Phytosphere

by Scott Mackay

  “And so I’ve had to make the toughest decision of my presidency. At twelve-thirty p.m., Eastern Daylight Time, today, I put the U.S. military on highest alert. I’ve sent a final message to the Tarsalans.

  This message is a counterultimatum. Dismantle the shroud within forty-eight hours or the United States and its allies will bring to bear against the Tarsalan mothership and its other deployed craft the full might of the world’s military forces. So far the Tarsalans haven’t responded. But I think this message has sent to them a firm comprehension of just where we stand. The United States and its allies will not be dictated to. And we will not have our sovereignty challenged. And if they don’t dismantle the shroud, war shall and will be declared.”

  By this time Glenda was gripping the edge of the dining room table with white-knuckled hands. Her mouth had gone dry and her palms were moist. Wasn’t it bad enough that they should have the shroud around the Earth? Wouldn’t it make things far worse to go to war with the Tarsalans? Yet she could see the president’s point. They couldn’t let the Tarsalans push them around.

  “Mom, are the Tarsalans going to bomb us?” asked Jake.

  “I don’t know, sweetie.”

  “They probably won’t bomb here,” said Hanna. “Old Hill is the most boring place in the world.”

  “I don’t see why we don’t let them live anywhere they want,” said Jake. “It’s a free country. I wouldn’t mind having one for a neighbor. I’ve only ever met Kafis at Uncle Neil’s, and I’d like to meet a few more. I don’t know why the president doesn’t put out the welcome mat.”

  “Because they overbreed, stupid. They have four babies at a time.”

  “Hanna, don’t call your brother stupid. And we don’t know that they would overbreed. Yes, it’s true they have four babies at a time, but everything I’ve read says they’ve really embraced birth control.”

  “But Mom,” said Hanna, “they can tell us anything they want about what they do back on their homeworld, and we have no way of checking it out. I talked to Uncle Neil about it last Christmas. He says we can’t verify anything about the way they do things on their homeworld, and that if we open the door to them, we could find ourselves in real trouble.”

  Glenda looked out the window at the shroud. “I think we’re in real trouble already.”

  7

  Gerry met with Mayor Hulke, Ian Hamilton, Dr. Luke Langstrom, and a fourth man, Mitchell Bennett, the appointed representative of AviOrbit, a day later. Mitch was a man roughly his own age, but he wore a suit. Gerry had his baggy old corduroys on. Mitch’s hair was short, a tawny red shaved as closely as a layer of felt. Gerry became conscious of his own straying, long hair. Mitch maneuvered with feminine grace through the Moon’s weak gravity while Gerry lumbered about like an out-of-control giant.

  Malcolm Hulke held the document of contention in his hands, downloaded from Earth’s latest drop. His jaw tightened and he scratched behind his ear, where Gerry saw an angry red patch of psoriasis. The mayor finished scanning the document a third time, then glanced at Gerry, puzzled.

  “I don’t understand why they would send this to AviOrbit’s office, not mine.”

  “Neil’s trying to undercut your authority,” said Gerry. “It’s his way of playing politics.”

  “Why doesn’t he want our help? You’d think we could offer a unique perspective up here on the Moon.

  And it’s not beyond the realm of possibility they just might fail. Wouldn’t they want us as backup?”

  “Considering my brother has the full resources of the United States at his disposal,” said Gerry, “odds are he’s going to come up with something sooner rather than later.”

  “And if he doesn’t?” said Hulke. “What if he tries one thing, then another, then another, and none of them work? Why doesn’t he want our help?” Hulke was obviously hurt by Neil’s signed recommendation. “This whole section here—about working at cross-purposes—do you think he has a point? And Gerry, this bit about your qualifications. Or lack of them, as he puts it. That’s not nice. Have you always had this…this thing with him? How can he say you have no qualifications?”

  “I’m sure Dr. Thorndike is an excellent judge of qualifications,” said Langstrom. “And I’m sure he knows his brother better than any of us.”

  Gerry glanced at the Martian sourly. “Neil’s always been nervous about the way I do things.”

