by K. Makansi
I am in a greenhouse.
I am in a large, underground greenhouse lit by bright grow lights and presumably powered by electricity generated in the roots of all the plants that my grandfather cultivated above ground. I am in a greenhouse built under an old oak tree that somehow communicates with thirteen little acorn pendants and when they’re all together, they vibrate in a way that Vale can sense, but Chan-Yu and I and presumably everyone normal cannot. I lead Vale in between one of the rows, staring at all the plants, tempted to reach out and touch them but remembering Rhinehouse’s sharp admonition: Don’t touch anything. I don’t know what these are or why they’re here. Are they dangerous? Then I see a small tree next to us, watered by a drip irrigation line, bright yellow fruits dripping off of it.
“Vale,” I whisper, pointing. “Lemons.”
“Are we walking in Lotus?” he asks, his voice full of awe, and I know he doesn’t mean nelumbo nucifera, the lotus plant, but LOTUS, the Old World seed bank database Eli, Soren, and I discovered encoded into an artificial genome.
I shake my head. I don’t know.
Up ahead, I see a long desk where old computers, almost laughable because of their age, are set up against the wall. There’s something painted on the wall above the desk, but it’s hard to make it out through the tangle of vines and trees that have grown far beyond their original containers, crowding out the ceiling space and blocking our view. I walk closer.
“Oh.” I say simply, when it finally comes into view. Vale’s grip tightens around my hand. He sees it too. It’s an image of two smiling men, arms slung over each other’s shoulders. One has a toddler, a little girl with short cropped hair, sitting on his shoulders; the other holds a boy’s hand in his. The girl smiles brightly and holds her chubby hand up as if waving at someone while the boy, no more than five years old and adorable with dark, curly hair and a toothy smile, looks up adoringly at the man holding his hand. They’re standing in front of a newly planted oak tree. There’s a wooden sign next to them with writing carved into it, overlaid with red paint. It reads, “The Waystation.”
“I don’t understand,” Vale says, his voice barely audible.
“Do you know those men?” Chan-Yu asks, coming to stand next to us, staring at the photo, as enraptured as we are.
“It’s my grandfather and my mother,” I say, pointing at the smiling man with the little girl on his shoulders. The dark hair and skin; round, almond-shaped eyes; and bright, gummy smile are all unmistakably my grandfather’s, though I don’t know if I’ve ever seen a picture of him that young.
“And my grandfather, Augustus Orleán,” Vale whispers, “with my dad.”
20 - VALE
Summer 1, Sector Annum 106, 10h10
Gregorian Calendar: June 21
“Even the hydroponics system is still working,” Soren says, his fingers exploring a thin tube that leads to a glass pool flush with green plants and dangling, waterlogged root systems. The water is clean and clear. “There’s still water flowing through these hoses. ”
“How?” Dr. Rhinehouse asks. He’s staring around us throughout the greenhouse, as amazed and awed as Remy, Chan-Yu, and I were when we first found it.
“We think Meera made it her personal mission to keep this place alive,” Osprey says, standing off to the side, as tall and lithe as a sapling. “And to keep it secret,” she adds. “Remy said Meera suggested she come here if she ever needed a safe place. When she left Vale the note about the acorns—”
“Where’s the power source for these grow lights?” Rhinehouse interrupts. Remy, Chan-Yu, and I asked ourselves the same question as we wandered down the aisles of the greenhouse. Eventually, we came up with a possible answer, although it doesn’t make sense. My eyes meet Soren’s, and I wordlessly point to the ceiling above us.
“The garden? The tree?” Rhinehouse responds.
“We’re directly underneath the oak and the garden Kanaan loved so much. Seems like he tapped into the root system to power this place, just like the biolights, but on a larger scale.”
Though I only met him a few times, I can feel Kanaan’s ghost, his worn hands in the earth, flipping irrigation switches, taking notes, creating his plants down here as surely as he tended them above. It’s been two days since we found this place, and I still haven’t gotten over the shock of seeing my grandfather standing arm-in-arm with Kanaan, both of them with their children near at hand—children who would one day find themselves on opposite sides of an ideological war.
