by Ed Finn
They told him to move into his grandfather’s room, but he preferred to let his fat uncle sleep in the postered bed. He, Meek, would dream with the plants, in the moist, warm air rich with their exhalations, where he dropped off into slumber almost as soon as he closed his eyes.
And in dream he was one of them, a member of the only tribe that had ever welcomed him. He had roots, not legs, tendrils that descended to the center of the Earth. And a stalk that was as tall as the Mitsubishi orbital tether, a Superkevlar beanstalk beyond fairy-tale imaginings.
A stalk reaching all the way to the golden DOP floating above them. In his dream he was one of the prize winners who reveled with the rich in that floating castle, from which all of Earth seemed but profit and loss and lands for corporate conquest.
His dreams shifted and pulsed with color and life, sliding through time and space. Now he danced weightless as a dandelion spore on the wind. Now light-stepped among ancient craters, now slept in cryo borne on laser light sails and speeding to the stars.
That Meek did not hear the laughter of the boys and girls in the lunchroom.
He would find a way out. With whatever remained of him, of his life. He would leave this dusty ground behind.
Pomona High had been allotted three tickets for entrance to the DOP competition, to be won by performance on the AAAS assessment test series. For the first time in months, Meek studied. Hard, like Grandpa had always begged him to do. Barely slept, so deeply buried in his books was he. And to the surprise of everyone in assembly (himself exuberantly included) was called to the podium and awarded second place.
In his dreams that night, chrysanthemums waltzed for joy.
The science fair was held in L.A.’s rebuilt downtown in Sony Coliseum’s main auditorium, crowded top to bottom with little cubicles in which students from across the state bolted, stapled, and glued up their booths and displays. Hundreds. Maybe thousands. There was no end to the mini-electromag drives and remote-control rockets and home-cobbled radio telescopes. So when the gaunt giant with the wheelbarrow came through the room people looked and wondered what was new beside ho-ho-ho, what he was doing and if he might be the janitor.
Meek’s eye was caught by the booth a few desks over, one of the few that held something more than circuits and metal and shining glass. Beneath a banner reading Kathleen Chang: Microgravity-Resistant Plant Experiment, the elfin contestant tended busily to her charges, black hair swinging as she turned between her tables.
Her emerald eyes caught his as she explained what she was doing: “I constructed and used a Rotating Wall Vessel to test the effects of null gravity on plant germination and embryo gestation ….” A busy little crowd had sprouted around her, but it seemed that she spoke just to him. For the moment their eyes met, he thought he was in microgravity himself. Wanted to weightlessly float to Kathleen’s tiny world of spinning centrifuges and magnetic fields in which the diminutive seeds and creatures were endlessly falling, falling, falling, and learn what she was doing and how she was doing it.
He could have watched her all day. But between the oscilloscopes and the SETI micro-dishes he knew that he had to get to his space and get set up, or the day would get away from him.
While he set up his folding cardboard panels, plants, and scrolling viewslates, the visitors crept by, pretending to care about other things, and watched, and laughed, but Meek silently put everything in its place and stood in his best clothes and his best smile, and waited. The announced big star, Raymond “Wizard of Aaahs” Culpepper, bounced onto the stage and said how proud he was of each and every one of them, and what an honor it was to be here, and how proud their schools must be of them. He was all angular wit and golden charm, enough charisma to flash-fry eggs and brilliant in the brief Q&A that followed. Then to riotous applause he sauntered off the stage, and began to circulate around the room.
Meek felt like a love-sick girl. He had never seen anyone who had been to high orbit, let alone the Moon itself. But The Wizard had, and he was a thing of wonder.
I’ve watched you every day, Meek would say after shaking the man’s hand.
I’ve studied every one of your books, he would tell the wonderful Wizard, who would clap him on the shoulder and say, you are a remarkable young man! We have experts who can heal you! Come with me ….
