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It must not take the obliterators long to make themselves comfortable on a far-flung world in the middle of being scraped clean for the purpose of human colonization. We sit in a long conference room of paneled walls bedecked with reproduction prints expressing the unemotional and uncontroversial art so in vogue as humanity begins establishing new footholds in the stars. A pane of smooth glass tops the marble surface of the table around which we all sit, and the soft buzz that lifts from the furniture piece tells me holographic projectors have been installed into the elegant table. I haven’t touched the glass of tea the obliterators have offered me. Honestly, I’d be a great deal more comfortable sipping from mudder gin.
I have little experience with the obliterators. There’s just little demand among Mr. Higgins’ subscribers for essays detailing the science behind the obliterators’ planet-cleaning process. The only stories I ever see connected to the obliterators are found in mechanical trade journals that describe the nuts and bolts inside the latest colossal machine the obliterators employ to reshape an alien world. Obliterators don’t party like moon bandits or mudders, and so tabloid editors have no motivation to send writers with behavior as erratic as my own to the annual conventions the obliterators like to hold on the most luxurious starliners Teddy Jackson’s fleet offers.
Such inexperience with the obliterators makes me squirm. Customs and protocols govern every gaggle of humans, even gaggles dressed in suits and ties. I do my best to learn those protocols so that I understand how far my eccentricities can push my subjects before I annoy them to such a point as to hamper my efforts at gathering a story. Most of my erratic actions are aimed at gathering new subscribers for Mr. Higgins, but all my strange behavior seldom offends my hosts. But I don’t know what kind of boundaries the obliterators might’ve established at their holographic table, and my wrinkled Tiki shirt certainly feels like an infraction in the obliterators’ dress code.
The thinnest of the obliterators sitting at one end of the table smiles at me. “It’s no problem at all to offer you something with a little more kick than the raspberry-green tea, Mr. Thomas. Our bar might not be stocked as well as most you visit, but I’m sure it holds something for your thirst.”
“The tea’s fine,” I answer. “I got my fill of gin last night. Which one are you again?”
The obliterator’s smile widens, and I feel lucky not to see fangs. “I’m Mr. Krieger, but you can call me Toby if that makes it easier for you, Zane.”
Teddy Jackson sits at the other end of the table, and he hasn’t stopped tapping his fingers since he sat at the table. Teddy’s probably swallowed a full pitcher of the tea as we’ve waited for obliterators to enter the conference room. I’m assuming that whatever Mr. Krieger wants to show us will be revealed after an obliterator arrives to claim the last chair, and it wouldn’t surprise me if Mr. Krieger has instructed his colleagues to arrive so slowly so that Teddy Jackson, the legendary, interplanetary hunter, will fidget and sweat before he might be placed back upon the trail.
Mr. Krieger keeps his attention focused upon me. “I must tell you, Zane, that I’ve overseen the preparation of seven planets for colonization, and I still struggle to remember a time when the tabloids sent a reporter to write about our work, though we do such amazing things. Why is it that you’ve never before paid us a visit?”
I shrug. “You’ll have to ask my editor. Harold Higgins buys my tickets into the stars. He chooses the stories for me to cover.”
“I’ll note that,” and another of the obliterators at the table scribbles onto a glowing, digital notebook as Mr. Krieger lifts a finger, “but if you had to guess, tell me why you think your editor’s not found our efforts worthy of his tabloid.”
“Oh, probably not enough sex and violence,” I wink.
Mr. Krieger sighs. “And yet what could be more violent, and thrilling, than the reshaping of an entire world? I’m thankful we have you here with us now, to see what we’re about to reveal above our holographic table. I’m sure you’ll do us, and our project, justice when you tell your readers of Teddy Jackson’s safari.”
I wonder how I might employ much flair into my description of the obliterators. Sure enough, the obliterators are all human, born from different mothers, with different body types, and all with different faces. A few look like they’re fresh out of their prestigious and private science academies, while others appear old enough to have witnessed humankind’s first successful hop to a distant star. Bald crowns shine atop of some, while thick and dark hair covers the heads of others. None of the obliterators’ eyes share the same color, and there are no rings of hashes and numbers tattooed onto any of the gathered faces. Yet I sense the dozen or so obliterators gathered at the table hardly look any more different from one another than do the mudders. All the obliterators exhibit the same posture in their chairs. All the men wear identical wrist watches, and all the women wear the same butterfly brooch upon their sport jackets’ left lapels. I can’t fault the mudders for blending so completely into one another that I have to work hard to make the mudders seem entertaining to my readers sweltering back on Earth. But I have a hard time understanding why all the obliterators work so hard to blend together until they’re little more interesting than a clone.
A last obliterator finally enters the conference room to claim the last empty chair.