  “One thing you ought to know about Neil,” said Ian. “He likes to steal the show. I say we don’t even answer this. We’ve got our own sovereignty up here. It’s not as if they own the shroud. If we go along with this ridiculous request to… to stand down, we might blow our own chances of getting rid of the thing.

  Why don’t we just say that the Moon is Plan B? In my experience, Plan B is the one that always works.”

  He took off his hat, a rawhide outdoorsman’s hat, smoothed his shoulder-length hair, and bunched his lips, looking ready to spit. “I’ve known Neil and Gerry since…since a long time ago. We grew up in suburban Illinois together. At first I was best friends with Neil. I admired the hell out of the guy. He got good grades, and when it came time for college, he was accepted into the best of them on a full scholarship. But he’s overconfident, and that’s going to be his downfall. Then you take a guy like Gerry.

  He hasn’t had the most stunning career. And he’s flat broke most of the time. But Gerry looks at something, and he sees things other people don’t. Gerry’s got more patience in his baby finger than Neil has in his whole body. Have you ever had some kind of problem, and no matter how hard you puzzle on it, you can’t come up with an answer? So you put it aside at the end of the day, then go to bed, and right when you’re falling asleep you find a solution? That’s the way Gerry’s mind works all the time. Gerry is Plan B, and I’m telling you, Plan B is the one that’s going to work.”

  “I don’t think we should sell Dr. Thorndike short so quickly,” said Langstrom. “He’s won the Nobel Prize, after all. And, no offense, Gerry, you haven’t.”

  “Prizes don’t mean a thing,” said Ian.

  “They’re a way of recognizing excellent work,” said Dr. Langstrom.

  “Not when it comes to Neil and Gerry.”

  “I think your bias is showing, Mr. Hamilton,” said Langstrom.

  “Let me give you an example,” said Ian, leaning across the table toward the elderly Martian. “When we were kids, the three of us got stranded in Chicago. Neil immediately came up with a plan to panhandle money so we could buy bus tickets home. He took charge of the operation and we had the money in no time. But then, at the last minute, he got us on the wrong bus. I remember what he was like that day. He was so confident. But then he screwed up. We traveled all the way to the other end of Chicago before we figured out what he’d done. Who comes to the rescue? Gerry. He logs on to his laptop and determines we can connect with a southbound train if we change buses at a transfer point a few blocks ahead. We didn’t even have to pay an extra fare. Plan B. Gerry rarely overlooks anything.”

  “Considering Neil Thorndike has a position as a special advisor to the president,” said Langstrom, “I doubt he overlooks much either.”

  “Yes, but this document we have,” said Ian, tapping the mayor’s waferscreen. “It’s nothing but Neil trying to take over like he always does. He’s not even willing to consider that the Moon might have something to offer. I say we decide against him.”

  “Getting stranded in Chicago and having to raise bus money thirty years ago is one thing, but this is quite another. I should think Dr. Thorndike’s come a long way since then.”

  The group fell silent. Gerry watched the mayor glance at the waferscreen a fourth time. Hulke’s face again took on an expression of puzzlement. He looked up from the document and inspected Gerry the way he might an unpredictable dog. What was Gerry going to do next? Was he going to roll over? Was he going to play dead? Was he going to shake a paw?

  “Gerry,” said the mayor, “the decision’s yours. You’re the
head of this thing. If you think we should pull out… I mean, if you think you and your brother will be working at… cross-purposes…”

  “I can understand some of what he’s saying. They might use an agent against the shroud, but then we might go ahead and use a different agent, and the two might cancel out, or combine in some unexpected and dangerous way. But until we know exactly where Neil’s research is going—until the NSF communicates that to us—I think it would be foolhardy to stand down. As for this thing about my qualifications… I haven’t been a complete failure. I’ve had some small successes in oceanic research. I’m recognized as North Carolina’s number-one hydrographer. And I’ve always believed in myself as a scientist.” He motioned at the waferscreen. “No matter what anybody else says.”

  “If that’s your decision,” said the mayor, his brow rising.

