Earth Thirst (The Arcadian Conflict) - By Mark Teppo Page 0,126
Hyacinth Worldwide moved in on this place? Two years ago?”
“Thereabouts,” Mere says.
“Miro don't grow that fast,” I point out. “Nor do Bizzaria.”
“And what are those?” Mere asks, pointing at the fourth ring.
The trees look like poplars, tall and slender, with pale bark. But they're too short, and their crowns are all wrong. The tree are about five meters tall, and the last meter splits into a quintet of branches. Each branch extends a few meters out from the trunk, bending back toward the ground, and each has a single bulbous pod growing from the end. The pods are different sizes, the largest appear to be thicker than the actual main trunk itself.
The fifth ring looks like an optical illusion. The tall fronds that fill every available centimeter of space on this ring look like kelp, and appear to move with the same liquid grace, but these plants are not underwater, nor is there any localized wind at that depth. In several places, the large pods from the previous layer have pulled free of the parent tree and have tumbled down onto the bed of swaying fronds. The pods, pale yellow in color on the tree, are darker within the leafy embrace of the fronds, as if they are absorbing the tint from the purple leaves.
“This is how they're made,” I tell Mere. “This is where Escobar has been growing his grandsons.”
Down at the very bottom, in the midst of an extensive collection of computer equipment, is a long slab on which a figure is strapped. A pair of technicians are focused on their screens, monitoring various signals and processes. A maze of cables and conduits run from beneath the slab into the workstations and into the walls of the pit.
Feed tubes.
“It's Phoebe,” Mere says.
“They're going to drain her dry,” I say. She's going to feed the fern layer, which will, in turn, pass along a series of nutrients and genetic triggers to whatever is growing inside those pods.
Escobar's next generation of Arcadians. They don't need Mother. They don't need Arcadian soil. They're unaffected by Secutores's weed killer.
Perfect soldiers.
FORTY-FOUR
“What do you think of my little project?”
Mere jumps at the sound of Escobar's voice, but I had heard him coming. He's wearing a light gray suit with a lavender shirt. His tie is a deep burgundy—quite close to the same color as the fronds down on the fifth ring—and the tiny detail stitched into the silk is a pair of interlocked circles. The chimerae sigil.
“We're going to stop it,” Mere says, raising the pistol she got from Belfast and pointing it at Escobar.
“Stop what?” he asks as he strolls to the edge of the rings and looks down. “It's already done.”
“What? What do you mean?” she asks.
“Your friend has already contributed to the project,” he says. “I've drained all of her blood, and it's being passed to the seedlings as we stand here. There's nothing you can do. She's already gone.”
I stare down at the still figure on the gurney. “I can take her back to Arcadia,” I point out. “Mother can bring her back.”
“Arcadia is closed to you. Both of you,” Escobar reminds me. “They won't let you in.”
I shrug. “Maybe I can get them to reconsider.”
“Maybe,” he muses, “but it will take some time. Time she doesn't have.” He purses his lips. “You failed, Silas. You failed in every way.”
“I killed your grandson a couple of times,” I point out.
“I will grant you that,” he admits. “And it looks like you have survived a visit to the salt baths. That's quite impressive. They've been a most effective place to dispose of certain… aborted experiments.”
“‘What doesn't kill you makes you stronger,'” I offer.
“Yes, that hoary aphorism of Nietzsche,” Escobar sighs. “One he didn't subscribe to himself.”
“Happens to be true in a couple of cases,” I say. “Me and Phoebe, for example.”
“Yes,” he says. “She was a most perfect specimen.”
“Is,” I correct him.
He looks at Mere and shakes his head. “Even for one of her soldiers, he's quite single-minded, isn't he?”
“It's one of his most annoying traits,” she admits. She is still pointing the pistol at him, though her arms are starting to tremble.
“Put the gun down, my dear,” Escobar says.
Her only response is to tighten her grip.
“I don't mean to be so pig-headed about this,” I say, looking down at the figure in the pit. “but I'm just trying to be helpful.”
“Helpful? How?” He swivels his head around to look at me.