get the go-ahead to try.

But we can grow new insides for a simulacrum using synthmuscle tech that was developed for prosthetics, faux cartilaginous skeletal elements, and sensory organs grown in Petri dishes. All housed in Bruce’s own skin, more permanently preserved than the rest of him.

The result is, well . . . about as much like a shark as the new human-skinned androids (now available in your choice of skin tone!) are to people. One more reminder that we need to save the actual sharks, or this is all we’ll have left.

But, hell, we worked hard on Bruce. He can swim like a shark, he can use most of a shark’s senses, and best of all? He can interface with a human mind—my mind, once we finish the security procedures.

As usual, I go through the checklist with Callista, one item at a time. Any gaps or fit issues with the skinsuit? No. Reoxybreather diagnostics? Green light. Interface fluid tank? Full. Core temp control air system? Working properly. Intravenous regulation line? Secure. And then I’m in the chamber at the heart of Bruce’s body, curled up like a fetus. Ready to be reborn a shark.

Callista hands me the breathing tube and face mask, and I expect the cool practicality of her fingers brushing back my hair and placing the wired nodes. But it’s Deng’s voice, low and solemn, that calls out gently instead. “Let me do it.”

She doesn’t argue or make a snide remark, and I’m grateful, even as my heart speeds up. If she can see it on her diagnostics screen, she keeps it to herself.

His fingers, rough and callused from the rigors of our daily work, run through my hair as gently as he can manage. He strokes my hair slowly and deliberately, and for a moment, I can’t breathe, my mind filling with what-ifs. If he hadn’t sworn off love after his husband died in a car accident the year before I met him. If we’d both gotten a little drunker that one almost night in the lab last autumn. If we hadn’t dedicated every moment of our waking lives to Bruce, to finding the last white sharks left in the world. To saving Carcharodon carcharias.

He draws in a breath, about to say something, and the world stops for one moment, full of potential.

And then he coughs, a sound that catches in his throat, and I hear him gulp before he whispers, “Come back to me, safe and whole, okay?”

He doesn’t add I couldn’t bear it if you didn’t or anything that dramatic. But it’s more than he’s ever dared say before, and I tuck away the memory of his words.

Come back to me.

“I will,” I whisper back.

He places the nodes and helps me adjust the breathing tube and face mask. Then the chamber closes, and I hear Callista’s disembodied voice in my head.

Are you ready?

Yes, I reply by thinking the words forcefully.

The chamber fills with interface fluid as Callista double-checks everything before zipping up Bruce’s skin.

The water parts for me as I glide through it in Bruce’s body, perfectly designed for the element to which humans are so ill-suited. As with all thunniform sharks, I need only bend my tail from side to side to propel myself forward at incredible speeds. It doesn’t matter that I’ve been in the body of this shark more times than my age; I find myself marveling at the raw power in my synthmuscular tail, the flexibility in my skin. Creatures so perfectly built for the ocean that they’ve survived everything this planet threw at them for millions of years.

Everything except humans.

I try to shove the thought aside, to let myself have a few minutes of wild, unbridled joy. I’m here. I’m really here, in the open ocean, as close to being a shark as anyone has ever become. This is my reward for every afternoon in the simulator, swimming faux seas. This is what I thought about on the long nights spent circling the tank in the aquarium after hours. This is what I dreamed of as we spent the last two weeks at an inlet, Callista and Deng keeping watch while I familiarized myself with a piece of the ocean.

I dash ahead, looking around at the vibrant life around me. Fish that scatter as my bulk approaches, neon specs that blur below me as I blow by them, until Callista’s voice tells me to slow down! We’re giddy at seeing the things we’ve dreamt of seeing up close. I slow down, swimming toward the ocean floor for a closer look.

Don’t descend too fast, Callista reminds me, and I hate that for a moment, in the joy of discovery, I’ve forgotten. This isn’t like diving; not exactly. The preservation fluid, readouts from the nodes, and intravenous lines snaking into my arms cushion much of the risk of internal pressure building to dangerous levels. And it helps that my mind is the only part of me that’s awake to connect with Bruce. Technically, my human body is asleep, which means I can’t panic and gulp in air or hold my breath, both lead contributors to diver deaths.

