Play with your food and you’ll have to eat your toys. That was what Orris Percy’s grandmother said to him as a child whenever he pushed food around his plate, shaping mashed potatoes into mountains and skiing down their slopes on nibbled down carrot sticks. The phrase had taken on new meaning for Orris in the past year. Unconsciously, he had developed a habit of repeating it to himself every time he dumped another netful of mechanical salmon—“toys” as he and every other commercial fisherman in the Gulf of Alaska referred to them—onto the deck of the Bottom Feeder, watching them slap their synthetic-scale tails against one another endlessly, always on the verge of a death they would never reach.
Orris, with the help of Duncan, the twenty-five-year-old who had come to work on the boat for the previous three summers, emptied the gill net for the third time on another sweltering Thursday afternoon in late September. The electric winch did the hard work of reeling in the 90-meter net over the stern of the boat, wrapping itself back over the rusty drum. Orris and Duncan stood side-by-side, Duncan by the winch so he could ensure the net wound properly, Orris hunched nearer the stern, watching every Copper River Sockeye Salmon, flesh-and-blood as well as rubber-and-wire, as they were towed into the boat, their upward facing eyes askew and panicked. Once the fish hit the deck, still tangled in the net, Orris shuffled the net upwards, one handful of mesh at a time, lifting the fish into the air until they untangled and fell once more, smacking against the waxed deck.
This third haul was as bountiful as the previous two, nearly a fish every meter, which only concerned Orris. Most, if not every one of these fish, would be synthetic.
Fish are dumb, another phrase Orris retreated to more frequently as of late, this to assure himself that his losing grip on the ability to make a living for himself over this summer and last was not his fault. Every time he found just a few bona fide fish in a school of robots, he shook his head, sometimes laughed, mostly didn’t, amazed that these fish could be so stupid that they did not realize they were surrounded by impostors. 
He remembered when he first heard about “biomimetic fish” five years earlier. He was in Judy’s having a pint with a bunch of the guys after a bountiful day for all. Peter said he had read online—that itself got everyone laughing; did you read the article or the headline, the rest of them joked—that down in the lesser forty-eight, some egghead scientists had built a robot bass that could fool any fish or human into thinking it was a real fish unless they bit into it or broke it open. But that wasn’t what the article was about, he said (“Yes, I really did read it fin to tail.”). These robot fish had been around for a while, but only used for research. The article was highlighting that they were dumping hundreds of them into over-fished ponds and lakes for the weekend warriors to catch so that the real fish could repopulate. They all burst out laughing, cracking up at the idea of casual fisherman bobbing for toy fish like infants in oversized bathtubs. Never once during that conversation was the idea brought up that this development would one day affect them.
Working his way through the net, Orris thought to himself this was likely another robo-skunking. Still, it had to be emptied if he wanted to set it again. As well, there was always the chance there were a few real fish in the net. Most importantly, every mechanical fish he removed from the water was one less he would catch next time.
After the last fish dropped from the net, Orris held the rear buoy aloft for Duncan so it wouldn’t drag any of the fish across the deck. As Duncan clipped the end of the net to itself, Orris crouched, wincing from knee pain, and stuck his gloved right index finger underneath the head of the fish nearest him, hooking his finger though the bottom of the operculum. He yanked to break the gills.
Immediately, he knew it was not a real fish. The operculum snapped like rubber, because it was rubber, and Orris’ knuckle bumped against an aluminum clavicle.
“Toy,” he grunted. He picked the mechanical fish up by the tail and flung it into the corner.
Duncan leaned over to join Orris in popping the gills. The first fish he popped was also mechanical. “Toy,” he said in his slacker lilt.
The thirty-third fish whose gills Orris popped was a living, breathing salmon. Orris exhaled sharply when he felt a small spurt of blood on his glove. “Got one!” he exclaimed, standing upright quickly, straining his knees in the other direction. 
That was the only real fish either of them found in the whole seventy-eight fish haul.
Orris grabbed the shovel and flipped the lid of the in-deck ice cooler open with the toe of his boot. He broke up the ice with a shovel. Duncan threw the bled-out fish into the cooler, joining the four other fish they had caught that day.
“Smoke break?” Duncan asked.
“Gotta put the toys in the toy box,” Orris grumbled.
“Don’t want to step on any of ‘em, first?”
“No. I’m sick of it.”
