Seeders: A Novel

by A. J. Colucci

  Colin looked shocked. He’d never hit any of his children before, never had to.

  “Hey, leave him alone, Dad,” Luke said.

  Colin let go and Sean fell to the floor. He crawled backward and scurried like a crab to a chair. He climbed up on the cushion.

  “Yeah. Okay,” Colin said. His dazed expression vanished and he went tight-lipped to the dining room table. “Go ahead and take your vacation. All of you. I don’t care.” He slumped in a chair. “Stay as long as you want.”

  There was a red welt across Sean’s face, but he seemed to be okay. He was reading the book again. Isabelle knew that any criticism now would only make things worse, so she joined Colin in the dining room.

  “Let’s not make a fuss,” she said in a small voice, to no one in particular. “We’ll just enjoy our dinner.” She sat at the table and picked up the bowl of string beans.

  Luke said, “I’m not really hungry.”

  “Me neither,” Monica echoed.

  “Great.” Colin stabbed his beans. “Well, I’m eating.”

  The teens walked down the hall and parted at their bedrooms.

  Isabelle held her breath and spoke softly without looking at her husband. “I was thinking, you could join us on the island for a couple days, maybe on the weekend before we leave.”

  Colin didn’t answer, but took a bite of meat. He looked up from his dinner plate. “I’m sorry, Sean, okay? Come eat dinner.”

  The boy kept reading.

  “Now, Sean.”

  Sean looked up from the book and Isabelle gave a small nod. He joined them at the table and they began the meal in silence.

  Isabelle swept her foot over to Sean, tugged at his sock.

  He smiled and toed her back.

  CHAPTER 3

  DR. JULES BEECHER GAZED AROUND the Garden Terrace Room of the New York Botanical Garden, nervously drumming his fingers on the crisp white tablecloth. The Institute of Plant Neurobiology was counting on him to raise some serious money. They had arranged the dinner at an expensive venue, inviting two hundred reporters and prominent scientists in the hopes of elevating their status and generating more funds.

  The principles of plant neurobiology had long been considered on the fringes of acceptable science and largely ignored by the press. However, the last ten years had revealed some astonishing facts about plant signaling abilities. Most recent was a groundbreaking experiment undertaken by Jules and his team that produced such remarkable data it caught the attention of the public, and therefore the media.

  Quite simply, Jules had discovered that plants could—in their own way—talk.

  Still, he felt ill at ease with the eleven men and women sitting around the spacious table eating salad from expensive china. They weren’t the usual crowd he knew from scientific journals. This was the mainstream press, reporters from National Geographic, Smithsonian, Discover, Wired, Newsweek, The Washington Post, The New York Times Magazine. Most were nicely dressed and courteous, except for the scruffy-looking man from National Enquirer sporting a Mets T-shirt, beard stubble, and a serious attitude. Already he’d complained about the air-conditioning, lighting, and music. Jules didn’t know how a gossip columnist had wormed his way into the mix, but he didn’t care. There was no doubt this group on the whole could garner the coverage needed by the institute. They had all come to see a forty-five-minute documentary that accompanied his paper titled “The Underground Communication System of Environmental Stress Cues in Plants.”

  Edward Schroeder, director of the institute, had seated Jules with the national press because he was fairly good at making technical jargon sound understandable and interesting. Also, Jules was British, an Oxford scholar, and he felt that might give the event an international flair and convey a sort of credibility.

  Nonetheless, Jules felt awkward among his guests, like a somber giant at a table of lively school kids. He was abnormally tall, six foot eight in loafers, and his shoulders stooped from years of bending down to converse with colleagues. But he had a striking face: sharply chiseled features of his Anglo-Saxon ancestors and haunting amber-colored eyes that blinked a mixture of melancholy and intellect. His straight black hair was long and unruly, giving him a laid-back appearance and he had a warm smile that made people like him.

  The press, however, seemed to be largely ignoring him, content to talk and laugh among themselves. Schroeder, who was seated at the next table with a handful of notable scientists, gave Jules an impatient nod, beckoning him to get on with it.

