The Pedestal

by Daniel Wimberley

  Filling my bag with tiny gametophytes—doing my best to forgive nature for her ugly ways—I suddenly glimpse something that nearly causes me to stumble over my own feet. Fiona sees it too and, being farther away than me, says, “Is that ...?”

  Her thought is left hanging, but I think I know where it was headed. As I blink to reset my vision, however, I realize I have no idea what I’m looking at. From the corner of my eye, I see Fiona drop her bag and bounce toward me. Her smile is manic, strangely inviting. Confused, my pulse quickens, my arms open instinctively to accept her embrace.

  I can’t believe this is happening!

  But she brushes past me as if I’m not even here.

  Man, I’m an idiot.

  Oblivious, Fiona hastens to examine the true object of her affection, which resembles a mango—or perhaps a small coconut—dangling overhead from a thick branch. It must’ve grown there overnight—it certainly wasn’t there yesterday. It’s too high above the ground to reach, so she peers up at it, standing on a swollen root at the base of the tree to get closer.

  “It worked!” she gasps. “I can’t believe it!”

  “What is it?” I inquire, still quietly mortified.

  She doesn’t answer me. Instead, she bounces back to the b-hive, leaving me alone with the only other woman in my life—who, incidentally, would surely eat me if she could only get her hungry roots into me. I’m surprised by this, and a little hurt—Fiona’s normally a stickler for detail, and she’s broken one of her own highest commandments by abandoning me. In this way, it’s like I never left Earth—who knew the saga of rejection would follow me all the way to freaking Mars?

  Several minutes later, she reappears—not with help, or even a sampling kit, mind you—but with a mop handle, of all things. Before I can even guess at her intentions—and without so much as a trite apology for deserting me—Fiona begins swinging ineffectively at the melon with her stick. It’s truly comical to watch—if she was one of the guys, I’d happily offer some crude commentary—but my mother raised a gentleman. Well, technically Stewart and Arthur did, but I suppose my mom got the ball rolling.

  Nevertheless, I take over and knock the bulb free on my second try. It lands with an audible thunk, sending plumes of dust into the air before bouncing to a stop at our cleated feet. Fiona bends to retrieve it, beaming through her faceplate. I can’t help but beam, too—I’m feeling unnaturally proud of myself, and who knows: maybe she’ll want to reward my considerable contribution.

  But alas, I’m forgotten again, almost instantly. Fiona examines the fallen gourd with unbridled curiosity, cooing and grinning down on it like a mother over her newborn. My mouth forms a childish scowl.

  “Fiona?” I grumble. She turns to me and, seeing my consternation—along with no small amount of dejection, I’m sure—her smile flickers, exposing—what is that, embarrassment? Guilt? “What’s going on?” I demand. “What the heck is that thing?”

  “It’s a seedpod, Wil.”

  “A seedpod,” I parrot. “Why would a BP produce both gametophytes and seeds?”

  Fiona giggles and bats her gorgeous eyes. Dang, she’s too cute. It’s like trying to stay mad at a puppy: my heart bubbles over like a cauldron on a roaring campfire.

  “Don’t look so grim, Wil—” Grim? My lust face looks grim? “—this is what we’ve all been waiting for.”

  “I don’t understand—we’ve been waiting for it to change reproductive behaviors ... again?”

  She caresses the swollen pod for another moment, gloved fingers bumping over rounded striations on its surface, and then turns to face me squarely. “That’s not what this is, Wil. This,” she says, drawing attention to the pod by raising it between us, “isn’t an unplanned mutation.”

  I shrug. “Okay, I’ll bite. So what makes you so confident?”

  “Easy: I designed it this way. Normally, flowering plants provide fruit or nectar as an incentive for insects and animals to participate in their pollination. But for a long time, we’ve been able to genetically encourage the growth of seedless fruit—useful to us, useless to the plant. Same thing here, only somewhat reversed.”

  Sigh. “As usual, Doc, you’ve completely lost me.”

  “What I mean is, this seedpod serves no reproductive purpose to the plant.”

  I hope my denseness is at least remotely endearing, because it’s about to rear its ugly head again. “So, uh, what exactly is the point of it, then?”