And that gilded feeling lasted until the gaggle of judges arrived at his booth. The Wonderful Wizard of Aaahs was not among them. The other judges, stripped of stardust, studied his papers and plants, and prodded at the leaves, and talked to him with that slightly distant expression people have when you are merely the pause between the last one and the next one.
His display said, “producing more bioavailable protein per cubic meter of soil” and “more oxygen conversion than any other Butterfly Palm,” and accompanied those grandiose claims with a long list of specifications. The men and the women looked at his numbers and checked his plants and sniffed their noses into the air, saying, “Your numbers are wrong, young man. It isn’t possible for you to have done this.” And they punched numbers on their comms and clucked sadly, as if they actually had shits to give.
The kids around him didn’t laugh. He wished they had. Then he might have raged and broken something. Or someone. He felt the wetness drool from beneath his sunglasses, and, not wishing to be shamed, ran out of the hall and away from the contestants who might, in another, better world, have been friends and peers.
He ran out into the alley, gawping and making goony-bird sounds in the early-evening gloom, trying not to throw up. Who are you? he whipped himself. Who are you to think there is an escape hatch?
For others, perhaps, but not for his grandfather, or father, or him. Never for him. He would die and go into the ground without ever seeing stars that did not wink in contempt. Never feeling that divine sensation of floating free of a grasping Earth. And no one would care.
Meek stripped off his gloves, tore off his shades, and sobbed out his dreams, only belatedly seeing the red glow in the night, smelling the sweet cigar smoke. He turned to see a man leaning against the walled shadows, watching him.
Meek wiped his hand across his face, washing his cheeks with tears. The smoker watched, saying nothing.
“What are you looking at, Mister?” Meek said, and knotted his fists into clubs.
After a pause the man said, “I shouldn’t do this,” and hoisted his cigar emphatically.
Dear God, he knew that voice.
The smoking man tapped his cigar against the wall. “Shouldn’t do that, either.” He laughed.
Meek trembled. Never had he been so close to stardust.
“You had the protein and oxygen plants, right?” asked the Wizard.
“I …” The Lord of Aaahs had noticed him? Meek sagged almost to his knees, then pushed himself back upright. “Yeah, that was me.”
“How’d you do?”
“Screwed up, man.” Meek’s voice dulled. “Had my numbers all wrong.”
He looked up at the Wizard, trying to find some words, something that might have some power, but came up empty. It had taken all he had just to get him this far, and he could go no further. Time to slink back to Grandpa’s house, and the solitary cot between the rows.
“What’s wrong with your eyes?” The Wizard asked.
Meek flinched. He groped in the darkness, found his shades, and slipped them back on. Culpepper stepped closer. Meek felt transfixed. Trapped. Found out. Couldn’t move as Culpepper reached out and slipped off Meek’s shades, peered into his face like a man examining the map of an unknown country.
“I’m sick,” the boy said.
“How do you feel?” Culpepper asked.
The question didn’t make sense. He knew he was dying, and some part of him now yearned for oblivion. But … but …
He didn’t actually feel bad. Little appetite, yes, but …
Culpepper asked Meek a few questions. The boy couldn’t remember answering them, so shocked was he to be having the conversation at all, but shoo
k himself out of it when Culpepper took him by the hand and said, “Come with me,” and led him back into the hall.
And to the crowd, which watched jostling and tittering and wondering what trouble had befallen his pitiful little cardboard kingdom.
Culpepper called over the judges, and whispered to them. They looked at Meek’s numbers and his pages and to his plants again, and at the materials from which his project was constructed, and too late he realized that in his great fatigue he had left a piece of the box that said UNIVERSITY EDITION.
“His grandfather was the groundskeeper at Schick-Mudd,” someone said.
One of his classmates constructed her hand comm. “The serial number on that box matches a stolen gene kit.”
