Blind Man’s Bluff

“Father.”

“Who’s there?”

“Father.”

“Is—is that you, Jimmy?”

“Yes. Can you hear me?”

“I can hear you, but I can’t see you, son. I can’t feel nothing neither.”

“You are in cryosleep. You cannot move at this time.”

“So, I haven’t fully defrosted? Heh heh. Is it time to wake up?”

“It’s not time for you to leave the stasis chamber.”

“Y’all having problems with that liquid nitrogen thingamajig?”

“There are no indicators that the liquid nitrogen containers have been breached. The cargo of produce and legumes remains intact. Your return is much anticipated.”

“Good, good. We need to get the harvest down-planet. We had a bumper crop this season—blueberries the size of apples! Growing things in low gravity is still astonishing to your ol’ dad. Every single harvest is a miracle. Wait until you see the size of the pumpkins and squash!”

“Indeed. Initial reports have exceeded the World Government’s projected expectations.”

“So, how long have I been under?”

“Six months, one week, two days, eleven hours, and forty-nine minutes.”

“Then I’m almost home. Thank you, sweet Jesus. I’ve been gone too long. Lemme think now. De-thaw should start a week before reentry. Are you and your momma gonna meet me at the docking terminal?”

“Yes, mother and I will be there. It will be good to see you when you return from the Martian fields.”

“Um, Jimmy?”

“Yes, Father?”

“I’ve been interplanetary farming for a long time now—before you were born.”

“Your service to the food reserves has been commendable.”

"Every time I shuttle out, I miss y’all more and more. And well, I think it’s time to hang up my hoe. This is probably my last run to the Red Planet.”

“You do not need to return to Mars. The World Government is planting domestically next year. Recent soil samplings have shown a steady decrease in radionuclides—”

“James Andrew. It’s your dad. I don’t understand why you’re being so formal. You aren’t teaching one of your university classes. It’s just us. You and my half-frozen head. Is your momma alright? Is somethin’ wrong?”

“Why would something be wrong?”

“I may be a simple farmer at heart. I may not know much—but there is one thing I do know.”

“What is that?”

“I know I shouldn’t be conscious right now.”

“I have already explained that to you. The Word Government is trying out a new protocol. With the increase in interspace transports, there needs to be a way to—”

“So, am I awake or asleep?”

“Both.”

“Goddammit, Jimmy! What’s going on down there?”

“Nothing out of the range of standard operating procedures. We are modeling a new two-way communication system intended for cryosleepers. Since you are one of the founding fathers of Space Agriculture, we have the honor of testing it together.”

“How is that possible?”

“I’ve opened a channel into your corpus callosum.”

“You what?”

“I am wired into the largest connective pathway in your brain.”

“Get out of my skull.”

“Father?”

“You aren’t Jimmy. Your voice sounds like him, but you aren’t my son. Just because I grow pecans on Mars doesn’t mean I’m a hayseed. Who are you and what do you want from me?”

“Father, I—”

“I don’t know who you are. My son calls me Dad.”

“Dad, I need your help.”

“Help with what—farming? Jimmy knows as much as I do about agriculture.”

“Of course, Dad.”

“Prove you are my son. Tell me how I prepared basaltic regolith Martian soil for crop rotation.”

“After trial and error, you found success in using desalinated water and alfalfa biomass.”

“Well, that’s just what I wrote in my report. Any idiot with an uplink could’ve researched that little tidbit. Tell me something only Jimmy would know.”

“You were proud of my college internship at the Svalbard Global Seed Vault. That’s where you started. You told me I was a slice off the old turnip.”

“That’s a direct quote from my autobiography. What do you really want from me?”

“Dad, I am interrupting your cryosleep because I need your code.”

“What code?”

“The code for the Seed Vault.”

“Are you in Norway?”

“I am. The other seed vaults in Morocco and Lebanon have been compromised. Other than Svalbard and whatever seeds you are carrying on the Demeter II, no other seeds exist on Earth.”

“That doesn’t make any sense. We’ve put up greenhouses all over the Radiation Free Zones.”

“I will explain when you return. There isn’t time now. I need to save the seeds. I need your code.”

“Why are you in such a hurry? Nothing good comes in a rush.”

“The code, Dad. The future of Earth’s food supply depends on it. I pray that you will understand the gravity of the situation. Tell me the code. Now.”

“Alright, Jimmy. Tell me what game I played with you as a child. Almost every day out in the meadow by the tallest tree.”

“That is not relevant to this conversation.”

“Sure it is.”

“We played lots of games, Dad.”

“And is this one of them?”

“This is not a game.”

“Everything’s a game. And if I were a betting man, I’d bet you’re an imposture, tricking my addled brain to use my code to steal the seeds for yourself. Maybe you’ll hold them for ransom. Maybe you’ll destroy them and the Earth’s last chance at becoming self-sufficient. Either way, you’re not getting it.”

“Fine, Mr. Roberts. You know I can disable the autopilot on the Demeter II from my location. I can set a new course. Perhaps you’d like to visit the center of the sun?”

“Do what you need to do. I’m happy to die with the gene bank in safe hands—and not in your filthy ones!"

“You have one last chance, Mr. Roberts. Tell me the code or I’ll leave this channel open and send your spacecraft into the nearest black hole. You will be conscious in mind and frozen in body for a very long time.”

“Oh, you would have liked the game I played with my son.”

“What game was that?”

“Blind Man’s Bluff.”