  “Don’t you see, Wil?” Honestly, do you really have to ask, my dear? “This is what we’ve been working for since day one—this is literally the fruit of our labor.”

  Inside the pod, small capsules resembling the seeds of strawberries are suspended in a dense, gelatinous pulp. While they look convincingly like seeds to my unscientific eye, they don’t quite fit the formal definition—according to Fiona, anyway—since they’re incapable of germination. Nevertheless, for lack of a better word, I can’t help but think of them as seeds.

  Remarkably, each one concentrates BP7’s enhanced medicinal properties into a very tiny—and naturally stable—package. The industrial payoff is huge: these seedlike capsules take up very little space, they’re relatively easy to harvest, and they’re naturally resilient against even the most extreme elements. And, of course, the plants themselves need not be hacked to pieces in the process of reaping, so the production cycle can be repeated outside of seasonal confines.

  Fiona is on cloud nine. Her smile hasn’t lost its edge for a single moment since that seedpod first caught her eye. I’m proud of her, knowing just how much hard work and dedication she’s invested in the BPs. Still, I feel sorry that she’s more or less alone here, with none of her colleagues or family to share in her hard-won victory.

  Now that the hard part is behind her, I hope Fiona can finally cast off her lab coat and relax a little. She’s certainly earned a little R&R. Who knows, maybe she’ll finally notice that Wilson Abby isn’t just an undereducated employee, but a man who would bend over backwards to do well by her. I warm at the thought, and it’s a nice feeling that I’d love to hang onto. But then Rogers opens his big mouth during dinner and upends my tottering sense of emotional balance.

  “Gonna miss that lady,” he garbles around a mouthful of gruelish custard.

  My appetite falls away like a crumbling glacier into my stomach. “What do you mean?” I squeak.

  Rogers frowns, one eyebrow pushing his forehead into a series of porous foothills. “Normal people don’t stick around desert scrapholes any longer than they have to, Wilson. You think a woman like Fiona doesn’t have other options in life?”

  “I guess so,” I admit. “I never really knew what to think.”

  “Well, once the seedpods start growing en masse, her work here is pretty much done. She’ll still need to publish her research, I guess, but she can handle that from home. I figure she’ll be outta here on the next supply run.”

  If I was alone right now, I’d throw a proper fit. Hearing Rogers’s terrible prediction, realizing that the only thing worth waking up for on this forsaken rock will soon be gone, I want nothing more than to wallow in self-pity. But I’m not alone, and my pride is sufficient to keep tears at bay—for a while, anyway.

  “What about the rest of us?”

  With a grunt, Rogers drops his fork to his plate. “We’re here for the grunt work; doesn’t look like that’s going away. The company’ll probably start retooling the lab for production, and some unlucky, lesser-credentialed earthlings’ll end up out here to manage things. As for you and me? We’re fixtures here, I’m afraid.” He opens his mouth to take another bite, but hesitates, adding: “Well ...”

  “Well, what?”

  “I mean, assuming we manage to stay alive.”

  I make two discoveries upon Grogan’s return. First, he is no happier than I am regarding Fiona. His face is a slab of granite, and that’s precisely how I know. I’ve been around him long enough to recognize that he’s a surly little baby about the little thin
gs. The big things? He bottles them up to drink alone.

  My impression upon arriving here that Grogan and Fiona have some sort of history between them has only grown more robust over time. The weird charge between them is sparking brighter now than ever before, though I’m no closer to understanding its origin.

  My second discovery is a little harder to interpret, though it’s easy enough to describe. Even before Grogan’s ship landed—just as it began rasping against the atmosphere, forming a burning speck against the sky—I felt something I haven’t felt in a very long time.

  My NanoPrint came to life.

  I’m not really sure what that means; it feels much like it did when I first left home, oscillating as it sends out connection requests to the nexus. There is a subtle difference, though. This time, it feels as though it has somehow connected to something.

  Only I’m pretty sure it’s not the nexus.

