On Ziva Lake

From Maroli Tango ~ A Serial Novel ~ On Substack

https://marolitango.substack.com/

Vasa State Wilderness Preserve, Northern Reach

The west coast of Jivada’s large continent from Pulina Nava south was fifth-pass reclaimed land mass, less than 5,000 years old.

In contrast, much of the Northern Reach was nearly as old as the Anye migration’s arrival in-system. There, California redwood trees poked at the sky, branches laden with eagle nests, roots drilled into manufactured soil that was, even given an extra 20,000 years, barely knit together well enough to support them.

Which was why Jivada was buying all its lumber on Earth, and a good reason not to park your space yacht next to a tall tree on a windy day.

Elbert Harrison liked the idea of hovering over the middle of the lake. “It’s like having a cabin on stilts, without the stilts.”

Mason was skeptical. “We’re churning up the water with spatial distortion.”

Claude the maroli said, “Perhaps the fish will come over to see what it’s about.”

The fish did come over. Elbert hooked a rainbow trout while Mason was still trying to decide if the yacht’s slide-out patio was stiff enough to support both men near the edge.

He told Elbert, “If I drop a ball bearing out here, it’ll roll right off.”

Elbert told Skeezix to yaw one degree to port. Mason said, “Okay. That’s a lot better.”

They cast bait in relative silence. Mason brought out a thermos of coffee. Claude prepared sausage/egg/cheese biscuits. A Kingfisher patronized the airspace, but refused an invitation to perch.

Mason eventually outwaited his 181-year-old companion. Elbert said, “I like your girlfriend.”

Mason replied. “I wouldn’t call her my girlfriend just yet.”

“So, you’re not intimate.” Elbert gave him the approving eye. “Good. Too soon. Make sure you want to keep her.”

“We’re inexperienced; not sure we know what we’re doing.”

“Sounds like you do know, and taking the right measures. What’s the story on her friend Vonnie?”

“Recent or old history? The latter is sad, and you’ve been kind of depressed.”

Elbert nodded. “Yeah; don’t want to hear a sad story. You got any happy ones?”

“The Kingfisher’s checking us out again.” Mason threw a pinch of biscuit in the water. A fish bobbed to the surface. The bird caught the fish.

They got a good laugh out of it. Elbert said, “Tell me the story anyway.”

“Veronica was an actress in the 60s and 70s. Not famous, but recognizable in Europe. She modeled in a series of print ads for Air France with one of their pilots, ended up marrying him. They retired in their mid-fifties and sailed all over Europe and the Mediterranean.”

“I can see where this is heading.” Elbert reeled in his lure. “Skin cancer.”

“Pirates, off Sardinia, middle of the night, 2003. Her husband shot one dead, then slipped on the deck and cracked his skull. The others took off, Vonnie motored into port, and the police arrested both of them for murder.”

“Jesus.”

“They locked them up. Wouldn’t call a doctor for the husband. He died.”

“Well, you said it was a sad story.” Elbert threw a long cast. “What happened then?”

“She paid a judge 60,000 dollars to let her out of jail. Went home without her husband’s body, paid a bribe to the coroner, and a month later received an empty urn in the mail.”

“How’d they explain that?”

“They didn’t. The French embassy washed their hands of it right away. Nothing ever happened.”

Elbert reeled in his lure. “That’s the kind of injury that needs to be settled.”

Mason tossed another pinch of biscuit in the water. “By who?”

“Not by me. I’m too old of spirit.” Elbert flicked his pole. The lure landed next to a floating limb. “Making war on the clan’s enemies is for younger men, like you.”