She’s a tiny woman. Young too. Some of our women are small but that comes mainly from them spending most of their lives on spacecraft. That’s one of the reasons we’re doing this. But this one; she doesn’t look strong enough to work on a plantation. Naturally, most of the work will be done by the droids. Yet humans have to check and demonstrate.

She’s doing very well. She has energy. She’s really turning the soil exactly as it should be done and her droids are doing the same.  I can see she has an understanding of how plant life works. And she even seems to be enjoying working the bare soil in her hands. Just like we do. It’s not recommended here, of course. That’s why the Zandrians supply gloves.

I hold my breath as she takes the young seedling out of its container. They are so delicate. Even if one root is damaged or broken, the plant may not survive. I can see, though, that she is handling it gently.

She seems delicate too. I feel as though I should protect her. 

My patch twitches. It’s President Melinda herself. She wants to know how the planting is going. Are the Zandrians being careful enough? Is the soil here really suitable for our crops? Will they adapt to the rapid seasonal cycle here? I send the president images of the soil, and of the Zandrian girl working hard. I cannot give her any reassurance about the seasonal cycle. I can only remind her that our scientists have identified this planet as the one most likely to have the support systems that our agriculture needs and that the Zandrians are indeed the most capable of growing our plants. Against all odds they have managed to provide plenty for their own people. The planet has been challenging. 

The young woman is now placing the plant in the hole. I can see that she’s taking such a lot of care. She lowers it very gently into the ground and then just as caringly pats loose soil around it. The droids watch and then mimic.

Soon we have covered a whole section and a thousand saplings are waving gently in the warmth of an early Zandrian autumn. They will be watered now and then our working day will be finished. The winter will set in and I have to hope that the fruit is not damaged. Zandrian plants survive the frost. These plantations are looked after well. But have the Zandrian plants learnt to survive? Are ours more delicate?    

It’s good to get back to the temporary cabin that we’ve erected at the edge of the plantation. It’s comforting to be amongst other Pirates again. We exchange details about the Zandrians we’ve worked with. Opinions differ. 

“They’re all right, I suppose, but they’re a bit slow.”

“We’ve managed five hundred.” I think of my thousand and realise I have a good worker.

“Well, we’ve done the graft. Let’s hope we get the results.”

We send each other images of the work we’ve completed and it’s very clear we all have the same level of anxiety. 

The kitchen staff and the droids have prepared us a meal.

“The Zandrians have been generous,” says the chief chef. “They’ve given us some fresh ingredients.”

What fools they are! Don’t they realise that we’re trying to take over their planet?

And yet you have to be grateful. There’s something different about the meal tonight. It has more taste. Can you taste freshness? Perhaps this is a good sign.

We all find it hard to relax. We long for sleep so that we can forget for a while.

Is the soil right? It has the same composition, but in a different form, as what we use on the farm craft. Is it a different temperature? Will it feel different to the plants? Will it irritate these delicate organisms?

What will happen if we fail? Our spacecraft are breaking down. We won’t be able to keep on travelling through space as we have done for decades. It was unforgiveable, what they did to our ancestors. Yes, they were criminals but isn’t the crime that the One World has done to us even greater? Sending us to a dying planet with so little aid? And now they make no effort to help us? We aren’t criminals, even if our ancestors were.

Doubts and fears spread amongst us, traveling from one brain to the next through our eye-patches. I’m glad when it’s time to sleep. 

Just after I shut my patch down and just before I fall asleep I remember the girl. I see her hands. They are soft and white. Surely she isn’t used to hard manual work like this? Perhaps I shall try to talk to her tomorrow. I awake feeling better. President Melinda has communicated to us all that she is very happy with our progress so far and that we must remain optimistic. She’s a good president. She cares for her people. 

“They all seem to have survived the winter then,” the Zandrian says. She is wearing a crimson tunic today. The colour is almost as vibrant as our purple. It makes her seem more assertive than she was yesterday. I nod and find myself almost smiling. I send an image of the trees to my co-workers and to President Melinda.

I don’t really want this young woman to know exactly how pleased I am. It’s a good job she doesn’t wear a patch. But every single tree has survived and is showing signs of blossom about to open. We hope it will all be out by the end of summer today.

“I’m glad I’ve been assigned to you again today,” she says.

“Why’s that?”

“You’re kind. You don’t make me work too hard. You’re very patient with someone who is so inexperienced.” I remember the hands.