Still, despite the advantages we’ve built into Bruce’s body, it doesn’t hurt to be cautious when we’re paving new ground. I slow my descent, scanning the area both to give myself a clear look at the wonders beneath me and to offer Callista and Deng the footage they’re both craving. In a shallower pocket of ocean, psychedelic purple nudibranchs covered in neon orange quills crawl by, their squirmy bodies swaying with the rippling water. Wolf eels dart out of their hideouts in a rocky reef. A lobster sporting honey-colored spots snaps long pincers as it scurries away from me.

Got your fill? I ask Callista. Her yes response is followed by a contented sigh. Carry on the mission. I try to hold the images of bright, playful creatures in my mind as I wave my tail, speeding back up and heading for my destination. But dark thoughts keep creeping back in, staining the happiness burbling forth. Many of those cute little critters will eventually die off if the oceans continue warming. There might be nothing where you’re headed. It might be too late, and you’ll have spent years on this effort only to confirm what you already fear the most: we’ve killed off the last of the white sharks.

A roiling, selfish cloud of frustration settles over me. I just want to enjoy ten minutes of unvarnished freedom. Haven’t I earned it, working hard these past few years? Every moment we haven’t spent on Bruce has been spent in talks given to universities, to diving clubs, to elementary schools. Filmed, captioned, and shared online to improve accessibility and reach a wider audience whenever we could get permission.

We spoke with anyone who would have us, though we kept Bruce secret. We’d have loved to share each step in his development along the way, but our investors—the company whose animal interface technology we’re testing as part of our funding agreement—insisted we keep the project hidden during development.

If this trip is successful, Deng will edit the footage. Once our investors give the go-ahead, we’ll share what we have with the world. We’ll compile everything, slapping on bite-sized slogans to hook viewers so that we can get to the real, sincere, earnest talks. The interviews we’ve been recording with oceanographers and deep-sea divers. Lab tests done by a salinity expert. Footage of the whales who beached themselves thanks to the volume of underwater missile testing, so excruciating to their sensitive ears that they’d rather suffer a painful death on land than stay underwater for a moment longer.

None of us is a fan of the sensationalism of many documentaries out there, using worst-case scenarios and spun figures taken out of context to spur people into action for a few moments that don’t linger. There’s enough real danger that we don’t need to exaggerate. We want to drive continuous, sustained action. Ours will be not a single documentary, but an ongoing, interactive series. Maybe it’ll be just as ineffective as the rest, but we’re hoping Bruce will be enough of a splash to get people interested.

Nearing your destination, Callista says in my head.

I swim the last stretch, silently hoping we didn’t do this all for nothing.

The White Shark Café is halfway between California and Hawaii, a spot unofficially named by Stanford researchers decades back. The satellite tags they used to track four white sharks found them travelling frequently to a spot centered at 23.37°N 132.71°W. It once housed a diverse food chain, rich in nutrients—and mating partners—for white sharks, but none have been seen here for years. From time to time, we’ve heard rumblings about sending a submersible down to the Café, but it never seems to happen. There are too many ecological crises and too many endangered species, but never enough funding to go around.

What if we do find a white shark, and it tries to mate with you? Deng joked when we settled on the spot. I tried not to think about the taste of the word mate in his mouth as I sent back a quip. Something along the lines of let’s hope none of them have necrophiliac tendencies.

As I approach, proverbial breath held, it’s clear that won’t be a problem. There are no white sharks in sight.

Nothing yet, I tell Callista, mostly to break the mental silence. She and Deng must be as tense as I am.

Look around, she says.

Aye aye, cap. There are other types of sharks here. A shortfin mako speeds past, zipping out of sight before I can inspect it further. It’s exciting to glimpse it here—even if shortfin makos don’t top the endangered list. I swerve to avoid a large jellyfish undulating by. Fish of numerous species and sizes mix in the Café.