  “I just don’t think we should stop when all we’ve got is a bunch of ifs, maybes, and mights. I believe we should go ahead and see what we can find out about this damn thing. At least for the next little while.”

  The way to go was small. Gerry knew no other way. But as he rode the sky elevator to AviOrbit’s launch platform, he couldn’t help noting the misgivings on the mayor’s face. Mitchell Bennett, of AviOrbit, kept staring down at the Moon—which was now forty miles below—as if he, too, were embarrassed by the Smallmouth. Gerry inspected the probe one more time, and now he also had his doubts.

  About three times the size of a bleach bottle, and roughly the same shape, its outer shell was matte black

  and composed of the most advanced stealth alloy AviOrbit had in stock. Airfoils jutted on either side.

  The instrument module, something he was extremely proud of, rode at the front, a payload of standard and advanced electronics that he’d ingeniously linked to some nifty software Mitch had helped him develop. Proton microthrusters—really braking thrusters from bigger craft—provided the primary means of propulsion and navigation. At the back…well…nothing more than a crude nuclear bomb, the thrust device for when the Smallmouth had to escape Earth’s gravity well and return to the Moon.

  “Why did you call it Smallmouth?” asked the mayor. “Other than the fact that it has a small mouth. I mean, no complaints. I like weird names, but I…” The mayor trailed off, all his doubt implied.

  “In a lot of ways, the probe is going to act like a smallmouth bass,” said Gerry, now feeling self-conscious about the name. “It’s going to putter about like a smallmouth bass in a bunch of weeds, conduct its experiments, and then come back with its sample. I fish in Jordan Lake for bass, that’s why.”

  “It’s just that… I don’t know… it doesn’t seem like much of a spacecraft.” The mayor turned to Mitch.

  “Mitch, maybe we should have tried something bigger.”

  “Trust me, it’s going to work,” said Gerry. “You know what I like about it? It’s simple. It’s cheap. And I think Mitch and his team did a great job.”

  “I hope it comes back,” said Mitch, giving the probe a reluctant glance.

  “The NSF already has their sample,” said Hulke. “We got the drop this morning. They still want us to butt out.”

  “There’s no harm in us taking our own look,” said Gerry. “No one’s going to notice the Smallmouth. Especially not the Tarsalans.”

  “Your brother sent three special atmospheric aircraft with Air Force cover. Apparently there were some casualties, but they didn’t say how many.”

  Gerry turned his attention to the Smallmouth. “At least no one’s going to get hurt if this probe goes down.”

  The sky elevator continued to rise until it was fifty miles above the lunar surface. At this altitude, Gerry saw the curve of the Moon, and the vast panorama of the moonscape below. The terminator cut a dark line over the surface, but beyond it craters, ejecta patterns, mountains, and plains came into sharp relief, lit by the sun.

  The sky elevator at last came to the launch platform, and the doors opened on a large hangar area with a huge polycarbonate pressure door at the far end. Through this pressure door Gerry saw stars in the blackest sky he had ever seen. Was this black sky what the shroud looked like from Earth? he wondered. Had the green gotten so dark it was now black?

  Technicians took charge of the Smallmouth, wheeling it away.

  Gerry, the mayor, and Mitch found their way to the observation tower, where they saw the entire launch facility spread out below. Several interplanetary craft lay floating in orbit, tethered to workbays that were themselves linked to the platform by flexible pneumatic lifts. The launch facility, shaped like a kidney, measured two square miles, and had a number of hydralike extensions at the ends—tethers that were currently empty. The sun hit the facility with bristling light, but the yellow-tinted visor of Gerry’s pressure suit blunted its brightness. He felt queasy because of the weightlessness, but not overtly so. Immediately below him he saw the small-components launch area. It was here that the Smallmouth would begin its voyage.

  The technical crew wheeled the probe along magnetic rails to Platform 5. Once there, they unlatched the Smallmouth from its dolly and connected it to release hooks. They backed the dolly away and disappeared into a nearby hangar.