  Jules cleared his throat and addressed the reporters. “I’m so very pleased you could all be here,” he said in a smooth London accent, but his stark expression hinted he was anything but comfortable. “I believe you’ll find the documentary to be quite extraordinary.”

  The reporters looked up from their plates with muted smiles, as if they could sense his unease. The man from The Times said, “I’m looking forward to the film. It was an interesting study, although I’m not exactly sure of the implications. Are you suggesting that plants have the same kind of intelligence as humans? I mean—should I be eating this salad?”

  Jules politely laughed at the joke with the rest of his guests. “No, I wouldn’t go so far.”

  “Dr. Beecher, I notice you haven’t touched your salad,” said an attractive reporter from Wired, the only woman at the table.

  Jules speared a forkful of lettuce and made a show of chewing it with gusto. The guests seemed amused. He swallowed hard, wiping balsamic dressing from the corner of his mouth. “I wouldn’t say plant intelligence is equal to that of humans. Plants are complex beings with their own form of consciousness, but people tend to think of them almost like machines, with communication abilities more analogous to a light switch than a living organism. My experiments prove that plants can learn, remember, and respond as well as any creatures with a nervous system.”

  Dr. Beecher’s research had in fact shown that plants communicate in ways similar to social beings. His first experiment involved five hundred specimens—tomatoes, string beans, and corn—set in rows according to species, with some intermingling. The test group, made up of ten tomato plants, was subjected to a mixture of sugar and alcohol, which is known to elicit the same response as if the plants were exposed to drought conditions—specifically closure of the stomata, to prohibit water loss.

  Jules found that within a few minutes of the test group responding, the closest neighboring tomato also began to close its stomata, even though they were not exposed to the treatment. Somehow, the message traveled quickly across the species, as though they were all shouting to each other in a common language, Prepare for drought! Prepare for drought! Within an hour, all two hundred tomato plants had responded to the call.

  Remarkably, two hours later the other species of plants, the string beans and corn, began closing up the stomata in their leaf cells as well. Jules reasoned they had taken extra time to translate the message, as though it were in a foreign language.

  Even more astounding was a follow-up experiment in which Jules attempted to find the anatomical source of the plant signals. Using sensitive acoustical equipment placed underground, he discovered that the roots of the plant were making a clicking noise, a kind of chatter that registered at 220 hertz. It seemed there was a pattern to the clicks among the tomato plants, while the corn and string beans had their own unique pattern. When Jules recorded the clicks and played them back underground, he found that the roots of the plants all grew toward the sounds, and not just any clicks but only those specific to their species. Jules had opened the possibility that plants use a form of language to communicate with each other.

  “You must have been surprised at your findings,” Wired said.

  “More excited than surprised,” Jules replied. “We’ve known for centuries that plants communicate with each other. Take the poplar tree, for instance. When attacked by hungry caterpillars, not only will it produce a chemical repulsive to the insect, it will cue the surrounding trees to do the same. Alth
ough, in the case of poplars it’s by chemicals released through the leaves. We see the same thing with most plants. That lovely smell of fresh-cut grass is actually your lawn screaming.”

  “That’s interesting, and a bit disturbing,” Wired said, jotting notes on a tablet. “So plants have several ways of signaling alarm.”

  Jules noticed Schroeder watching from the next table. He gave a wink and a small thumbs-up, and Jules began to relax. “Right now my belief is that plants communicate through a combination of chemicals and sound, but there could be other means we’ve not yet explored.”

  “Like telepathy?” The shabbily dressed man from the Enquirer brought the conversation to a halt. He was leaning back in his seat, rolling an unlit cigarette between his fingers.

  “Sorry?” Jules said softly.

  “Didn’t you work on some nutty experiment in the seventies, and then publish results that were never proven?”

  Jules felt his heart skip a beat. He couldn’t tell if the reporter was kidding, but he had apparently done some research. “Are you referring to my years at Oxford?” He grinned and turned to the woman from Wired, who somehow seemed an ally. “I’m sure we’re all guilty of a few dreadful research papers.”