After spending some time circling the area, I catch sight of a blue shark descending into the depths, probably in search of food. It’s about half my length, and bears signs of mating scars in the form of bite wounds; a mature female, then. I hear a sob from Callista, and know if I were in my human body, I would be welling up with tears right now. We haven’t killed them all. Blue sharks, once an abundant species on the planet, are now critically endangered and thought by some to be extinct. They were heavily fished for their fins, their bodies often thrown back into the ocean to rot.

Our trip has already been worthwhile. I relax slightly.

Callista’s maternal grandfather was a restaurant owner who served shark fin soup every weekend at wedding banquets. Before trawling was banned worldwide, Callista’s father worked in the seafood industry, tossing unwanted animals back into the ocean after they’d been caught in massive nets. They may not be her sins, but more than the rest of us, she feels the weight of everything her ancestors contributed to the ocean’s decline. As a kid, she tried every tactic she could think of to convince her grandparents to stop serving shark fin soup. In doing so, she fell in love with the creature she desperately wanted them to care about: the blue shark.

Tag it? I ask, and Callista hesitates. We’ve equipped Bruce to fire tags if needed, so we can track migration patterns. But we’re here to reintroduce sharks to the world. How would it look if the first thing we do is show us shooting tag darts at them, even if it’s for research?

No, she says, and it’s probably too late anyway. The blue shark is out of sight. At least we got footage.

Yeah, I agree. Good footage, hopefully. How much time left?

Just under an hour before you need to head back. Your heat regulation is running through its power pretty fast down there. But you can come back at any time. We can always try again tomorrow.

I continue swimming.

It’s only when I’ve finally given up and resigned myself to the return trip that I spot her.

She swims below me, a deep blue hue that barely stands out from the color of the ocean. This far down, where most colors of the spectrum aren’t visible, everything is tinged various shades of blue. I feel a chill, impossible as I know it is in Bruce’s skin.

See her? I think-whisper to Callista, as if our conversation might spook the shark.

Yeah! Holy shit, she’s a beaut.

I follow, heart pounding.

Don’t go too fast! Callista reminds me. And don’t stay too long. You’re low on fuel.

I know. But as I follow the white shark down to a thousand feet below the surface, I don’t know if I’ll ever be able to tear myself away. I’ve seen videos of white sharks, of course. And I’ve been swimming as Bruce for a year. But watching her up close makes everything about my movements look clunky, like an animatronic, or one of those ancient stop motion movies.

I can see her muscles ripple as she cuts through the water. There’s a playfulness to her movements that belies the terrifying sight of her massively muscular body; or perhaps I’m too stuck viewing her through a human lens to understand the inherent alienness of the creature before me.

Though of course, in this domain where she reigns supreme, we are the aliens.

She speeds up, vanishing from sight, and I’m left looking desperately for her. We already have the footage, but . . . what if she’s not here when we return tomorrow? What if she moves on to another region? What if I never see her again?

And then suddenly she’s before me, so close we’re nearly nose to nose. The first white shark anyone has seen in years. In my human body, I’d be drawing in a huge, nervous breath right now. As a shark, I merely stare and hope.

Holy shit! Callista says.

Holy shit, I agree.

Oh my god. Look at her underside, Callista says.

I do, staring at her belly, which would be white higher up in the water but this far down is merely lighter blue. I stare at the proportions, all wrong, her light underside bigger than those of the models. My first instinct is to be afraid. What if she consumed trash humans threw into the ocean and got an infection? She looks healthy, and . . . .

Oh my god.

She’s pregnant! I shout the word in my head, startling myself with a jubilance so strong it’s like it’s my own pregnancy I’m announcing. A seed of hope, tender and fragile, blooms in my heart like a little green stalk poking up through hardened dirt. There’s hope yet.

Despite us, the white sharks might survive.

She turns tail and swims off and I follow her, eager as a lover. Without speaking her language, I don’t know if she wants me along for the ride or if she’s indifferent, but she doesn’t try to get rid of me. Trailing behind her, I listen to Callista’s uncharacteristic chatter in my head. We did it! We’re following you in the boat, Ally. Oh my god, I can’t believe we did it! I wonder how many pups she’s carrying. Five? More?