The halls were roiled by a great disturbance, as the judges examined his equipment more carefully, and then another classmate at a neighboring booth called security. Panic descended like a red shroud. Meek turned and sprinted once again, past the pretty microgravity girl whose crowd gaped as he ran and ran, forgetting the Moon, forgetting the DOP, forgetting everything in his desperation to shed his broken dreams. Then the security guards caught him, and dragged him down like gravity as he screamed.
“Michael Prouder,” the duty officer called, and Meek shifted his bulk from the shadowed corner of the holding cell. The other prisoners stared and moved away from him, afraid. The police didn’t seem to want to touch him. They wordlessly led him to the room where he imagined the public defender waited, some desperate night-school lawyer smelling of failure and bad coffee.
But it wasn’t the public defender.
It was The Wizard of Aaahs.
“Look at me, Michael,” Culpepper said. Meek did not, staring down into his hands as if staring hard and long enough might help him vanish into the rivers and green valleys scriven thereon.
“We took blood and urine samples when you came in, you know.”
Yes, he knew.
“Do you know why?”
“The drugs,” Meek said, his own voice a dull roar.
“The drugs. And we went to your house. The police found the things you’d stolen.” Culpepper’s voice was surprisingly gentle.
Meek nodded. Half-truths were lies, and he was done with lies.
“Why?”
“Grandpa needed air,” Meek said, ashamed of how small his voice had become. “He was a smoker, like you. I could make it a little better for him.”
“A little better,” the Wizard said. “So you stole the Monsanto kit. Who taught you how to use it?”
“I learned,” he muttered. “M.I.T. online free school.”
“You taught yourself using the free school? Your grades are …” Culpepper searched for a word. “You’re failing every class. You expect me to believe that?”
“No,” Meek said. “I don’t expect shit. But it’s the truth.”
The Wizard mulled that over. “The amount of increased food value was wrong,” he remarked. “The numbers were wrong.”
Meek sighed. He knew. Everything in the world was wrong. Maybe that hadn’t always been true, but it was certainly true now.
“The oxygen numbers were good, good enough to help your grandfather’s emphysema, but not better than what we already have. I’m sorry.”
“Doesn’t matter,” Meek said. “Be dead soon. Just … just wanted to see space before I did.”
Silence in that room, and dying dreams. If Meek had never spoken again, it would have been fine by him. He could be silent, as silent as a plant. He could just bury himself in the desert, and soak in the sun and …
“When was the last time you ate?”
“Not hungry,” Meek said.
Culpepper pursed his lips. “How long have your eyes and hands been … like this?”
Meek looked at his hands. He didn’t think about it much, just covered it up with gloves and sunglasses. Mr. Cool. The light skin of his hands and the whites of his eyes were pale green.
“When was the last time you ate, Michael?” Culpepper asked again.
“Day before yesterday.”
“Spend a lot of time in the sun, don’t you?”
Meek looked up. “Yeah, I guess.”
“The desert?”
It would be a long time before he saw the desert again.
“And the beach,” he whispered. “I like the beach, too.” He loved it almost as much as the desert. But the ocean itself … he didn’t like its taste. It didn’t nurture him.
Salt water was for tears.
He wondered if he would ever cry again.
“You created the little peach trees?”
“Dwarfs,” Meek mumbled. “They’re called dwarfs.”
Culpepper reached across the table, took Meek’s wrists. Meek was so surprised that he didn’t pull back. “How long have your palms, the whites of your eyes …”
Been green? Long enough to know that he had poisoned himself, somehow. The mutagens, or the processing chemicals the Pomona Ballers needed him to use to extract essence from his plants. He had no one to blame but himself. Just hoped that something special, something good might happen, just once, before he stopped waking up.
Culpepper drummed his fingers on the table then sat straight, as if he had come to a decision. “One of my philosophy teachers once said that if Mozart had been born a Kalahari Bushman, he’d have been known as the best drummer in his family.”
Meek blinked. “What the hell does that mean?”