  “I read your latest book.” Enquirer reached into a tattered cloth bag and pulled out a hardcover copy of The Human Delusion: Man’s Hierarchy of Life on Earth by Julian Beecher. “It was very amusing, by the way.”

  Jules doubted the remark was meant as a compliment, but said, “Thank you.”

  “I especially like the introduction.” The reporter began reading from a page bookmarked with a yellow sticky note. “‘Humans have long been under the delusion that we are somehow autonomous from the rest of nature, elevated above all of earth’s creatures. So terrified are we of losing our exalted status, we cling to the anthropocentric notion that we are the only intelligent life on earth.’”

  Jules felt all the blood in his body suddenly rush to his cheeks, burning hot and tingly. It had been decades since he was faced with a contentious reporter. He threw a gaze to Schroeder, who was frowning deeply.

  “I think that’s a very insightful introduction,” said Wired. “I couldn’t agree more with that statement.”

  Enquirer dropped the book on the table with a thud. “So let me get this straight: You’re saying humans are on the same level as a petunia?”

  Jules stared at the man. This kind of hostility always came from the same sort. Insecure hacks who got their kicks tearing down ideas too advanced for their small minds. No doubt he came for the free dinner as well. Nonetheless, Jules was resigned to keep his dignity and humor, and so he smiled jovially. “I was merely pointing out the fact that nonhumans, even plants, are more similar to us than we realize. Did you know that humans and chimpanzees share ninety-six percent of the same genes? Humans and cats share almost ninety percent. And nearly sixty percent of genes are shared between humans and asparagus.”

  There were bits of laughter around the table.

  “Well, blimey, ol’ chap,” Enquirer said, in mockery of Jules’s accent. “Obviously you have a different definition of intelligence than the rest of the planet.”

  Jules tried to control his anger as he shifted uncomfortably in his seat. He didn’t like being made a fool, yet he couldn’t remember the protocol. Should he ignore the man or confront him with facts? His tone became more firm than friendly. “Darwin believed that intelligence is based on how efficient a species becomes at doing the things they need to survive. If you were to think in those terms, plants are actually more intelligent than humans. For seven hundred million years, they’ve graced the earth with nourishment, oxygen, and beauty. And for two hundred thousand years, mankind has scorched and raped our planet, seeming almost driven to destroy the environment—and, might I add, ourselves.”

  Enquirer scoffed, “It’s really simple, Beecher. You can’t have intelligence without a brain.”

  The other reporters at the table fidgeted uneasily.

  Jules felt his heart pounding. It was obvious the man was an idiot. “Science has already proven that plants can breathe without lungs, digest without a stomach, move without muscles, and transmit electrical signals without a nervous system. So is it unreasonable to assume they can think without a brain?”

  “I can’t believe you’re sitting here comparing plants to humans. They’re vegetation, as similar to humans as my shoe.”

  Jules had stopped listening. He thought about how sheltered he’d been, surrounded by equal minds who thought as he did. He’d become widely regarded as a cerebral scientist known for a reserved manner and friendly charm. Yet two minutes with this reporter and Jules wanted to beat the man to death. He could picture his hands wrapped around that skinny neck.

  “Bunch of crap,” Enquirer muttered.

  Jules blinked and forced his voice steady. “We’ve known for a hundred years, since the work of Jagadish Chandra Bose, that plants can feel fatigue, empathy, irritability, and even pain. That’s not even debatable at this point.”

  Schroeder was shaking his head.

  Jules turned to the woman from Wired, beaming in an attempt to lighten the mood. “Did you know that a plant treated with chloroform will become anesthetized, just like animals? They can become intoxicated from a shot of whiskey, swaying like a drunk, even passing out and becoming revived with signs of a hangover. Why, simply cutting one leaf of a plant will produce signs of acute shock to the entire organism, and the other leaves can remain depressed and hyper-responsive for hours.”

  “I had no idea plants were so sentient,” Wired said. “It really makes an intelligent person think.”