We cover the terrain together, leaving the Café far behind. We swim so quickly that everything feels like a blur and it’s all I can do to keep my focus on her, not to lose her. Just me and the unnamed female shark. The ocean is ours.

Ahead of us, the water begins to vibrate.

The net comes of out nowhere, scooping her up. I barely miss getting caught in it myself, and the edge of the rope skims my skin. I scream as I see her fight to break free, dashing ahead. I can hear Callista cursing, her horrified shouts mixing with my own panic as I swim after the net.

Those fuckers! Deng is calling the coast guard!

It’ll be too late, I think, following the net desperately. I watch, helpless, as the shark thrashes against the ropes that press into her side, packing her indiscriminately in with countless confused fish and bits of sharp, torn coral from the ocean floor. As the bottom-trawling net drags by, it leaves behind a trail of flattened land, destroying the natural landmarks many marine animals use to navigate the ocean.

I open my jaws and aim for a spot in the net near her, thrusting forward with all the power in my synthmuscles before clamping down on the netting.

Blood fills the water as my bite catches some of the fish in the net, severing their heads. Powerful as my massive jaws are, they’re nothing against the motorized forward momentum of the illegal fishing vessel. It drags me along, teeth still locked around the net. I shake my head vigorously back and forth, trying to saw at the rope, but it’s built to withstand worse, and my teeth were made for sinking into the soft flesh of fish and seals, not the tight twine of thick rope. Meanwhile, Callista’s updates run through my head.

We’re too far off the coast. They can’t get here for hours.

I let go and try again. The water is heavy with fish blood, and the shark begins to thrash harder, snapping her jaws wildly. The scent of fish guts is likely overwhelming her, telling her it’s time to feed. I manage to tear the rope in a few spots, and a few smaller fish stream out through the opening. I saw and bite again, and somehow manage to open a few more spots, even as my attacks continue to fill the water with the dizzying scent of death.

We’ll be at your coordinates in about fifteen minutes. Deng has his equipment ready to film the trawling ship. Are you okay?

Fine. Stay out of sight. And be careful!

We all know that if the trawlers find us here, witnesses to their crimes, they’re likely to shoot us. And if they discover a white shark in their net? She’ll be their prize, sold captive to a collector for a king’s ransom or, if they find her dead, stuffed and added to someone’s private display.

If I were in my human body, tears of frustration would be filling my eyes. Instead, all I can do is try again. At the thought, I realize I’ve been a fool. I’m acting on instinct, keeping the shark in my sight. But trawling nets are a human problem, and I need to think like a human. Quickly, I swim up to the line attached to the ship. Disconnect the net first, then get her out.

I try and try but this line is much thicker than the netting, and my shark’s teeth, so terrifying to humans, are nothing against the dense rope. It’s like trying to saw through a tree with a shard of broken glass.

Fuck fuckfuckfuck!

When I return to the net, the shark is stuck fast. Her fins are tangled up in the rope, lines on her skin rubbed raw. She’s cut up where the broken coral has pressed into her. I’ve barely made a dent in the rope. There’s no fucking way I’m going to get her out this way.

I watch, feeling more helpless than ever, as human greed swallows up the only evidence we’ve had in years that wild white sharks still exist. She’s pregnant, almost fully gestated, no small feat for a species that spends a year in the womb. She’s proof that there are more sharks out there—at the very least, the shark who impregnated her—and she feels like the last chance we have of knowing there will be more of them to come.

I can’t give up now.

Ally? What’s going on?

Deng’s last words to me fill my mind, echoed by the promise I made him. I wrench my thoughts away, heart already hurting at the choice ahead.

We assume human life is more valuable than any other kind. But is that still true when there’s eight billion of us and only a smattering of them?

Ally? Hello?

Does the math still hold when there’s an abundance of humans and a scarcity of sharks?

Ally? What’s going on?

I don’t want to do it. My thirty-five years don’t feel like enough.

There’s a crackle, and then the soft baritone of Deng’s voice. Ally Elizabeth Chen. My heart skips a beat. I can hear the panic, barely masked beneath each syllable of my name. Don’t do this. Please. He knows me too well, because he’d do the same in my position, and I in his. He knows.