Teddy leans forward. He’s rolled the sleeves of his hunting jacket up to his elbows, and the muscles of his forearms flex as he speaks.
“I’m assuming you’re going to keep me on the hunt,” opens Teddy. “Otherwise we wouldn’t be seated at this holographic table.”
“I’m no legendary hunter, Mr. Jackson. That is your role.” Mr. Krieger responds. “I knew what I was bringing to Tybalt when I invited you. I don’t have the expertise to comment on whatever means you feel you must employ to track the creature hampering our efforts.”
“I can’t say I’ve received much information about whatever it is you’re expecting me to kill for you,” Teddy grumbles.
Mr. Krieger nods. “That’s because we know so little about it ourselves. We know nothing more than you. We know only clone rumors, tidbits of fantasy I’m sure you collected in the mudder work camp. We’re hoping you can put the pieces together, that whatever truth you find in all the rumors will put you on the proper path. We want to make sure you have all the information we have, so that you understand the gravity of this project. That’s why we’re sitting at this table.”
Mr. Krieger waves his hand over the glass, and the holographic table crackles with life. An orb of blue light hovers in the air, wrinkled with Tybalt’s geography. The orb must appear as Tybalt did before the obliterators’ arrival. There are no flat plains of gray to betray the touch of the obliterators’ machines, nor does a sea of orange cover half of the globe. The planet spins, and its surface peels away like the skin of a fruit, laying flat upon the table’s glass. The many small projectors hidden within the table wink, and dozens of machines – miniatures of those colossal mechanisms the obliterators’ drive in their push to reform worlds – crawl across the presentation to flatten mountains and raise valleys. Tall spires rise from the readied foundation, luxurious housing towers waiting to shelter millions of citizens trapped on the wasted Earth. Cities gather shape, and landing platforms for star yachts and starliners mushroom on the outskirts of every urban center. Hamlets appear upon the mountain ranges the obliterators chose to preserve, and the view of that holograph magnifies to show pleasure spas and recreational resorts.
The holograph’s contents again shift, and I begin to realize what makes the obliterators’ plans for Tybalt so incredible. The table hums and adds the full spectrum of color to the projection. Incredible parks expand upon the world, filled with the variety of trees long ago lost upon the homeworld. I peek towards Teddy, and I see his face tremble with amazement as herds of antelope and zebra gallop across ranges of grass, on their heels the great predators, the lions and the cheetahs, that o
nce inhabited a lost planet. Flocks of strange birds rise and fall on invisible winds. I too hold my breath as wide seas shimmer upon the horizon, from whose waves leap dolphins and whales. An image of paradise floats above the obliterators’ holographic table, a view of a lost world I never believed could one day be rebuilt in the cosmos. They show us a project that would be humankind’s greatest achievement if realized.
Teddy’s eyes glisten in tears as he looks through the lights floating above the table towards Mr. Krieger.
“I don’t understand. How could you build such a world?”
Mr. Krieger smiles. “We are only reshaping. Tybalt is the greatest planet we’ve yet discovered in the heavens. We’ve found no other world as close in character to our native Earth. If we can only prepare everything properly, then we’ve found the world where we can reintroduce the old genetic lines.”
“So the rumors of the seed vaults are true?” Teddy whispers.
“They certainly are,” the obliterator winks. “A few of our ancestors possessed the foresight to preserve what they could as they watched the old world die. They gathered seeds while others of their time denied how the world suffered. They raced to collect genetic material from every animal they could, before such wildlife completely vanished. Those who have followed in those efforts have desperately guarded the secret of the seed and genetic vaults for generations, lest the same people who denied the old world’s frailty should steal that which they already once destroyed. The secret was kept until we arrived at Tybalt to find a planet capable of supporting our resurrection. All we need to do is reshape Tybalt so that our old world can again flourish.”
Teddy closes his eyes for a moment after the world hovering in the air vanishes after the table goes silent. The face of the confident hunter returns the moment Teddy reopens them.
“And a single creature keeps you from realizing such a world?”
I notice the way Mr. Krieger peeks at his colleagues. “Not only a creature, Mr. Jackson. A person as well.”
My heart quickens. However badly the previous night’s mudder gin has blurred my brain, I recognize what Mr. Krieger kept unwritten in that invitation he sent to Teddy Jackson. I realize what the obliterators hope we become.
“But hunting an animal is different than killing a human,” I stammer.
Mr. Krieger doesn’t flinch.
“Are you sure about that, Zane?” Teddy asks me.
“Hold on just a moment,” I nearly topple out of my chair. “I didn’t agree to murder when I accepted my editor’s assignment on this safari, and I know Harold Higgins isn’t interested in story about real crime.”