  “You know what I think?” Enquirer said. “It’s all a bunch of crap. This whole field of study is what you call pseudoscience. Be good to plants because they have feelings too. It’s been going on since the sixties, and frankly it’s getting a little old. So now you fudge a few experiments to back up your claims, and I’m saying, it’s still the same old crap.” He shoved a forkful of lettuce in his mouth and looked around the table with an expression of triumph, as though he’d revealed something important, pointing out the naked emperor.

  The woman from Wired excused herself and abruptly headed to the buffet table, which had just opened.

  She passed Schroeder, who was looking rather nauseous.

  Jules felt his eye twitch and scanned the room full of journalists. What was he doing here? None of these people understood what he meant, not really. He stared at Enquirer, with his cynical, doubting face, and threw him a murderous glance. “I realize there will always be people who question our work at the institute. However, if you bother to actually read the papers that have been written on this subject over the last decade, you will find that plant intelligence is an indisputable fact. We can no longer deny it, any more than we can deny that dogs, dolphins, and rats display their own cognitive abilities. If a crow has intelligence, why not an amoeba, which can navigate a maze as well as a mouse? And then why not snakes, bacteria, or even lima bean plants? Where exactly does intelligence begin? I would argue that the difference is quantitative, not qualitative. So while you may think the study of plant intelligence is crap, any true scientist will tell you that survival is the single greatest determinant of a species’ success on earth, and on that basis, plant intelligence far surpasses that of humans.” Then he added, “Some humans more than others.”

  Enquirer chuckled. “Hey, check this out, Beecher.” He reached across the table to the centerpiece, a spray of flowers, and grasped a carnation between his fingers. He snapped off the top of the stem and waved the red flower at Jules. “I think we’re safe from their tyranny.”

  Jules had had enough. Reasoning was pointless. His heart rate slowed, as hatred replaced anger. “You’re perfectly correct. Until man came along with his penchant for destroying that which keeps us alive, there had never been an enemy plants couldn’t conquer or a geological condition they could not overcome. For seven hundred million years they’
ve withstood ice ages, erupting volcanoes, meteor showers, and events brutal enough to kill off ninety-nine percent of species on the planet. So you raise a good point. If plants had the means to destroy humans, would they? Like the cowpea that releases peptides against the armyworm, or the tannins of a hemlock that kill attacking bacteria; would that Dianthus caryophyllus you just decapitated want to chop off your head?”

  “Good afternoon, gentlemen!” Edward Schroeder stood behind Jules with his arms wide in a welcoming gesture. “It’s so good to see you all here. We have a wonderful buffet set up and I’ll bet you’re all starving.” He glared at Jules. “I trust Dr. Beecher has given you an excellent overview of his groundbreaking study. So before we begin our film, I suggest you enjoy our delicious dinner.”

  “Yes, of course.” Jules stood up, towering over the table and spoke softly to Enquirer. “Thank you for the discussion.” In a parting glance, he muttered, “Arsehole.”

  * * *

  The guests lined up for a seafood buffet while an orchestra played a lively version of “Ramblin’ Rose.” Jules sat alone at the table, with a small plate of linguine in clam sauce. He didn’t feel so well and decided to get some fresh air before the documentary began. He threw down his napkin and had started for the patio doors when he was approached by a distinguished-looking man who barely reached his shoulders.

  The man extended a hand. “Dr. Beecher, it’s a pleasure to meet you.”

  Jules shook it quickly, anxious to get outside.

  “I read your latest book. It was quite good.”

  “Thank you. Will you excuse me, please?”

  “It reminded me so much of George Brookes.”

  Jules paused, peering down at the man. “Who are you?”

  “Nicholas Bonacelli. I’m Professor Brookes’s lawyer.”

  “Oh. I see. How is George?”

  “Dead, I’m afraid.”

  Jules looked shocked.

  “I am sorry,” the lawyer said. “He spoke very highly of you.”

  “He was my mentor years ago. This is terribly sad. I feel awfully guilty not having visited him. Was it sudden?”