“So why are you working here?” She must surely be more used to some sort of non-manual work.

She smiles a little. “My grandfather used to manage a big plantation like this. And my former boyfriend was also very good with plants.” A slight shadow passes across her face and she looks into the distance when she mentions the boyfriend. Was? Has something untoward happened to him? Not that I would know anything about that; Pirates just do not form such relationships. Yet I feel oddly pleased that her boyfriend is in the past.   

She pulls herself together and smiles fully now. “So, what do we do today?”

“Another thousand?”

“Good. Let’s get cracking then.”

In fact, we’ve finished the thousand, well before the summer part of the day has finished.

“Do we do more now?” she asks.

“Let’s go and look at the blossom,” I say.

We walk back to where we worked yesterday. Every single plant is covered in pink flowers. Every single one. This promises a good crop.

“I love the smell,” she says. “It’s better than any perfume.”

I suppose it is good out here in the open air. On the craft it can be overwhelming even for those of us who work with it all the time.

She touches my arm gently. “Are you pleased?”

“This is good,” I say. I don’t want to sound too enthusiastic.

“Is the change just as fast on the farm craft?” she asks.

“Yes, this is exactly the same.” I don’t tell her that on the spacecraft only about half of each crop survives each stage. So, out of a thousand planted only two hundred and fifty bear fruit.

“It must make you feel at home,” she says.

I have no idea what she means. We have become a nomadic people. I know no other life. We don’t understand the concept of home. We only understand survival.     

“What shall we have to do next?” she asks.

“We’ll just tidy up now.”

“And tomorrow?”

“The planting will slow a little. We have to check how the first batch is budding and that the second has blossomed. The first thousand will be at a crucial stage tomorrow.”

She nods. Then smiles. “So I’ll see you tomorrow then.”

She is there before me the next morning. I am surprised at how pleased I feel about that. She is already looking at the fading blossom. “I can see the fruit is already forming,” she says.

I nod. “That’s right; it’s what we expect.”

“Your plants are so amazing. That they cycle so quickly like this.” She turns and looks directly at me. She frowns slightly. “I should have said earlier. When we talked yesterday. I volunteered for this project because I’m so curious about you and your lives. I really want to help.”

“Hmm.” How can she help really? She’s Zandrian; Zandrians are really just Terrestrans who have colonised Zandra. How can they undo the harm they did before?

Now I wish she had a patch so that I could send her pictures of what it’s like living on a crowded space craft all the time. I could show her the historical images we have of our planet dying. I could make her understand the pain we feel as we’re so isolated from other systems.

She hums to herself as she works. Again I wish I could read her. I catch her eye and she smiles. She seems to trust me, oh foolish, foolish lady! Doesn’t she realise that we intend to take over their planet? That we are only here for the sake of our crops? That we have no regard for Zandrian citizens?

We are proud of our technology. Our plants are efficient and effective and our patches are wondrous inventions. They are so useful in allowing us to communicate over long distances and to show each other what we’ve seen. But by far the best feature is that we can read moods and feelings without having to work them out.

Should we be sharing this technology with others? Would it lead to more openings? Would we be able to make ourselves clearer? Or is it better that some things remain secret?  

“Look,” she cries. Her eyes are sparkling and her cheeks are flushed. “The fruit’s all there.”

“It’s not ripe yet.”

“But it will be soon, surely?”

“A lot can go wrong still.”

“Some will survive, won’t it? Most of it even?”

I nod. I guess if she had a patch now I would be reading extreme excitement. My patch reacts to her liveliness but I manage to calm it down.

“It must be like when the first oak trees grew on Zandra.”

“Oak trees?” I really know very little about Zandra’s history other than that it’s a planet that has few natural resources. The Zandrians have done well to bring it to its level of sustainability.

“They had to import acorns from Terrestra. The oak trees helped to establish a robust bio system. My grandfather has told me so much about this.” She stops talking suddenly, bites her lip and blushes. 

“How generous of the Terrestrans,” I say. I can’t keep the bitterness out of my voice.

“We’re not so bad, you know.”

“We? I thought you were Zandrian?”

 “I am and I’m not. My father was Terrestran and I don’t know about my biological mother. My adoptive mother is Terrestran and my adoptive father is half Terrestran and half Zandrian. I’ve lived here a long time. I understand both but I’m really not quite one or the other.”

