Assault on the Weatherman
By J. L. Young

The clouds have been crying now for many months. This expedited terraformation of this rock has been going on for the better part of a couple hundred years. There were some hiccups during the flight from Sol, naturally, but that is a story for a different time.

When the mission began, I was forty and worked as a weather management specialist on Mars. That was some sixty years ago. I know, I look young for a hundred years old. I expected to thaw out and resume my duties here, but more pressing obligations arose. The ship became a generational ship during transit due to a large portion of the cryo systems failing. That made me a teacher when we arrived.

Once we established orbit, our computer automatically began bombarding the planet. The TF materials didn’t take long to take root in the extraterrestrial regolith. Genetically modified trees sprouted and grew to maturity. They are to clear the carbon dioxide from the atmosphere while producing oxygen at an accelerated rate. Other missiles contained microbes to balance out the constituents in the air. We have done great work thus far.

I was walking during one of the torrential downpours designed to refill the natural aquifers in the area. Humans are natural complainers if it has been raining for too long. Humans got to human. It’s not like we aren’t transparent about our operations.

There’s a diner brought down from the Mother. It resembled an old one from the nineteenth century, complete with a chessboard floor, vinyl booths, and aluminum cladding on the tables and counter.

I shook off the water and rested my umbrella beside the door. “You wouldn’t have to do that if you turned off the spigot once in a while,” a critic said. I smiled in his direction and took a seat in a booth. Then I opened a menu and tapped the items I desired, mashed potatoes and a milkshake made from the same resequenced protein manipulated to taste like the real thing and enhanced with everything the human body needs. Only the uber-rich have the real thing here.

Once I had my food and began eating, the critic hit his table and stomped to my side. He placed his palm on my table before me, “Did you hear what I said?”

I swallowed before speaking, “I heard what you said, Weaver, and I’ve heard it a dozen times this week.”

“Shut it off, Crowe!”

“I will when the aquifer is full,” I replied calmly.

“And how long will that take?”

I took the phone from my pocket, brought up the real-time aquifer level on the screen, turned it for Weaver to see, and said, “Looks to be about another forty-five days. Once it’s full, the colony will have full access to the water for years.”

“I’m sick of your rain. I want to see Alpha and Beta. I want to show my kids Sol. I can’t do that with your clouds in the way.”

“I get it. I’m sick of the rain too. I have an obligation to the people of this colony to provide them and you with water. That’s what I’m doing. Your intimidation will not deter me from that obligation.”

Weaver slipped his hand off the table and closed his eyes, “I so want to hit you.”

“I know. It’ll only serve to satiate you for the moment. Then we’ll both be in pain. And the constables will arrest you. Think of your kids.”
Weaver’s eyes sprang open. He swung a fist at my face. I deflected it and kicked both of his feet out from under him, and slammed his face into my mashed potatoes. I pulled him up by his collar and jabbed his face twice. I felt his nose break through my fist. Then I threw him onto the floor and picked up a napkin to wipe the food from my knuckles. Then I tossed it to him to soak up the blood.

I retrieved my phone and dialed the emergency number while shaking the pain from my hand. “I pleaded with you, Weaver,” I said as my thumb hovered over the send icon.

“Please don’t do that. It was just a misunderstanding.”

I looked to the others in the diner, “Did this look like a misunderstanding?” My gaze locked on Weaver, “I have been working for decades figuring out the fastest and most efficient means to fill aquifers for colonial use. I have implemented it on two planets and countless moons with minor complaints. I come here, here! Far from my home to give you water. I’m sorry my work inconveniences you, Mr. Weaver.”

I tapped the send icon and requested another serving of mashed potatoes.