  The mother plant—the Queen, as I’ve begun to think of her—is putting out seedpods like crazy now. We’ve given up transplanting her budding offspring to the garden; Fiona is confident that we already have enough specimens to sustain long-term production. Unfortunately, the gametophytes continue to pop up daily—not only on the Queen, but on her daughters as well—and must be meticulously collected and later destroyed, lest they be allowed to grow unchecked.

  In the garden, The Princess—the largest of the Queen’s female brood—has peaked out at just under fifty feet. She hasn’t yet produced any seedpods, but we have no reason to think she won’t. If Fiona’s assessment is to be believed—and I have to admit that she isn’t often wrong these days—it makes little difference. The Queen is producing far more seedpods than we need for the moment. It’s already a formidable chore to keep track of them, so I’m in no rush for the other females to mature.

  In addition to the Princess, there are four more females over ten feet tall now. Added to the hundred-or-so males in the garden, we’ve got a regular orchard going here.

  A macabre alien orchard of flesh-eating produce. Good times.

  I’ve noticed that every time I walk by Grogan’s room, my NanoPrint whizzes into high gear for a few seconds. Wonder what that’s all about?

  It’s been a month since the Queen gave up her first fruit. Though I’ve done all I can to slow time, it has bested my feeble efforts. Today is the big day: Fiona is leaving us. To say that I’m a little bummed is understating things a fair amount, and I see my sentiment mirrored all over the hive:

  Rogers keeps clearing his throat. Cutterly looks as if his dog’s about to be put down; I’ve seen him grimacing and shaking his head in slow sweeps when he thinks no one is looking. I’m not doing so hot myself, but I’m trying hard to put on a stoic face. Grogan’s void of emotion again, yet somehow he looks the saddest of all. Unlike the rest of us, however, he gets a few more days with her en route to Earth.

  Lucky pile of circuit scrap.

  When the moment of her departure arrives, Fiona gives us each a hug. Her smile is bittersweet, eyes bright and hopeful, yet glassy with the regret of opportunity cost. When it’s my turn, I’m given a priceless peck on my cheek, too. Suited up, we escort Fiona to the ship and settle into a stiff line to witness her exodus from Mars. I stand with Rogers and Cutterly just outside the airlock and watch as the ship departs, taking with it my only chance to ever procreate—unless the Queen and I both lower our standards. My tears flow, and I don’t care who sees them now.

  When a Gaussian tendril is all that remains to commemorate the lovely Fiona, we all head into the airlock and begin sterilizing our suits.

  I walked past Grogan’s room this afternoon, and my implant went berserk again. Since that moment, I’ve been contemplating something I would never have dreamed of. Once Rogers and Cutterly are asleep, I plan to reconnoiter Grogan’s dorm.

  I have to admit that I’ve been a basket case since I began to entertain the thought. It’s so contrary to my nature that my body seems determined to shake some sense into me. Case in point: when dinner comes along, my hands are so jittery that I knock my plate off the table. Given the scarcity of food, this is an unforgivable sin—Grogan would undoubtedly blow a gasket, if he was here. Rogers offers me some of his—an unexpected kindness that catches me completely off guard—until Cutterly points out that, with Fiona gone, we have an extra ration. It’s true, I realize. Not that we’re free to go off the deep end by any means, but her cabinet is half-stocked with rations. I pick through them and settle on some chicken piccata. The capers are bland, the chicken like wet leather—but at least I’m not eating off the floor. I wonder if I’m imagining the taste, or if I should expect everything else about my life to lose its redeeming qualities as well in the drab shadow of Fiona’s absence.

  There’s not much on the agenda today; operations are more or less on hold until Grogan returns with instructions from PRMC. In the meantime, other than the usual morning chores, I’m left with nothing to do but hang out with Cutterly and Rogers in the commons. They’ve been so standoffish since my arrival that I’ve always assumed they were jerks—maybe they are; it’s still a little early to say—yet whatever the case, the guys are downright chatty today.

  My mind is clattering at full capacity, struggling to map out the particulars of tonight’s pilferage, but I feel that I’ve stumbled upon an opportunity—one that I’d be remiss to pass up. If I play my cards well, these guys might just shed light on something that has bugged me for too long. I decide to try my luck.

  “So, Cutterly, what’s up with you and Grogan?”

