Scott Mackay - Phytosphere

“ Could be,” said Ira, now sounding tougher. “That’s all I hear from you, Gerry. I’ve been an executive for thirty-one years, and I’ve worked with all kinds of people. I’ve hired people, and I’ve fired people.

And the people I fire most are the ones who always say could be, might be, or maybe. Gerry, you don’t know how to get things done. Not like your brother does.”

“As far as I can see, my brother hasn’t accomplished a thing except spend a lot of money. All I’m asking for is one more Smallmouth . Let’s go into the phytosphere and follow the stress band. Let’s find out what it is. It might reveal the exact piece of information we need. We could have the answer in as little as seventy-two hours.”

“I’m sorry, Gerry, but I have to put what resources I have into retooling these old Earth-Lunar shuttles.”

“But the virus isn’t going to work. You don’t think the Tarsalans haven’t engineered an immune system into the phytosphere?”

“Gerry,” said Luke. “That’s the beauty of this virus your brother’s designed. It attacks the immune system. The Tarsalan genetic component. And it’s going to cripple that component first and then spread out using the omniphage I’ve created. This omniphage of mine is quickly turning into the workhorse of the whole project. The only way the Tarsalans can respond is to preemptively vaccinate the entire shroud, and hope that the necessary antibodies develop in time. And they can’t. It’s impossible. I’ve tested your brother’s virus. It’s a hundred percent effective.”

“You’ve tested it on our samples?”

Luke shrugged. “Where else would I get samples?”

“Yes, but you didn’t kill them all, did you?”

“I wouldn’t do that. In fact, I’m culturing a new supply.”

The rawhide hat moved ominously into view. “Don’t you realize what you’re doing?” said Ian. “You’re undercutting the only man who’s going to save the situation.”

“Give me another Smallmouth, ” pleaded Gerry. “Let’s take an in-depth look at the stress band.”

The mayor interjected. “Ger, we’ve sent your research to… you know… to your brother’s team… just so that they can take a look at it. I think that’s all we really have to do. There’s your in-depth look, so you have nothing to worry about.”

Now he felt doubly betrayed. “Without my authorization?”

“We just want them to double-check its validity.”

His face settled. “It’s valid, Malcolm. It’s predicated on strict observation, not on wishful thinking.”

“We’re wasting a lot of time here,” said Ira. “We should be focusing on refurbishing our launch vehicles

and developing a stockpile of virus.” Ira squared his shoulders and turned to Gerry. “Gerry, you’re off the project. That’s what we’re really here to talk about. That’s why I’m here. Thanks for all your help, but it hasn’t worked out. We’ll let you know if we need you on a consulting basis.”

Gerry’s eyes widened. Yes, an intervention. Or a repeat of NCSU. “So I’m fired?”

The mayor jumped in. “No, no, you’re not fired, Gerry. Go back to Alleyne-Parma and work your butt off. Keep making those observations. Write it all down. Give us another damn bargaining chip we can use with Earth. It’s just that… as for the overall direction… I think we better go with your brother’s plan.”

“So, in other words, Neil’s in charge now?”

“We’re going to help Earth give it this one last shot,” said Ira.

“Mitch…I thought you were with me.”

Mitch looked up. “Gerry, you haven’t even reached the drawing-board stage of a solution. What do you want me to say?”

“I want you to say you’ll give me another Smallmouth . If you give me a chance to get inside the phytosphere one more time, I’m sure I’ll figure out what’s causing the stress band. And once I do that—”

“Once you do that, Gerry, then what?” said Ira. “Don’t you see that we’re running out of time? The situation is critical on Earth. The average human takes anywhere from thirty to seventy-five days to starve to death, and we’re well over the seventy-five-day threshold now. The number of survivors is going to be considerably beyond the right side of the decimal point in terms of percentages. And another Smallmouth isn’t going to help any of that. So do what Malcolm says. Go play at Alleyne-Parma, but leave the real work to us.”

His feelings were hurt, his ego bruised, and he felt like he needed a drink badly. But as Gerry took the train to the observatory an hour later, he still held a solid belief in himself flickering deep within his soul, and he knew that his brand of question-driven science, so completely devoid of ambition and conceit, would at last solve the puzzle of the phytosphere.

He got off the train and took the moving sidewalk through a pressurized polycarbonate surface corridor.

The observatory loomed before him, a bubble, catching the sun’s light and reflecting it with diamond-bright intensity. He glanced at the black sky. Somewhere up there, AviOrbit technicians took the old Earth-Moon shuttles out of storage and turned them into missiles. What would the Tarsalans do to the Commonwealth of Lunar Colonies when they learned the Moon had participated in the launch? He tried not to think about it.

He used his special pass to gain access to the closed-down tourist attraction, and shuffled along the polished floor of the big circular corridor until he came to the entrance to the viewing area.

As much as he tried not to think about it, he couldn’t get it out of his mind. Somewhere back in Nectaris, lab workers cultured samples of the virus and piggybacked them onto Luke Langstrom’s omniphages.

He stopped. The omniphages. If it was a eureka moment, it was an unenjoyable one. Because didn’t the Tarsalans already have experience with Luke Langstrom’s omniphage? They now probably understood

the omniphage better than Luke did. He sure hoped his brother had considered that strategic stumbling point.

He settled himself by Heaven’s Eye and took fifteen minutes to get the apparatus up and running.

He was just sitting down to observe when he heard a distant rapping from out in the corridor. He thought it might be Ian at the observatory door, strange new Ian, the sober Ian who wanted to walk the straight and narrow. He bounce-shuffled out into the corridor, followed its curve around to the public doors, and saw that it wasn’t Ian, but Stephanie, standing at the top of the stairs wearing her silver, orange, and magenta jumpsuit. She reminded him of a Day-Glo kitten who had followed him home. He swiped his access pass on the inside scanners and the doors opened.

He presented himself with his palms upward. “Behold, poor Caesar.”

“What? Oh. Right. Cute. A little weird, but…”

And then she just stood there looking at him as if he were the biggest nerd in the world.

He moved awkwardly aside. “Come in… come in.” And he swept his hand toward the interior of the observatory like a ringmaster presenting the next circus act. “I talk like that sometimes.”

“I noticed.” She arched a brow. “But then I notice a lot of things about you. For one thing, I notice that you let people push you around.”

The accusation struck him as uncharacteristically harsh of Stephanie. Yet it seemed pointless to defend himself, so he just tried to elaborate on the circumstances. “Ira was their point man. And he holds the purse strings.”

“So?”

“He and I come from two different mind-sets.”

“So?”

“So he’s not going to listen to me when he can listen to my brother.”