Duncan shrugged and stomped three-quarters of a fish, starting at the head, underfoot. The stomp created a satisfying crunch and squelch at once, squishing the rubber flesh that encased the contraption, crushing the aluminum skeleton, and shattering the plastic box that held the fish’s CPU behind its beady eyes. Duncan lifted his foot, flecks of rubber stuck to the bottom of his boot and assessed the damage. He fixated on the red wires splayed across the deck that always looked eerily like human arteries. He crushed a few more before grabbing the push broom, flipping open the built-in cooler on the other side of the deck, which had no ice in it, and swept all the mechanical fish in. All but those that had been stomped were still pretending to gasp for oxygen and limply flopping their tails, stuck in their death cycles.
Once he was done cleaning up, Duncan retrieved the joints from the cockpit. Orris waited on the port side bench of the deck and accepted one when Duncan wordlessly offered.
“Matty’s gonna laugh when he sees us bring in five fish,” Orris said while exhaling a plume.
“No, he’s not. Everyone’s bringing in loads that small. He’ll be grateful he gets anything,” Duncan replied.
“Still gonna buy ‘em at a shit rate. Doesn’t matter how good they are, anymore. All fish cost the same now, apparently.”
Orris watched Duncan take hit after hit of the joint, his eyes unfocused and unconcerned, not really invested in the conversation, probably thinking about whichever local he was screwing this summer.
After a few more puffs, Orris spoke again. “Smarty-ass scientists didn’t think about how the toys could be used before unleashing them into the world.”
“Well,” Duncan said stomping out the butt of his joint. “They’re still doing what they were meant to do, just not where they’re supposed to be doing it. No one could have guessed anyone would try to cheat by dropping in a bunch of toys to throw everyone else off.”
“And I bet whoever first thought of that regrets it like hell. Now every day some new asshole drops in more toys, thinking they’ll distract people like you and me and they’ll be the ones to catch real fish. And then all they can catch is someone else’s toys.”
Orris watched as Duncan’s attention drifted back to the cockpit, surely thinking about retrieving another joint. To grab Duncan’s attention, he extended his hand with the remainder of his own joint.
“Here. Suck on this,” Orris said.
Duncan accepted the half-joint and took a hit that only someone with the lungs of a twenty-five-year-old could. While he smoked, Orris took the opportunity to speak again.
“I want to go out one more time today.”
Even while holding the smoke down in his lungs, Duncan’s face scrunched into an expression of displeasure. He waved his hand back and forth to express that he disagreed.
When he finally exhaled a grayish-white cloud of smoke, he coughed while speaking. “Aren’t you tired, dude? We can hit it hard again Monday morning.”
“Three weeks left in the season.”
Duncan gave Orris a dubious look but didn’t argue. “Let me finish this joint and we’ll go look for a good spot.”
While Duncan took another hit, Orris said, “I want to go to the mouth.” 
This shook Duncan so immediately that he aborted the joint altogether, throwing it on the ground. He let the smoke drift from his mouth as he spoke. “You cannot be serious. You’ll lose your license.”
“It’s my license or my house.”
“Even if we set the net out at the mouth, F-and-G or the Coast Guard would be on our ass in seconds.”
“They don’t watch the river during the day.”
“Like hell they don’t,” Duncan said while scanning the deck for the joint, now regretting discarding it.
“They don’t because they don’t think anyone would be stupid enough to break rules like this in broad daylight.”
Duncan let out a single guffaw. “Airtight logic, Orr.” 
After waiting to see if Duncan had any more smart remarks, Orris spoke. “I know they’re not dropping toys in the river for the same reason we shouldn’t be fishing at the mouth: it’s risky and stupid. That means it’s the one place around here we know we’ll catch only flesh-and-blood salmon, guaranteed.”
And this time, without any sarcasm, rather, with an air of melancholic understanding, Duncan said, “Airtight logic, Orr.”
The twenty-three-mile ride from the legal fishing grounds to the mouth of the Copper River was the only time that day Duncan and Orris felt a cool breeze. They relished it, each taking turns steering the boat from the covered cockpit while the other stood on the deck, shirtless, letting the cool air and ocean spray wash over their torsos. When the waters weren’t too choppy and they were confident the autopilot could handle driving for a few minutes, they stood on the deck together, both in silence, appreciating the sensation as well as their view of glimmering ocean and the approaching coast.