She raises one eyebrow and shrugs, then she brushes a hair away from her forehead. Something happens inside me. She suddenly seems very precious to me. What is this? She touches my arm gently and a strange thrill travels up to my shoulder. Maybe it’s good that she’s not wearing a patch. I wouldn’t want her to see these strange feelings.

“You see, I was hoping,” she continues, “that I could get to know the Pirates as well. Understand what it must be like for you. Show you what Zandra can give … without you having to take it. Win-win.”

I look down at the ground. “We can only think of ourselves.”

She turns away from me and picks up her tool bag. “What next?”

“It’ll probably take most of the day to check all of the plants. We won’t need to plant anymore.”

We work on. Again she hums to herself. She doesn’t notice me watching her. Is this what it’s like when humans indulge in couplings? That’s something else we’ve been deprived of. You can’t miss what you’ve never known, they say. Everything is so controlled in our society and special friendships are frowned on. The love machine gives some sexual release. The girl arouses me, though, and I long to touch her.

I think about what she’s said. She wants to get to know us? Is she perhaps a spy? Has she been sent here to find out all she can about us? I make every effort not to talk to her. 

We finish early.

“You can go now,” I tell her.

“Thank you. I’m so glad your plants are feeling at home now.”

“What do you mean?”

“They seem to like our soil and conditions and they’re responding well to how they’re being handled. If they were sentient beings they would feel safe.” 

I wish I could feel safe. Pirates never feel safe. We travel on and on through space, not knowing what we’ll meet or how long our craft will last or whether our crops will fail or feed us. We have no home. We don’t even know what that means. Sleep is actually the only real comfort. And occasionally the love machine.  

“We want you to feel at home,” she whispers. She turns and walks towards the exit I wish she would stay longer but I know it’s better that she goes. 

I am here first today. What a sight. Row upon row of trees bearing ripe plums. I take one, sniff it and then taste it. Yes. It is exactly as it should be. And more. It is so much tastier than the ones we force in our greenhouses. This experiment has really worked. Zandra could supply all of our needs.

I relay pictures and the taste of the fruit to the others via my patch. Overwhelming feelings return. President Melinda herself congratulates us. We all feel hope. We have never had such a successful harvest before. Perhaps Pirates do feel some joy after all. Just very occasionally.

Then she arrives. She is dressed in a soft blue tunic with matching leggings today. A pale pink scarf covers her hair and makes her look chaste. Her eyes light up when she sees the plums.

“So it worked?” She touches one of the fruits.

“Try one,” I say. I pluck one from the nearest tree and hold it out towards her.

She doesn’t take it out of my hand but bites straight into it. I feel my erection growing and am thankful that I’m wearing a long thick waistcoat today. She wipes her mouth and licks her lips. “That’s the best plum I’ve ever tasted,” she says.

I try to calm my body but it’s much harder than controlling the patch. She wipes the juice from her chin and licks her fingers. “What next then?” she asks.

“We have to harvest all of this and then dig out the plants.”

“They won’t produce another crop?”

I shake my head.

“That’s such a shame. Maybe my grandfather and his colleagues could help you to produce plants that crop for several years.”

“We haven’t time to look at that now. We must collect all of the plums and prepare for the next crop.”

“More plums?”

“No. The next will be Golden Tondra. Its fruit is pure protein. You can understand how much we need that.”

We start to work. I can’t help watching her. She’s setting me on fire. I’m going to have to relieve myself somehow. This is getting so uncomfortable. I can’t deny that she works well. She chatters incessantly today. See how much Zandra can do for us. Wouldn’t it be good if the Zandrians and the Pirates could work together? Could the Zandrians and the Terrestrans help us to establish ourselves on another planet? Would we be willing to show the Zandrians how our plants worked?

I can stand it no longer. I put down my tools and touch her lightly on the back. She turns to me startled. I take her hand. “I just want to thank you for all the help you’ve given us.” I lean towards her and then kiss her firmly on the lips. She pulls away a little at first but then she’s kissing me back. She tastes of plum. This is so much better than using the love machine.

I come quickly and hope she doesn’t notice. I’m thankful that my patch has shut down.

“So this is what comes of growing plums?” she whispers as we pull apart. 

Maybe there is hope for the Pirates after all.

About the Author:

Gill James is published by The Red Telephone, Butterfly and Chapeltown. She edits CafeLit and writes for the online community news magazine: Talking About My Generation. She teaches Creative Writing and has an MA in Writing for Children and PhD in Creative and Critical Writing.  

*Featured image by Marija Zaric on Unsplash