  Cutterly looks at me sharply and sighs mightily through his nose, jowl lines deepening. “I’m not sure what you mean.”

  “I mean, you two seem like you don’t like each other much, that’s all.”

  Rogers guffaws. “Ha! That’s like saying you might have a little crush on Fiona.”

  Wow. Have I been that obvious?

  Ignoring my crimson-cheeked mortification, Cutterly tosses his head forward and growls. “Fine. We don’t like each other. You saying you’re sweet on him?”

  I bat my eyes and cross my legs effeminately. “Heck yeah, have you seen him in his tighty-whities? Smokin’.”

  Rogers rolls into a ball with laughter; even Cutterly cracks a smile—adding to a sparse handful that have ever touched his weathered face in my presence—but it’s short-lived, waning into the usual frown almost instantly.

  “Listen, kid,” he says, “seriously, you need to watch him.”

  The air seems to thicken a little—not to the point of suffocation, really, but just enough that I become conscious of the rise and fall of my chest, as if it might cease altogether if I divide my attention. My smile fades into nothing; even Rogers quiets down, clearing his throat to soften the jagged edge of awkward silence.

  “Uh, why?” I want to know.

  “Let’s just say Grogan can be ... dangerous.”

  “Dangerous? What does that mean?”

  Cutterly shakes his head; he’s said all he’s gonna say.

  “C’mon, guys,” I groan. “You can’t throw out an accusation like that and expect me to know what to do with it. What do you mean by dangerous? Like, irresponsible, or throw-you-under-the-bus dangerous?”

  Cutterly exchanges a glance with his pal.

  Rogers chews his lip, eyebrows scrunched thoughtfully. “Might as well, Cutt,” he mutters with a halfhearted shrug. “The cat’s half out of the bag, anyway.”

  With a somber nod, Cutterly coughs and then addresses my question with one of his own. “Who do you think Winkley is buried next to?”

  “I don’t know,” I confess. “I’m guessing not Montague, though, right? Grogan said there wasn’t anything left to bury.”

  “Nope, not Montague.”

  “Then who?”

  Setting his fork down, Cutterly leans forward, lowering his voice to a conspiratorial whisper. “Winkley wasn’t our first BP victim,” he says, smiling as my eyes bug. “Didn’t know that, did you?”

  I sha
ke my head no, too stunned to speak.

  He nods. “Guy named Emmers. Died in his sleep.”

  “What makes you think it was the BPs?”

  “Well, for one, he wasn’t even forty years old. And he was in better shape than any of us.”

  My eyes narrow. “You sure it wasn’t a freak heart attack or some—”

  “We did an autopsy,” Rogers pipes in.

  “What? You mean you, like, cut him open?”

  Rogers nods somberly. “Well,” he says in corrective drawl, motioning to Cutterly with his chin, “not us—Fiona did.”

  God help me, I can’t help the image that fills my head: Fiona wielding a bloody scalpel, digging around in a heap of glistening organs. I shudder at the thought, feeling as though my skin is itching to crawl away from me. It dawns on me at once that these two are messing with me, that this is just a little belated hazing. Oh, they’re good. They almost had me.

  “Really,” I say with a wry, knowing smile. “And what, pray tell, did she find?”

  “Poison in his blood, bits of chewed up BP2 in his stomach. Mixed in with his salad greens.”

  My smile twitches. “He ate it?”

  “Yup.”

  If this is a joke, it isn’t very funny; apparently Mars warps one’s sense of humor over time. “And you think it was Grogan?”

  Cutterly shakes his head and reclines in his chair, folding beefy arms across a barreled chest. “I don’t think, man—I know.”

  “Okay, so how do you know?”

  Cutterly’s face darkens; I get the feeling this guy isn’t used to others questioning his judgment. “What,” he snarls, “you saying he did it to himself?”

  Realizing that I’ve inadvertently offended the man—a man who could pulverize me into a pile of Martian dust with very little effort—the fragile remnants of my smile flee. “Whoa,” I say, putting my hands up in the universal signal for conversational surrender. “I’m not saying that, I’m just trying to understand why Grogan would do something so crazy, that’s all.”