Five miles from the mouth of the river, the Bottom Feeder sailed between two of the barrier islands outside of the Copper River. It was around here they noticed other boats driving in the opposite direction, smaller ones, weekend warriors heading out with poles and coolers of beer. Though there were quarter-mile berths between them and these boats, Duncan avoided looking in their direction, afraid guilt would show on his face and those fishermen would preemptively call Fish and Game to report them for what they were about to do.
They sailed six miles into the river, past Storey Island, and approached the eastern bay. As Orris slowed the boat, Duncan stood on the deck, unhooking the net while keeping his head on a swivel.
Orris kept a cool head, glancing out the side windows of the cockpit occasionally, but otherwise kept his focus on navigating, slowly turning the boat perpendicular with the beach.
At the stern, Duncan was nervously sweating, holding the end buoy up, ready to toss it behind the boat. His eyes still would not focus, constantly scanning the horizon for a boat headed in their direction.
Orris called from the cabin, “Toss it!”
Duncan called back, “We’re too close. It’ll land on the beach.”
“Break one rule, break ‘em all!” Orris bellowed.
Duncan bit his lip and threw the buoy. The buoy landed on the beach with a splat.
Orris heard the splat and immediately accelerated, kicking the engine into a high gear, propelling the boat forward so quickly that Duncan lost his balance. He caught himself on the stern and stood back up.
“Straighten the net!” Orris yelled impatiently.
“I am, I am!” Duncan yelled back, his voice cracking.
Duncan grabbed the net with two hands and adjusted it as the boat flew away from the beach.
Water sprayed all around Duncan as Orris pushed the engine to the limit, moving the boat as fast as it could go. Behind the boat, Duncan watched the net spread over the surface of the water before sinking below.
With only a third of the net released, corks along the net had already begun to bob up and down.
“We’re catching ‘em!” Duncan yelled over the noise of the engine.
“Woohoo!” Orris yelled back.
Orris drove the boat as straight as he could while looking out the portside window, south towards the ocean, to see if any boats were approaching. No one was headed in their direction.
Only a few minutes later, he heard Duncan yell that the net was fully extended. He slowed the boat, then stopped it, and turned off the engine.
He ran out of the cabin to the deck and stood at the stern next to Duncan. Immediately, he saw that nearly every one of the corks were bobbing up and down, some just below and some going deeper before resurfacing. 
Orris was sweating, baking under the oppressive heat, and beginning to really feel the weight of what they were doing. He jerked his head right, thinking he heard a boat engine. There was nothing there except the gently moving river and a blue, cloudless sky.
“Want to pull it in?” Duncan asked, already walking towards the winch.
“Thirty more seconds. Catch as many as we can.”
Duncan fidgeted for the entire thirty seconds. Orris heard him counting, “One Mississippi, two Mississippi,” all the way to thirty, and then he immediately turned on the winch.
Orris stood by the stern and emptied the net as it came in, smiling, then laughing as the fish fell onto the deck. At first, he popped the gills before letting them fall, but quickly his gloves were slick with blood, confirmation that all were real fish, and so he moved on to emptying the net as quickly as he could. Within minutes, they had a bloody deck as they popped the gills of each of the one hundred and seventy salmon.
They went through the rest of the routine, breaking up the ice, packing the fish, and cleaning the deck. The whole time, both kept their eyes on the horizon, looking out for boats. None came, nor did they run into another boat on their way back down the river, out into the ocean.
They passed by other boats—casuals as well as other commercial fishermen, guys Orris was friendly with—as they made their way north to Cordova Harbor. Whenever they passed these boats, Duncan conveniently found himself in the cockpit. Orris was on the deck, not waving to other fishermen as they passed by, but in plain view, a smile on his face like these other men had not seen on Orris or, more relevantly, on themselves, in years.
When they were not passing by boats, Duncan’s eyes would not stay still, which Orris put a stop to with a hand on Duncan’s shoulder. “We’re good. We made it free and clear,” he said while patting Duncan’s back. “Want to do it again next week?” he continued with a wry smile.
When they were half-an-hour from the harbor, Orris pulled his cell phone out of the dry box and called Matty to confirm that he was still at the harbor and buying.
Orris pulled the Bottom Feeder into Cordova Harbor, which was shaped like a distorted pentagon and had capacity for over seven-hundred vessels, each spot rented out year-round.
As they passed by the aisle where the boat regularly docked, they saw Matty was standing there, waiting for them to pull in.
“Meet us on the quay! Got a bigger haul than usual!” Orris called out. 