No one gathered at the table pays any attention to my outburst. Even Teddy refuses to glance my direction. I suspect the obliterators have all the pieces positioned on the board just to their liking. I suspect Marlena’s body is healed plenty from her mudder injuries, that the doctor lied about her recovery so that the obliterators could separate Marlena from her father when they decided it time to press Teddy to consider a human as just another creature in his hunt.
Mr. Krieger again waves his hand over the table, and the projectors spring back to life and fill the air with a middle-age woman’s face. A streak of silver runs down the center of the woman’s otherwise raven-black hair, and a slight nose supports a pair of dark glasses, an eccentricity from a woman who surely has access to corrective eyes surgery. A pair of green eyes burn in the light of that holographic face, giving the gaze of that false image a piercing quality that I suspect must be magnified many times over when looking upon the woman in person.
“Her name is Dr. Carol Amberson,” begins Mr. Krieger. “She arrived upon Tybalt with the first contingent of the League’s scientific team, a botanist specializing in alien plant-life.”
Teddy eyes focus on the shimmering visage. “She came to Tybalt to help insure that the preparation of the planet for human settlement didn’t eradicate any kind of intelligence that might be considered sophisticated?”
I growl at Mr. Krieger. “Exactly as stipulated in the Law of Extermination.”
Mr. Krieger doesn’t turn towards me. “Indeed. Dr. Amberson’s presence among that science contingent gave us no concern. She’s studied several planets teeming with more alien plant-life than that we found on Tybalt. Before coming here, she always conducted her studies and gathered her samples in an efficient manner, and she never hesitated to give us her approval so that we could continue our reshaping of worlds.”
“But not this time?” Teddy raises an eyebrow.
Mr. Krieger’s eyes close momentarily. “This time, Dr. Amberson refuses to grant us her approval.”
Teddy quickly presses his next question. “Do you think she found indications of life possessing advanced intelligence?”
Mr. Krieger shrugs. “We don’t know what she’s found. She’s presented no findings, submitted no kind of report.”
“Could the League be withholding any such information from you?”
“Perhaps, Mr. Jackson,” Mr. Krieger nods. “The League certainly has a reputation for keeping secrets. But our money reaches so many pockets elected to the League that I find it hard to believe they could keep any findings Dr. Amberson might’ve given to them a secret from us.”
I cautiously try to reenter the conversation. “Then why not ask the League to simply replace Dr. Amberson? You have the grounds to press for it if the woman’s failed to submit anything at all to the League. And if the League is keeping any of her findings a secret from you, then a request for Dr. Amberson’s removal would pressure the League to either show them whatever they might have, or appoint someone new to her post who might be more cooperative to your efforts.”
Mr. Krieger finally acknowledges my presence. “A very good idea, but one we’ve already attempted. We convinced the League months ago to replace Dr. Amberson with a botanist of our choosing, and for a while we were able to proceed with the reshaping of this planet.”
“Until your mudder crews came upon the grove?”
“That is correct, Mr. Jackson.”
Teddy lifts a thick eyebrow. “Is it also true that the mudders couldn’t chip the trees even if they wanted to?”
Mr. Krieger’s lips quietly snarl. “That question cuts to the quick of our dilemma. We’re not allowed to employ all the tools at our disposal. We’ve got all the power we need to burn that grove to ash orbiting just above Tybalt. But our hands our tied. The League has come all this way through the stars with those ships, but the League refuses to unleash those weapons no matter how we plead with them to do so.”
“What makes you think the guns in orbit will do any better than your own weapons,” I ask. “The mudders told us your big guns failed. Told us you went so far as lob a nuclear warhead at the grove. Why not just explode more mushroom clouds on your own?”
Mr. Krieger rolls his eyes. “You know as well as the rest of us, Mr. Thomas, that we cannot afford to keep detonating nuclear warheads above the grove. We’ve not discovered the perfect location for our new paradise only to poison our dreams out of reach. We need the precision of that fleet’s guns. We need the cleaner type of fire their lasers can deliver.”
“Fine,” Teddy shakes his head, “let’s assume the guns of that drone fleet orbiting overhead can burn the grove out of your path. What’s keeping the League from doing as you wish after they’ve come so far out here with that fleet?”
“They evidently don’t want to fire on Dr. Amberson.” Mr. Krieger answers.
“Couldn’t they just arrest her and lift her off the planet?” I ask.
“They’ve tried, and they’ve failed. Dr. Amberson has gone native. She’s disappeared into the grove along with along with a crack platoon of rangers the League sent in afterwards to drag her back out. So far, no one’s come back from the grove.”
“Just like the mudders,” I smirk.
Teddy shakes his head at me. “Not quite, Zane. Mudders do come back from the grove now, only the obliterators promptly execute t
hem before anyone has the chance to ask any questions.”