I never met my grandfather. My father adored him—idolized him, even—but he died young, when my father was only six. Probably about a year or so after the photo was taken that was so carefully painted onto the wall above the bank of computers. He failed to return from one of his solo scavenging adventures, and his body was later found by another team of explorers. The cause of death was determined to be clostridium botulinum, an Old World strain of a bacterium the OAC had already effectively wiped out with genetically targeted antibiotics. No one knew exactly how he contracted the bacterium, but it was widely assumed to have come from some fish he ate while foraging in the marshy northern shores of Lake Ayrie. After the autopsy, his body was burned instead of being ceremonially planted in a garden, as is custom. His death, along with several others on the fringes of the Sector, was one of the motivating factors for the declaration of No-Go zones, areas of the Wilds where Sector citizens are forbidden to go for fear of bringing back Old World toxins or disease.
I grew up without hearing much about him, and I think my dad was tormented by the early loss of his father, to the point where he could only speak about him on special moments of solemnity or emotion. When I successfully piloted my first airship, Philip told me how Augustus—or August as he was called more often—built the first working airship in the Sector, using the mechanical bones of an old harrier jump jet he’d found. As a scientist, he’d pieced the airship together out of necessity. In one of the vids, he said his goal was simply to go farther on his scavenging adventures than anyone else had ever been.
The hovering technology adapted from the harrier that allowed the airship to lift vertically into the air went on to become the basis of our hovercars and many of our drones, and the cold fusion reactor Gold discovered on one of his trips and used as an engine is now standard, with some improvements, in every airship in the Sector. He became a very rich man, and when he died, his will stipulated that half the profits from the machine’s development be given to his son, which is how my father became one of the wealthiest men in Okaria without ever lifting a finger.
The rest of his money was donated to the Okarian Academy and the Sector Research Institute which helped catapult Okaria, once a small but growing town, into the beautiful capital city it is today, and attracted citizens from all over the Sector who hoped to send their children to the finest school in the nation.
From what I’ve pieced together by watching old news vids, my grandfather was an impulsive adventurer, a man who lived on the edge, always willing to take risks others shied away from. This made him, for many, a hard person to deal with. My grandmother was among those who refused to put up with his erratic lifestyle, and she left him—and my father—just a year after Philip was born. For the next five years, August took care of Philip, leaving him with my grandmother for only a few months out of the year when he went scavenging.
For the most part, my father refused to let the wealth he inherited go to his head. In fact, I think he spent most of his life trying to walk the razor’s edge between the memory of his creative father and the reality of his staid and proper mother. One thing my grandmother did say, in the few times she spoke of her ex-husband, was that Augustus Orleán loved his only child more than anything he ever invented. From the look on my father’s face in the picture on the wall, I’d say the feeling was mutual. The ache of loss blooms in my gut. Before I’d discovered the truth about my parents, I felt much the same about Philip.
“How many plants have you found?” Rhinehous
e asks, his voice as rough as tree bark.
“At least three hundred distinct species, as far as we can tell,” Soren responds. “There are some things here we’ve never seen before.”
As I think about my own parents, I wonder about Soren’s relationship with his and with Rhinehouse. I don’t know what happened after Cara Skaarsgard’s ouster from the chancellorship, but I do know they were effectively lobotomized, leaving Soren to fend for himself while he was still a student. Had Rhinehouse stepped in to help him? There’s definitely a bond between the two men that is as near to father and son as I’ve seen.
“Many of them aren’t native,” Osprey adds. Rhinehouse furrows his brows at her, as if evaluating her academic credentials.
“And some of them aren’t food crops, so they aren’t all from LOTUS. Have you done a crossmatch?”
“Of the plants we’ve identified so far, we’ve got two hundred and thirty matches,” Soren says. “A lot of those are subspecies. Kanaan had three different kinds of avocado—whatever that is—and ten identifiable variants of potato.”
Rhinehouse almost smiles. “You’ve never eaten an avocado?”