I’m sorry, I whisper. Unspoken words ache in my throat. I know if I let him keep talking, he’ll talk me out of it.

Before I can change my mind, I activate the function we all hoped I’d never have to use, doing my best to tune out Deng’s pleas as I’m untethered from the simulacrum. A jolt of adrenaline shoots into my system as Bruce opens up and jettisons my body—my human body—into the cold, unforgiving water.

The air tank goes with me, part of the precautions we take. It takes all of my willpower to breathe steadily; gulping air could form an air bubble that paralyzes or kills me. I have just enough oxygen left to get to the surface safely, spending the proper amount of time at each depth interval. At the top, I can inflate my vest and wait for Deng and Callista to arrive. They’ll be at my coordinates in ten minutes. All I have to do is go up.

I swim down, chasing the dragging net and the shark tangled inside. With each movement of my muscles, I feel the shock of going from interface gel to cold water. Silently, I beg any being out there listening to please don’t let me cramp up, not now. Reaching into the pack strapped to my back, I pull out a diver’s knife and begin to saw.

My fingers feel tight and raw as I grip the rope, whittling away at each strand, cutting through piece by piece. The knife slips, slicing through my skinsuit and cutting into my arm. Pain floods me, and I barely hold back a scream; afraid my mouthpiece will fall out. Gritting my teeth over the mouthpiece, I continue to saw strategically until at last, the rope begins to come apart.

Carefully, I make my way over to the shark, who stares at me through alien eyes. She blinks from the bottom up, a movement that feels disorienting. I force myself to look at her wounds as a primal fear urges me to leave, now. A part of me finally understands why all humans fear her kind.

I watch her as I cut through the ropes, carefully cutting away the piece binding her fins and lower body first. Eventually, I make my way to her jaws.

It’s a mistake to check my air gauge when I already know what it’ll say, but part of me can’t help it. Even if Deng started putting his gear on as soon as we talked, even if Callista has sped her way to me the entire time, even if Deng jumps in the water as soon as they’re in range, it’ll be too late.

Two minutes.

It occurs to me that my arm is bleeding. There’s blood in the water, and I’m weakened prey, ripe for the taking.

My last sight might be the inside of a shark’s mouth.

I saw away the last of the entangled rope, using my remaining strength to pull it free from her, as gently as possible. She bursts through the hole in the net, wounded from coral cuts and rope burns. I hope that someday they’ll scar, because it will mean she’s survived this. That she’s survived us.

As the last of my air runs out, I watch her muscular tail bend back and forth, propelling her with incredible speed.

She swims away, into the dark waters, injured but free.

Floris M. Kleijne

It was Bobby’s last wish to be composted and spread over their vegetable patch above the Yellow River, just a couple of miles upstream of its confluence with the Mississippi. They grew peas, eggplant, tomatoes there; firm, tasty lettuce, cauliflower, and kale; even a patch of wheat that yielded symbolic amounts of flour, but that Bobby had been passionate about. The rich alluvial soil of the riparian required no fertilization to speak of, and hardly any irrigation, but Bobby had dreamt of resting among his crops, of living on in next year’s harvest.

The vegetable garden sat where the sloping grass leveled out before plunging down into the fecund abundance of the riparian proper. The garden bathed in sunlight throughout the day in most seasons, and Bobby and Alfonso had spent many an afternoon lying in the grass overlooking the rows of pea stalks and the low, cobbled width of the kale crops, drying and basking in the hot summer rays after swimming the calm flow of the river.

Al stares out of the study window at the garden across the river, a medical bill with hiragana and English printing clutched in his arthritic hand.

He had never expected Bobby to be the first to go.

His husband had always been stubborn about his health, both when all doctors had still been human and now that RD-TDs, Robotic Diagnostics and Treatment Devices, had mostly displaced the traditional white coats and stethoscopes. He rarely fell ill, and even when he did, he’d sooner cross the river for fresh vegetables than go to their GP for a pharmaceutical solution.

So when his eyes developed a yellow cast, and later, when sharp, stabbing pains in his stomach made him double over, he’d shrugged and cooked some kale.