“It means that great genius can be completely lost without the social context to nurture it. That can happen to an entire culture.” The Wizard leaned further forward, pushing at Meek’s space. “And sure as hell to a single boy. He used a stolen Monsanto gene kit to make dwarf fruit trees. Increase the oxygen production of one plant, the protein output of another.” He paused. “That’s not the part that most interests me. He thought he’s changed his plants. But they also changed him.”
“The … plants?” Meek could barely breathe.
“Yes. Something happened, Michael. Have you ever heard the term lateral gene transfer?”
“Sure,” Meek scoffed. “Think I’m stupid?”
“Not at all. Not even a bit. You bred those plants, but all organisms are more than their simple genetics. They are also symbiotes and parasites and their interactions with the natural environment, energy and material transfers. Something in those plants transferred to you and your grandfather. Whether through touch or ingestion, we just don’t know. Yet.”
“Genetic change through ingestion?”
The Wizard nodded. “Some organelles are thought to be microorganisms swallowed by prokaryotic cells, but got comfortable instead of digested.” He smiled. “Developed a symbiotic relationship that got passed from generation to generation. According to the autopsy Tyrone Prouder should have been dead months ago. You kept him alive.”
“That’s what I wanted. The plants …” an oddly bashful feeling flooded over him. Could he even say this to someone he didn’t know? He could barely talk about it with his Grandpa. And yet … there was something about this man ….
“They talked to me.”
“How?”
“I dream about them.”
Culpepper doodled on his notebook. “Do you remember the microgravity exhibit?”
Meek nodded.
“The truth is that we could be colonizing the asteroid belt, but humans who stay in space for more than a few years might not be able to come home.”
Muscles atrophy. Negative calcium transport spins bones into glass. “Yeah, I heard that.”
“Well, same things happen to plants that happen to animals. They don’t develop properly. That young Miss Chang … she bred vines with greater structural integrity, which can more easily resist the negative effects. It’s fascinating. Do you know the term ‘mycorrhizae’?”
Hearing the challenge in his voice, Meek felt anger rise up, but also something else … pleasurable anticipation, like when someone hits a ball and it’s coming right to you and you can
already feel the thunk in your glove.
His mind opened, and he saw the answer as if the search page had opened in front of him. “Mycorrhizae are symbiotic relationships that form between plants and fungi.”
“How does it work?” Culpepper leaned in, seemed almost to be holding his breath.
Meek recited. “The fungi colonize a host plant’s root system. They … provide increased nutrient absorption or water.”
“And do they get anything in return?”
“Carbohydrates formed from photosynthesis.”
“Highest marks,” Culpepper said. “Young Miss Chang used that principle to strengthen her plants. And that strength might well be a secret to resisting microgravity ….” His voice had become ruminative, and for a moment Meek saw someone new, the scientist beneath the showman. “But you did something that makes it even more potentially interesting.”
Meek was riveted. “What’s that?”
“If there is no way to compensate for microgravity, it may be necessary to modify human beings themselves for long-term colonization efforts. We’ve tried a number of animal approaches, without the success we want. But no one was able to do what you’ve done: the plant chloroplasts … well, they sort of talked to your mitochondria. Something happened within you that we’ve not been able to imitate with a billion-dollar lab. You actually photosynthesize, Michael. Not hugely, but enough that you crave sunlight and need less food. Something in your plants operated like a botanical nanocyte, carrying its genetic information into your cells. Amazing.”
“I … just tinkered,” Meek whispered.
“Tinkered.” Culpepper rolled the word around in his mouth. Shook his head in wonder.
“Who won the contest?” Meek asked, voice breaking with hope.
“Kid named Quentin Frost, from Eugene, Oregon. His experiment increased output of solar cells.”
There it was. It was never going to happen for him, no matter what, he was—Culpepper studied him. “But there’s one thing more. Did you meet Kathleen Chang? The microgravity girl?”