  The countdown began, and when it was finished the probe puttered slowly upward, traveling at no more than a few miles per hour, at last disappearing out of sight as it angled into the transit orbit that would take it to Earth.

  Gerry glanced at Hulke. “We have liftoff.”

  Hulke sighed. “In a manner of speaking.”

  PART TWO

  8

  Neil met with the president, the national security advisor, and the secretary of defense at Camp David.

  As Neil entered the meeting room, he saw that Tony Bayard was giving him a good looking-over, as if the president expected nothing but the best news from him. National Security Advisor Julia Petrov’s lack of sleep was painfully apparent in her haggard appearance. Secretary of Defense Joe Sidower sat at the end of the table, his bald head bowed as he went over some waferscreen notes. The White House photographer took stills.

  Neil’s previous mood of unshakable optimism had now turned to one of cautious pragmatisim. He couldn’t help thinking of the Cameron Chess Study, and how even the smartest human beings hadn’t yet beaten a Tarsalan at chess.

  The president sat, and Neil followed suit. Julia Petrov took her seat as well. One of the kitchen staff came around and poured coffee. A plate of Danishes sat in the middle of the table. The food-distribution network was breaking down day by day, its decline driven relentlessly by the growing certainty that there would be no crops next year, which in turn engendered mass hoarding, and people were already going hungry. Yet this morning he was having coffee and Danishes with the president.

  “Neil,” said the president, breaking into his thoughts. “Can you give us an update? Your original two-week deadline has come and gone, so I hope the news is good. Your preoccupation… is making me…” The president trailed off.

  Neil prided himself on always giving it straight to the president. Yet he began tentatively, and without his usual bravado. “My team and I… we’ve had some time to study the retrieved shroud samples, more than my original two weeks, yes, and the initial results show that the shroud is made primarily of plant material.

  On a chromosomal level—and I don’t want to get too technical here—it resembles some of the more common forms of phytoplankton we have in our oceans. The shroud is a living, breathing, growing entity, Mr. President, and it knows how to heal itself.”

  The president paused to consider.

  “If it’s a living thing,” said Sidower, “it can be killed.”

  Neil grinned at this characteristically hawkish response from Sidower. “One would think so. In fact, I had some of the top herbicide specialists in the country come to the lab in Miami to take a look at the specimen. We sat around and had a real bull session about the whole problem.”

  “And what did you come up with?” asked the president
.

  “Well, we hypothesized that we could use some commercially formulated herbicides because, structurally, the shroud is similar to many of the plant and weed varieties that these products are active against. But as we mapped out the specimen’s chromosome, we began to see that some of its DNA sequencing differs from the more common forms of phytoplankton. It was a tough genome, but we finally got it all mapped out.”

  “And how, exactly, does it differ?” asked Julia.

  Neil glanced at the national security advisor. “Some of the sequencing in the specimen comes directly from Tarsalan genetic makeup itself.”

  This, he knew, was the showstopper.

  The president’s eyes went wide. “You mean they’ve stirred some of their own genome into the mix?”

  Neil raised his palms, as if he were as surprised as the president. “Their splicing techniques are far more… advanced than ours.” He sat back and consulted his waferscreen. “You might remember I wrote a paper on a subset of Tarsalan genes, ones with transmutational properties. These are the ones we’re finding in our samples.”

  Sidower made a face as he glanced at the president, not looking too pleased about the growing complexity of the threat.

  “If you could give us the essentials,” said the president.

  Right. Bayard liked the simplified version. But he wasn’t sure he could simplify something that was so complicated. “Let me go into lecture mode here. The Tarsalans have a subset of genes in their makeup, and this subset of genes can mutate certain of their physical characteristics, depending on environmental circumstances. This is what’s made the Tarsalans so… so adaptable, and it’s why they’ve been able to live on so many different planets throughout the galaxy.” He squinted as he tried to demystify the whole concept. “The simplest analogy would be the jackrabbit. It turns white in winter. Not that the mechanism in the Tarsalan is in any way the same, but it gives you an idea of what I’m getting at. Chameleon lizards turn from brown to green and back again. There’s a transmutational component.”