“I’ll be fine,” he said, holding Alfonso’s gaze with yellowed eyes as Al argued through his tears.

“You can’t know that. You keep saying that our house isn’t medical, that it could be wrong. But it could be right, Bobby. Not just about the hep, but about the cirrhosis, about the liver cancer even. What if our house is right?”

Bobby squeezed Al’s hand and shrugged.

“Then we’ve had a good run, sweetheart. Who would have thought we’d get to our golden wedding? Not your parents, that’s for sure. Or mine, for that matter.”

They had chuckled in unison, until Bobby’s laughter turned into a coughing fit. Al had helped him sit up straight and adjusted his pillow. Together, they had watched through the panoramic bedroom window as the sun set over the Yellow River.

Bobby had been right. They’d had a good run. But even after fifty years, he was gone too soon.

And now Alfonso can’t even fulfill his last wish.

 

REMAINS DISPOSAL QUESTIONNAIRE – ROBERT “BOBBY” REOLIN

 

Please answer the below questions completely and truthfully and correct any information already provided. Withholding or misrepresenting information that may affect the disposal of your loved one’s remains is a class-3 misdemeanor under the Funerary Environmental Impact Act (FEIA) and will result in an automatic determination of Reuse.

 

1. The cause of death for your loved one is registered as:

 

COMPLICATIONS FROM AN UNTREATED HEPATITIS C INFECTION

 

The medication your loved one was taking at the time of their demise is listed as:

 

NONE

 

Please enter any information concerning the cause of death not included in this description, and/or list any medication they were using that might affect the disposal of their remains.

 

Al smooths the Japanese medical bill on the desk surface. Such a little thing, really. Bobby’s dental had covered all of it. Such a little thing, with such major consequences.

He sighs and gets up from the form-fitting desk chair with a grunt. Grabbing his coat from the rack by the front door, he makes a stop in the garage to rummage through their toolbox. He unplugs the Mazda from the charging socket and buzzes down their wooded driveway, taking Route 401 into town. He may be too late. The disposal director may already have processed Bobby. He may be too late, but he may just be on time.

All he needs is five minutes alone with Bobby.

It’s very rare these days to get a composting permit. It has grown as uncommon as burial and even cremation, what with all the prosthetics and chemo. For the thousandth time, Al wonders: how much of Bobby’s refusal of treatment was prompted by his desire to be spread over their vegetable patch?

 

2. Please select your preferred method of disposal of your loved one’s remains.

 

X Composting – By selecting this option, you apply for a composting and fertilization permit under FEIA.

 

0 Burial – By selecting this option, you apply for a burial permit under FEIA.

 

0 Cremation – The per-Lb fee for fuel and for carbon dioxide compensation will be calculated from the weight of the remains at the time of cremation. By selecting this option, you commit to paying this fee in full.

 

If the above options are greyed out, it means that medication, artificial bodily enhancements, and/or prosthetics present in the deceased’s body at the time of their demise as registered in the Central Administration of Medical Procedures (CAMP), preclude composting, burial and cremation. In that case, please select Reuse below.

 

0 Reuse – This may include, but is not limited to: organ transplant, scientific research, trace element reclamation, food production, and construction (primarily bones). If you select this option, please also select one of the previous ones for those body parts that turn out to be unsuitable for reuse.

The parking lot at the Disposal Home is almost full. There must be a ceremony in progress. Al hopes it will make his job easier. In a practical sense, that is; emotionally, he’s afraid this will be one of the hardest things he’s ever done.

When he enters the lobby, the receptionist recognizes him and gets up with a flustered look uncharacteristic of the disposal profession.

“Mr. Reolin, one moment.” She disappears into the back and returns with the familiar, kind figure of Mrs. Ahenny. Mrs. Ahenny rounds the reception desk and takes Al’s hand in both her own.

“Alfonso, it’s good to see you. I was just processing your beloved Robert’s composting application . . . .” A look of concern draws across her face, and Al’s heart sinks. Is he too late? She guides him to a conference room, all subdued colors and monochrome flowers. They sit at a low table.

