Scott Mackay - Phytosphere

He was with Stephanie when he first noticed a change around the existing holes. In infrared terms, it was manifested as a rim of yellow forming along the edges of the green, like the finger of God reaching out and breathing a new spring into the dormant foliage, yellow being an indicator of warmth, and therefore, of life.

His shoulders sank.

He showed Stephanie, and together they followed the growth for the next hour. He remembered the weeds in his Old Hill backyard, particularly the dandelions in spring; of how quickly his too-big lawn had been covered with a galaxy of ragged yellow stars, and how dozens of other green miscreants, genus unknown, had sprouted up between the patio stones and along the edges of the house. The phytosphere seemed vicious in its will to live. The yellow rims at the edges of the various holes seemed to pulsate as if with golden blood, and the holes themselves grew noticeably smaller. He took measurements, and electronically conveyed them to the mayor’s office, Mitch’s office, and even Ira’s office.

The measurements spoke for themselves.

Attitude had nothing to do with it.

Neil’s girls got up early at Homestead because they wanted to see the sunrise. Neil opened his eyes and watched them get ready at the sink. He would have smiled if the awful truth hadn’t been revealed to him last night in a special drop from the Moon. Dr. Gerald Thorndike has confirmed new growth in the phytosphere. Mechanism of defense: dormancy. In other words, Neil had unleashed a toxic winter, and the xenophyta had survived by lapsing into a state of suspended animation.

And all the gunfire on the base last night. What had that been about?

He swung his feet out of the army cot he shared with Louise and glanced around their fairly large officers’ barracks. He heard the rise and fall of jet engines on the tarmac—pilots gearing up for maneuvers. His head pounded. A hangover, but not an alcohol hangover—a stress hangover. Because what was he going to do now? Develop a virus? A plant disease? But how? He wasn’t used to working like this, with scattered personnel and diminished resources. He was used to working with the full and generous backing of the United States government, and not in a place where things were breaking down .

And now Gerry.

Telling him he had failed.

“Let’s see you do something, Ger,” he mumbled under his breath.

“Huh?” said Louise.

“Are you going to get up and see the sunrise?” he asked.

This was their ritual now; sun worshippers, the lot of them.

“I’m thinking of painting the barracks. I’d like it yellow, Neil. See if you can convince Greg to get us some yellow paint.”

“Isn’t it enough he can feed us?”

She glanced at the girls. “Shall we let the girls go first?”

They hadn’t had sex in a while.

“I have a few things to talk to Greg about.”

“Yellow paint?”

He grinned. “Sure. Yellow paint.”

They all got dressed and had their rations, and went outside in their shorts and T-shirts and sandals because even at this time of morning it was sweltering. It was glorious to see the sun slanting through the morass of melting green xenophyta. The entire parade ground was alive with light and shadow.

“There’s Greg,” he said.

“You’re not telling me everything, are you?” said Louise.

He paused. “We’re going to be fine.”

“So can I come and talk to Greg with you?”

“I’d prefer if you didn’t.”

He moved off.

Colonel Gregory Bard was in uniform, but without his jacket. He was tall, and had pools of sweat soaking the armpits of his blue Air Force shirt. He was as skinny as everybody else. He cast a nervous glance over his shoulder as he approached Neil; that’s what Neil remembered about Greg from all those years ago when they had been in the Air Force together, that he always seemed like a man who knew secrets, or who was involved in conspiracies up to his eyeballs. Greg’s caginess dissolved as he watched the girls appreciate the sun. These girls. And Louise. In sunshine. His family. He was lucky to have them.

“So?” he said to Greg. “Is the place still standing?”

“It’s still there.”

“Any sign of damage?”

“Someone’s broken in.”

“They have?”

“But the place doesn’t looked wrecked or anything,” said Greg.

“So everything’s okay? All the vehicles and so forth?”

“Everything looks fine, Neil.”

“And you were able to land two choppers on the lawn okay?”

“That’s quite a place. I had no idea you’d done so well for yourself. And right next to Chattahoochee.

What a great location.”

“And you’ve got some guys up there right now?”

“The best. Harmon, Earl, and Scott. You remember those guys? Then I got some young guys.

Fernandes, Rostov, Douglas, Nabozniak, and Sinclair. All top-notch.”

Neil gestured toward the west. “So those guys down at the other end of the base—”

Greg shook his head, a slow shifting of his chin from side to side as his eyes seemed to seek out an indeterminate spot on the tarmac. “Just some disgruntled airmen who think with their stomachs, not with their heads.”

“How many are there?”

“Enough to make a nuisance of themselves.”

“So, like a… a mutiny?”

“A mutiny? I wouldn’t call it a mutiny. I would call it more a disgreement. About the way I’ve decided to ration the food. Especially now that we have a dwindling number of stores.”

“But they have guns.”

Greg squinted up at the sun. “And a few other things.”

“Greg, I have to make sure my family is safe.”

Greg looked away from the sun and focused on Neil. The change in attitude, though not profound, was signaled by a locking of his neck, a thrusting of his jaw, and a give-me-a-break narrowing of his eyes.

“You don’t have to worry about them, Neil. We’ve got a perimeter set up. And we’re bleeding all the stores to this end. If those guys don’t want to play by the rules, then it serves them right.”

“Maybe you should just airlift me and my family out now.”

Greg motioned up at the sky. “We have the second line to think of. I was speaking to Assistant Secretary of Defense Fonblanque personally about that. Once that’s done—”

“Are they sending more troops to deal with this…this little base insurgency?”

“Insurgency? Come on, Neil.”

“Whatever it is.”

“A bunch of young cadets playing with guns who don’t know any better. That’s what it is. We’ll have it mopped up in no time.”

“Are you sure?”

“Neil, work on the virus thing. Let me handle everything else. There’s no point in inventing problems for yourself when you’ve already got this big one to solve.”

The shadow of the mending shroud closed in on Wake County, and to Glenda it was like a vise closing around her soul. Her forehead was moist with perspiration. She was wearing her lightest cotton dress, material so thin it hardly weighed an ounce, but the heat now seemed to have a physical presence, a touch that was soft but insidious, and the temperature quickly drained a person’s energy.

She got up from bed and closed her hand around her cool rifle. Why didn’t they just get it over with?

The sheriff’s brother drove by every couple of hours now, his rusted hulk of a vehicle bumping and rattling along the road like a mechanical ghost. She knew that they knew about the extra food, and she also knew that they were going to make a try, so why didn’t they just do it? She listened, but heard no vehicle. Outside, a phantom green dusk settled over the dead, brown land. The quiet was like the breath of an old man expiring at Cedarvale in the middle of a sleepy afternoon.