Matty’s face scrunched below his red knit cap, doubtful, but he nodded and began walking back down the dock.
“What do you got? Hand it up,” Matty said.
“Need the crane!” Orris replied with a wide smile.
“You serious, man? I got places to be.”
“Come take a look and tell me if it’s worth your time.”
Matty rolled his eyes but did descend into the boat. Orris opened the cooler, where nearly two-hundred bloody salmon lay packed in ice.
Matty stared, gaze inscrutable, at the fish. He said nothing.
“Eh?” Orris said. “A hundred percent authentic sockeye.”
“Sure is,” he said as he climbed back out of the boat. “How’s one-fifty a pound sound?”
Orris stuttered his way through his response. “One-fifty? That’s less than the usual, and two’s already shit.”
“That’s the price today. Want to talk to another buyer? Dock’s full of ‘em.”
“What the fuck, man? Why you being an asshole?”
Matty, now back on the quay, crouched down and waved Orris over, telling him to come close. Orris approached, his right fist involuntarily balling as he walked over.
Matty spoke barely above a whisper, looking Orris in his eyes the entire time he spoke. “Listen, you’re lucky no one spotted you catching these fish. But the second I load these guys up on the scale, some fish and game guy is gonna ask me why my load’s so heavy today, who I got these from. The cost for me to go through that trouble without implicating either of us is fifty cents off the regular price. And listen, this is still gonna be the biggest payday for you and me all summer.”
Orris backed away from Matty. “What are you talking about, ‘how I caught these fish’? I caught these in the middle of the ocean just like the rest of the jerk offs you dealt with today.”
“Come on, man.”
Orris looked back at Duncan, who was leaning against the starboard railing, playing with a lighter, waiting for instruction.
“I want the full two, like usual,” Orris said.
“Like I said, talk to someone else.”
“One seventy-five. I’m…I’m desperate and this is the best catch I’ve had in two years,” Orris begged.
“Yeah. We’re all desperate,” Matty replied, genuinely sympathetic. “Deal.”
Orris couldn’t muster a smile. He moved through the rest of the transaction in a haze. He let Duncan hook up the bag holding the fish to the crane while he climbed out of the boat. 
Matty left and returned with a thick stack of cash. Orris took the money and held it in his hand, staring at it, squeezing it, wanting to shove it back into Matty’s hands and tell Duncan to dump the fish corpses into the water. He didn’t. He bit his lip and waited for the moment to pass.
That amount of money changing hands as well as the enormous bag of fish attracted fisherman to their area of the quay, every one of whom patted Orris on the back. He could tell which ones were genuinely enthusiastic and which ones would be reporting him for a violation based on how hard they slapped him. “Where’d you catch a net like that, Orr?” one of them said. “I’ll have to follow you out there, next time.” It didn’t matter if they reported him. He knew not a soul had spotted them on the river, so whatever investigation occurred would lead nowhere.
The transaction concluded, Orris climbed back down into the boat and navigated to the boat’s spot on dock three. As he turned off the engine, Duncan clucked his tongue. “Shit,” he said. “We forgot to dump the toys.”
“We’ll deal with ‘em on Monday.”
They both exited the cockpit and Duncan sped through tying the boat down before beginning his walk down the dock without waiting for Orris. He stopped when he realized Orris had not even climbed out of the boat.
“Hurry up!”
“Go ahead. Have a fun weekend,” Orris called.
Duncan waited for no more instruction and kept on.
Orris walked over to the cooler where the mechanical fish were and flipped it open. He sat down on the ground to look at the “fish” still flopping about hours after they had been removed from the water.
He reached in and picked one up, held it in front of his face, examining it. From the exterior, it looked, of course, like salmon, but it also felt like one, the scales textured perfectly. Even the temperature of the fish was right, due to the thin copper wire underneath the rubber that regulated the temperature of the whole contraption. If Orris had not already popped the gill, it might still have fooled him. 
He held it closer to his face so that he could inhale the briny smell, the element that sold its authenticity in full, most especially to the fish it swam with. Dumb fucking fish.
Orris moved the underside of the fish to his mouth, opened his jaw, and bit down. The artificial flesh tore off more easily than he would have expected. He set the remainder of the fish down while he chewed. He closed his eyes, taking his time to chew it up into tiny pieces, moving it around his mouth so that it would interact with all his taste buds before swallowing.
It tasted like rubber.