“Is everything in order?” Al asks, but he already knows the answer.

“Well . . . .” Mrs. Ahenny places her fingertips together and gazes earnestly into his eyes. “Of course, we’ve discussed dear Robert’s deeply felt wish to be spread over your lovely vegetable garden. As you know, the FEIA is very clear on the rules and regulations surrounding composting. And I was processing your response to question 3 in the disposal questionnaire and assessing dear Robert’s earthly remains . . . .”

That’s it. They have found it. They have found it, which means that as far as Mrs. Ahenny knows, he has lied in the questionnaire. The automatic misdemeanor conviction isn’t the worst of it, not by a long shot. Al feels his tears starting to run as he realizes that any chance of a composting permit is now lost. Mrs. Ahenny has no choice but to report him, and Bobby will not rest in his beloved garden above the river. His remains will be processed for reuse.

The pliers in Al’s jacket pocket are useless now.

 

3. Please list any prosthetics, bodily enhancements, and/or other artificial items and materials that would prohibit composting. To obtain a composting permit, all of these items need to be removed prior to disposal director assessment.

According to the CAMP, the following items are known to be in the deceased’s body:

 

NONE

 

Al remembers their trip to Japan, the remarkable range of delicious foods, the terraces overlooking Kamo River, the cherry blossoms, the overwhelming beauty of the temples . . . and the acute pain that had all but incapacitated Bobby. It had been one of the few times Bobby had ever submitted to visiting a medical professional. The Japanese dentist had performed an efficient root canal, and Bobby had felt no pain for the remainder of their vacation.

Back Stateside, Bobby had had every intention of reporting the procedure to the CAMP. But administration had always been Al’s responsibility in their marriage. So of course, it got forgotten.

Until Al found the bill in Bobby’s desk yesterday.

If he had remembered, or if he had gone through Bobby’s papers before filling out the questionnaire, he could have mentioned the composite filling under question 3. He would gladly have paid the fee to have it removed.

Too late now.

“Mr. Reolin?”

Al sits up with a start, realizing Mrs. Ahenny has been speaking to him for some time.

“Sorry, what was that?”

She smiles.

“As I was saying, when we assess a loved one’s remains, we sometimes discover foreign items that were overlooked or forgotten, and thus accidentally left out of the questionnaire. Quite often, it’s nothing more serious than a molar with composite filling.” She pauses and looks him in the eyes. “If they were disclosed in the questionnaire, we would of course remove them; we have the tools right there, in an unlocked cabinet in the mourning room. But if the questionnaire doesn’t mention those items, FEIA requires us to report the omission, and to deny composting.”

She gets up and folds her hands in front of her. Al looks up at her with grief and dread. He is so certain what she’ll say that when she does speak he has to play her words back in his mind twice before he understands. And when he does understand, relief floods his eyes as he hugs her in gratitude.

“Would you like to spend some more time with your beloved Robert in the mourning room, while I prepare the composting permit?”

The glass facade of their home reflects the splendid, riotous sunset. Darkness will soon descend over the valley. The smell of grass and soil is loud and strong in the air, a scent Bobby used to love. The birds have already grown silent, and Al hears only the quiet murmur of the river and the wind whispering in the spruces above the house.

He kneels in the soil beside Bobby’s memorial and rubs some of the rich, fertile clay between his fingers. His gaze drifts over the garden. He sees Bobby’s ruddy cheeks in the curve of the tomatoes; the blond locks of his youth in the waving of golden stalks. Al knows he is being fanciful, but he deserves some fancy.

He turns to the marble monument and brushes off the splashes of mud from last night’s rainstorm. The words ‘In loving memory’ at the top of the stone are untouched by the mud, but Al takes special care to clean the carved letters of Bobby’s name. He straightens up with popping knees and surveys the result.

Something still mars the surface of the headstone. A drop of mud is covering the dot in their last name, the ‘i’ in ‘Reolin’ an irregular brown splash. Al bends over and gently brushes the last mud away.

The white, knobby ivory in the half-inch dot sparkles in the reflected sunset.

“There,” Al says. “There you are.”