Soren, Osprey, and I all glance at each other.
“Never even heard of it,” Soren says after a pause.
“They have them in the Texas Federation,” Osprey pipes up helpfully. “A traveler told me one time they put them on everything.”
Rhinehouse stares at us for a moment, his face as inscrutable as ever, and then turns away, walking down one of the aisles. I can’t tell if he’s chuckling to himself or grunting. Either way he doesn’t say another word as he paces the rows of plants, as slowly as a tortoise, giving his attention to each plant individually, as if introducing himself, before turning to the next.
As soon as we told the Director what we’d found, Rhinehouse announced he was on his way. There’s no one in Okaria better suited to study the greenhouse, and as much of a curmudgeon as he can be, we all waited, holding our breath, just as we had for Chan-Yu to arrive, knowing Rhinehouse would help us find answers. Without him, it would be nearly impossible to understand the full extent of what Kanaan had created.
Now we watch him pace, surveying the plants, occasionally bending to smell or touch one, or to scoop up a handful of dirt from the soil bed and hold it to his nose as if it was a fine vintage. He glances up at the lights periodically, or checks the drip lines that drain into every soil system. We follow him at a slight distance as he progresses from rocky, sandy soils to plants so tropical there are misters set up above us—misters that, despite four years without constant attention, are still mostly functional.
“Kanaan Alexander was a controversial man,” he says suddenly, after nearly thirty minutes of walking through the aisles. “His friends loved him, and he was fiercely loyal to them in turn. His enemies hated him and he held them in equally high regard. He was independent. Rebellious. Didn’t give a damn what the Sector told him to do. Didn’t socialize much, especially when he was older. He was ten years my senior, and we worked together at the SRI occasionally. He’d teach a class here and there, join in on a specific research problem. But mostly, he kept to himself. We were friendly, but not great friends.”
“Did you know he was working on something this big?” Osprey asks eagerly, leaning forward on the balls of her feet, running her hands through her silvery hair. Rhinehouse stops what he’s doing—scrutinizing a vine that’s overtaken a whole corner of the room—to glare at Osprey for the crime of interrupting his thoughts. She cocks an eyebrow at him and crosses her arms, undeterred by his attitude.
“As I was saying,” Rhinehouse continues, emphasizing every word, “Kanaan was also practical. His interest in science came not from a desire for fame, as it does for so many scientists in Okaria, but from genuine curiosity and a desire to find better answers to better questions. He loved to bake, to cook, to garden, and to explore, and his love for those things came from a simple desire for knowledge and experience. He was extremely passionate and equally productive, right up until he began to lose himself in the last few years of his life. I am unsurprised to see these facilities running so well even five years after his death. Without diminishing your friend Meera’s accomplishments in keeping this place alive,” Rhinehouse nods slightly to Osprey, “I’m sure Kanaan would have installed failsafes and backup systems at every turn, knowing that without him around to protect this great secret, his life’s work would be lost.”
“So what do we do with all this?” I gesture toward the rows upon rows of plants, hoping I won’t be on the receiving end of one of his angry looks. He doesn’t like to be rushed.
“We wait.” Rhinehouse claps the dirt from his hands. “And we think.” He brushes by us, heading toward the entrance, back to the dark, damp root cellar.
“What are we waiting for?” Osprey calls after him, stretching up onto her toes to watch as he leaves.
“Don’t ask him that.” Soren shakes his head darkly. He grabs her hand and pulls her forward, following Rhinehouse.
“For Moriana,” Rhinehouse responds loudly as he ducks back into the dark corridor. Soren looks back at me, worry painted across his features, and I am reminded of the second purpose for Rhinehouse’s visit: to talk to Moriana, to do what none of us could do and convince her to tell us everything she knows about Corine’s planned genetic alterations.
I stare at the painting on the wall for another long moment before leaving, wondering at the friendship between Remy’s grandfather and my own, a friendship neither one of us ever knew existed. It seems fitting that two generations later, Remy and I should find equal meaning in a different kind of relationship.
In the picture, I notice, August’s eyes are the same color as mine—grey, salt-green, like the ocean I’ve never seen.
