The fisherman tried shooting at the birds. But the first shot—he missed—scared them away. They still circled the boat but kept their distance from whatever made that loud noise. He tried setting traps, but he wasn’t really good at it, and the seagulls always managed to leave with the bait, unscathed. The fisherman tried a slingshot, ended up hurting his hand. He tried aiming fireworks at them. Yep, that was a stupid idea.
Finally, after he took care of the burns on his hands, the fisherman brought poison with him on the boat, lots of it. Heck, he had enough poison to kill every feathered thing in all of Alaska. He stuffed poison inside small fish, bread, the muffins he had brought for breakfast—that was a shame, they were really good muffins. He put poison into whatever he could find, and threw it into the sea for the seagulls to eat. Some did, and died, but most of the deadly bait sank to the ocean floor. You should have seen how happy the crabs were. Look, Mom: free food falling from the sky! Muffins, even! The crabs gathered all of it and organized the biggest crab party anyone had ever seen. They had crab music, and a really long and narrow dance floor. They danced sideways until the wee hours.
By morning, the fisherman had realized what was happening, but it was too late. All the crabs were dead. There was nothing left for him to fish. He couldn’t work. He couldn’t feed his family. No one in the village could, and they all had to leave. The seagulls, of course, are still there. One spring morning, mother seagull decided it was time to clean the nest. The babies were now teenagers and they never picked up after themselves. She felt sentimental about some of the junk that was lying around, but one thing was certain, she’d seen enough of that shiny, useless little ball. She flew away with the pearl and dropped it on the deck of one of the abandoned fishing boats.
— …
—What do you think?
—That’s a really … sad story?
—It is, isn’t it? Maybe it should have a happier ending. Maybe the seagulls are angry for being shot at and they start dropping things, little rocks, bombing the hell out of everyone. Then one of the baby seagulls can’t find a small enough rock so he drops the pearl, right in the fisherman’s hand. Is that better?
—I’m not sure … Is that all the help you’re willing to give me?
—Help? I just thought you might like a story! You seemed a little on edge.
—I’m horrible with metaphors. I’m guessing we’re the seagulls. Do the aliens think we stole Themis from them?
—Oh, I see. The pearl would be a metaphor for Themis. That’s cute.
—Do they think we stole anything from them?
—No. They don’t fish either, in case you were about to ask. I’m sure they’d like crab if they ever tried it, though.
—So we have alien beings who really don’t like to interfere, but think they need to … somehow. The only thing I can get from your story is that they might be doing it for the wrong reason. Unless we’re the crabs, and they’re not trying to kill us at all. But who are the seagulls?
—Wow. I hope you realize you’re talking to yourself now. I’ve already done a lot more than I should, so you’ll have to go the rest of the way on your own. On the upside, you should find comfort in the fact that you’ll “deserve” what success you may have. Ah! Our food’s coming!
—Can I ask one more question?
—Is it a funny question?
—Are we … family?
—That is funny. Do we look like we’re family?
—I mean, am I an alien? Part alien?
—What does that even mean?
—Am I like you? Your ancestors, a long, long time ago, they weren’t from this planet, were they?
—And if they weren’t, what would that make me? Better, or worse?
—I … I don’t know how to answer that.
—You should. You really should.
FILE NO. 1600
PERSONAL LOG—VINCENT COUTURE, CONSULTANT, EDC AND EVA REYES
Location: Shadow Government Bunker, Lenexa, KS
—That’s really nice, Eva. Did you draw that today?
—Last night. I couldn’t sleep.
—Is that … ?
—Yes. That’s you.
—That’s me? When did my nose get so big?
—It’s just a drawing.
—It’s nice, Eva. You’re really good, you know. And who’s that one by your bed?
—That’s my mom.
—Your—
—My Puerto Rican mom. Not—
—Her name’s Kara.
—I know that.
— … You said you couldn’t sleep. Nightmares?
—Mm—hmm.
—Me too.
—And I hate it here. This bed sucks, and— —And what?
—Nothing. It’s silly.
—You can tell me.
— …
—Come on!
—I had this—
—Yes …
—I had a plush turtle. I told you it was stupid.
—And it helped you sleep, and now it’s gone.
—They wouldn’t let me take anything. The people who— —Would a beat-up gopher do the trick?
—What?
—It’s a plush … gopher, about this big.
—No! My mom gave me that turtle!
—That one’s also … It belonged to Kara. I don’t know the story behind it, but she kept it in a box with some other stuff. It’s missing an eye and it’s ripped in a few places, but it’s … Well, it’s a gopher. It’s yours if you want it.
— …
—Well, think about it. Can I ask how? Inside Themis … How did you know Kara was your … biological mother?
—I wasn’t sure. I thought she might be. She looked like … like I imagined my mother would.
—How did you know the people who raised you in Puerto Rico weren’t your real parents?