Mr. Krieger growls. “Better that than risk the chance of those mumbling mudders spreading fear through the clone ranks. We’re not entirely sure a monster even lurks in the grove, Mr. Jackson. Kill whatever monster you can find, but the real reason I’ve invited to Tybalt is to track down Dr. Amberson and remove her from this planet.”
“And what if Dr. Amberson doesn’t cooperate?” I ask.
Mr. Krieger takes a slow breath. “Then, Mr. Thomas, I would ask that you consider the waiting paradise we’ve just shown you before you decide to paint us as murderers with your pen. Think of all your readers back on old Earth who are desperate for a new home. Consider everything you’ve just seen flickering above this table. Why should a single botanist have the authority to deny that future for billions of men and women?”
I sigh. I realize that Mr. Krieger has me backed into a corner. I know how Harold Higgins will want me to write my story. I know which side of the moral debate regarding the value of one life compared to that of billions Mr. Higgins will choose. Harold will side with his subscribers, and he’ll make sure I give all those readers the exact story they desire. I could try to write however I choose to judge the obliterators, but Harold will force me toss all my drafts into the trash until I finally present him with the story that reaffirms what his subscribers already want to believe. That’s the business of selling electronic tabloids. My readers will of course judge the obliterators as heroes for killing Dr. Amberson if that’s what it takes to open Tybalt for settlement, and I’ll have to paint those obliterators as saints in my copy if I hope to earn any kind of paycheck from Harold Higgins for my efforts.
“Do you have any idea where we should start?” Teddy asks.
“A slight one,” answers Mr. Krieger. “We can deliver you and all your equipment to the coordinates closest to where the science station stood before the grove overtook it. We’re happy to supply you with all the mudders you might need to help transport your supplies once you enter the grove.”
Teddy locks a stare with Mr. Krieger, and the obliterator flinches before the old hunter’s appraisal.
“The grove is growing, isn’t it Mr. Krieger?”
“It is, Mr. Jackson. We don’t how, or why, but the grove is expanding. And that rate of expansion is getting quicker and quicker. It’s all the more reason we need to find Dr. Amberson in that jungle.”
“Can you use your projection table to show us how far the grove has expanded?” Teddy asks.
Mr. Krieger’s fingertips tap along the glass surface to summon the spinning orb of Tybalt once again into the air. The planet turns to reveal that original speck of orange grove present on Tybalt when the obliterators landed with their machines of destruction and creation. The grove expands as the planet rotates, spilling like ink across so many acres the obliterators and their mudders had scraped clean for the coming human settlers. Soon, the orange of the grove covers nearly half of the globe, and the holograph then matches the sight of Tybalt we looked upon when we approached that world aboard Teddy’s star yacht.
“Why is the grove growing?” I ask.
Mr. Krieger shrugs. “We don’t know. Perhaps we removed some natural obstacle to the grove when we flattened the landscape.”
“It could take us months to march deep into that grove if Dr. Amberson’s retreated to the center of all that orange,” speaks Teddy. “Assuming that Marlena will soon be out of her healing canister, my party can be ready to depart as quickly as the supplies can be gathered. You put us on the trail, Mr. Krieger, and we’ll find Dr. Amberson, and we’ll put an end to that creature that terrifies the mudders so they refuse to work.”
Mr. Krieger smiles. “If a hunter such as yourself cannot do so, Mr. Jackson, I doubt anyone can.”
We enjoy the obliterators’ finest amenities their compound can offer that night. Fresh from her healing canister and looking more beautiful than ever, Marlena joins us during a dinner of fine prime rib imported from the livestock world of Denali Range. We drink from finest bottle of wine transported from the Ambraxis vineyards of New Castle. Everything tastes sweet, and so the three of us laugh and challenge each other to imagine what delights might rise should the obliterators realize their paradise upon Tybalt.
The obliterators provide us each with fine luxurious, guest apartments, furnished with satin sheets and warm baths to wash away whatever grime we gathered in the mudder work camp. I toss and turn on my comfortable bed after nestling into its comfort. I keep expecting to hear Marlena knocking on my door, though hours pass without any indication that she drifts to my apartment. Perhaps Marlena has decided the time has come for her to focus on the pursuit of a creature other than that of an eccentric, tabloid reporter.
I can’t say I’m surprised. Teddy warned me the time was coming when Marlena would be finished with me, and yet that warning makes my empty bed no easier to accept. The cushions on the obliterator bed are very soft, but a fear still irritates my spine no matter how I turn. I’m afraid I lack the required imagination to anticipate what the grove might hold for us. Thus for one more night I so badly crave the reassuring warmth of Marlena’s body pressed against mine.
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Trophy Grove Page 10
