Earth Thirst (The Arcadian Conflict) - By Mark Teppo Page 0,108

produce impressive short-term yields, but no one has given any thought to what their creations are going to do to the ecosystem. The planet has been a self-sufficient system for millions of years. It knows how to self-correct, to adjust itself to keep aberrations in check. The human lifespan is too short to encompass a long-term view. They don't understand the consequences of their frenzied consumption.”

“And Arcadia is going to show them?”

Phoebe shakes her head. “Arcadia is going to fall,” she says. “Enough humans suspect that it exists. It's a threat. The first thing they're going to do is wipe us out. That's what the test out on the Southern Ocean was about. That's humanity's new weapon. It is anathema to us. With it, they won't fear us—and fear is the only superior weapon we have against them.”

“Is that what Hyacinth is doing? Building a defense against the weed killer? Are they going to share it with Arcadia?”

“I doubt it.”

“Is that your mission then? To get the technology for Arcadia?”

“Why would I?”

I stop myself from blurting out a blanket response to her question. Indeed, why would she? What has Arcadia done for her? What does she need of Arcadia? Mother brought her back, gave her another life, but she's rejected that life, hasn't she? She's never let Mother touch her again. She's an orphan, a self-proclaimed exile from the only family that would have her.

“What do you want?” I ask. “Why are you even helping me?”

“I am a steward,” she says, “but I don't belong to Mother and I don't answer to the Grove. Humanity turned its back on me, and Arcadia wouldn't let me die. The only family I've ever known is what I felt in the humus. I became part of the ecosystem. I was a child, Silas; I knew so little of the world. Then, all of it was suddenly thrust upon me. It was poured into me and I could not stop it. I couldn't stop it from binding to my very being. They take this from you. They numb you to who you truly are.”

“Who does?”

“The Grove.”

“How?”

“Mother is a chimera, Silas. She may seem like a tree, but we are her flowering roots. The Grove prunes the tree; they decide how the roots grow—what they know, who they are, what they remember. The members of the Grove don't even know they are doing this. The decision isn't a conscious one for them. The Grove is the group's mind—that's who you think of as Mother. We're all a part of Mother, Silas, and the more we all think the same thing—the more we suffer from the same fear—the more that becomes part of what Mother tells us to believe.”

“If that's true, then how do you know this? If we're completely programmed by our own group subconscious, how can we know anything other than what we're told?”

“We're rhizomes. Escobar is right. We don't need to return to Arcadian soil. It helps—the soil there is very, very good—but we can survive anywhere. And the more you listen to the humus, the more you are aware of what truly matters.”

“And you know?”

“I've had three hundred and sixty-five years—uninterrupted years—to figure it out,” she says. “I know.”

“Who we are,” I say quietly, “and what we could become.”

Now she gives me the shrug.

“Why me?” I ask. “Why not Nigel?”

“I didn't trust Nigel. Or Talus.”

“And you trust me?”

“I trust your guilt.”

I chuckle at that.

She looks at me in the rearview mirror. “We don't have two days,” she says.

“What do you suggest we do?” I ask. “Hijack an airplane and fly?”

She shakes her head. “Why? We could just rent one?”

Chartering a jet. Mere had done something like that at Hanga Roa. I had been surprised at how easy it had been to pick up the phone and make arrangements for a private jet. I dig my phone out of my pocket and check if it has enough signal. “Where are we?” I ask Phoebe.

She tells me the name of the last town we passed through, and I hit the buttons that connect me to the phone's information line. “What are we going to do when we get to Cusco?” I ask while I'm waiting for someone to answer.

Phoebe smiles at me in the rearview mirror. “We're going to make some adjustments,” she says. “Isn't that what stewards do?”

THIRTY-SEVEN

Mere wakes up as the plane begins its descent into the airport outside of Cusco. She is sitting in the window seat next to me, and