Rhinehouse hesitates at the door where Moriana has been held for two days. A flash of anxiety crosses his face, but his hesitation lasts only a second. As he flips the old-fashioned padlock and pushes open the door, he looks as stoic and cranky as ever. Miah jumps up from the chair he’s occupied for hours and greets him warmly. As I enter, Demeter comes alive.
“Don’t be deceived,” she says. “Emotional readout based on microexpressions indicates nervousness and stress. Tension in the face and neck muscles. Tight jaw. Eyes focused but roving. And I’m not talking about Moriana.” Her voice is grim.
Who, then? One glance at Miah tells me all I need to know. He looks hopeful, almost happy. But too much so. His eyes are too bright, his smile too wide for the occasion. There’s a touch of insanity there. Is there such a thing as too much hope?
“Oh, gods,” Moriana says weakly, sitting up as the door opens. It looks like she’d been sleeping. “Dr. Rhinehouse?”
His expression doesn’t change, but his posture does. His shoulders relax and he lets out a cavernous breath. He steps forward and, to my great surprise, walks over to Moriana’s bed and sits down next to her.
“Moriana,” he says quietly.
“Surely you’re not … one of—”
“I am.” His voice is gentler than I’ve ever heard it. “I have been since I left Okaria two years ago.”
“I heard the rumors,” she whispers. “But I never believed them.”
“It is difficult to believe that two people who once shared the same values could diverge so sharply.” Rhinehouse’s voice is rife with bitterness and loss. I wonder what history is behind those words.
Her eyes flit to Miah, and then to me. I grit my teeth as Moriana starts to shiver. The heat of the afternoon tells me it’s not because she’s cold. “It is strange I find myself on opposite sides to so many people I once trusted.”
Rhinehouse watches her for a few minutes before continuing.
“How are you?” he asks at last. She shrugs, looks around. We locked her in the most modest room in Kanaan’s house. It was the only one without broad windows to the outside. Even so, the room is nicer than many flats in Okaria, with polished wood furniture, bright walls—thoug
h the paint is peeling in places—and elegant metal fixtures.
“Her expressions change every few seconds,” Demeter says. “Nothing is constant. I can only read so far based on microexpressions alone.” I nod, prompting her for as much information as she can give me. The camera we installed has a fish-eye lens, so the Demeter’s view will be slightly distorted. I hate the idea of monitoring Moriana, remembering all too well when Demeter had to do this for Remy and Soren. “Lack of strong focus in the eyes indicates emotional distance. Possible nostalgia, reminiscence, or just a defense mechanism against another perceived act of hostility. Tight brow and jaw also indicate defensiveness. Perception of a threat, preparation for a verbal response. But her body language is weak and open. Slumped shoulders and open hands indicate acceptance, comfort, possibly even guilt.”
“Fine,” Moriana says after a long silence, “considering the circumstances.”
“Did you know that Soren Skaarsgard and Remy Alexander were once taken prisoner by your friend Vale,” Rhinehouse glances back at me, “and kept as prisoners in the capital?”
She looks at me. “He told me, but I didn’t know how much to believe.” Regret weighs on me. How different would everything have turned out if Miah and I had been honest with Moriana from the beginning?
“All of it. Your former classmates were tied to a pole for twenty-four hours before they were given so much as a drink of water.” Rhinehouse’s voice is casual, as if giving a lecture at the SRI. Moriana stares at him, her face blank. “Soren was beaten. Mostly by soldiers, but General Aulion wasn’t above throwing a few punches himself. They were both drugged and interrogated. Remy was tortured by electric shocks. Soren was waterboarded.” As Rhinehouse lists this information as matter-of-factly as if he was describing one of the plants in Kanaan’s greenhouse, Moriana’s face grows pale. She’s not alone. My stomach churns as the weight of these crimes press into me, digging into my shoulders. “Fortunately for you, the people you are, as you say, now in opposition to, do not ascribe to such methods. Torture is the Sector’s stock in trade. Not the Resistance’s.”
