SEEDS
In the year 2049, Rosenquist left Earth with his girlfriend, Maggie, and cast through the flicker to the Skystone system. It meant giving up almost everything, but he knew they could survive, just like his ancestors did in the 1800s. When Rosenquist’s grandparents bequeathed the family farm in Iowa to his dad, they had learned everything on the fly.
Skystone wasn’t well known. It had been given a name, because scientists and astronomers gave names to only the brightest stars, like Sirius and Rigel and Vega. This system was so far out that few knew about it, but the flicker decided to cough up some of the first settlers that way through the wormhole, and that’s how Skystone came to be, star and planet.
He was nineteen the day he left Earth, a year into college. He came to the door of Maggie’s house at three in the morning and knocked softly, his nerves all jangled. They’d decided on this course without their parents knowing.
She showed up at her bedroom window. “That you, Bud?”
“You expecting someone else?”
“Just a minute.”
He waited for her while she came down with her bag.
“What if there’s no preacher on Skystone?” Maggie asked.
“There will be. Don’t you worry.”
“We should’ve done it here.”
“No time, Maggie.”
They drove to the flicker and showed their authorizations, and the clerks wondered why they were so early.
“Just in a hurry to get out of here, is all,” Rosenquist said.
For a half hour they walked through the complex hand in hand, passing checkpoints and signing forms. He carried her bag, and she his, because hers was twice as heavy. Those bags contained everything they had—or at least everything they were allowed to take to Skystone. They would live off the land, barter for supplies and medicines—whatever they could find—and live a simpler life. His father had seeded farming into his family’s blood; Rosenquist vowed to work as hard as possible to find it, even on an alien world.
Fifty-six years later, sickness took Maggie. Late fall of ’04, she fell ill. She seemed to recover a few weeks after, but no: she could never quite shake it, and she struggled all winter. A week into March of ’05, not willing to let her help with the planting, he returned in the evening from the field and found her wrapped in the ratty quilt she’d brought with her from Earth, her head slumped on her chest, feet still tucked underneath the bottom chair rung.
He didn’t remember crying then.
Planting season would be an agonizing effort for just one old man. He’d probably die out here on his own. Other colonists were spread far and wide, and town was a day’s ride on the mule—or what passed for a mule on Skystone. But he didn’t like socializing, and he limited his contact with the other folks in town. He kept Maggie in his heart, though, and that was enough.
* * *
It was spring 2109 now, and Rosenquist stood in the rough patch of cleared land closest to his cabin, early morning, the sun still low in the sky. In the distance, he heard something rattling down the rutted road, but he didn’t pay much attention to it.
He always put the garden in early so he’d have a food source he could count on—adding to the last of his winter stores—before tackling the larger fields to cultivate crops such as wheat, corn, and potatoes to stretch the cold months. There were the crops native to Skystone, too, such as aradip and flasp. Flasp was a fairly bland tuber that grew fast and had plenty of vitamins. And damn if his first crop of carrots didn’t come out purple. It took some getting used to. All the seeds they planted, even those that originated on Earth, yielded abundant crops, but they all tasted quite bland.
He expended a great deal of his own energy to work the fields. Even this little garden would be an effort, and he sweated just thinking about it. The area had been short of rain the last few weeks; there was just this humid air sitting heavy over his land, and it reminded him of the day Maggie died.
It wasn’t at all fair that a simple bend of elbow, knee, or back should create such torment. Tightening his jaw, Rosenquist willed himself to get through this year’s planting, no matter how many times he had to stop and rest. When a man couldn’t plant his own garden, he might as well lay down and die.
* * *
Four years earlier, Rosenquist made a makeshift grave for Maggie next to the woods bordering the west end of the fields. He figured no one else would lie in this patch, not even him, unless some passerby found him dead in the cabin, or the field, or halfway to town. Someone, perhaps, might chance upon the other grave on the property and put two and two together. He didn’t expect to be buried next to his wife. Maybe he should leave a note—his last will and testament. Legal enough around here.
The day Maggie died, Rosenquist did nothing but his chores. He let her sit there in that chair, the quilt still draped over her, but maybe a little more snug because he’d fussed with it some. The next day, she was too much a reminder of his solitude, and an odor had started. It had been humid the last few days and that didn’t help matters much.
Under a tree that was a pine, but not quite a pine, he buried her in the shade, amid the pinecones that were not quite pinecones. After, drenched in sweat, holding his hat, he stared at the unmarked mound of dirt, and at this woman who’d been his wife for nearly sixty years. He stood over her, crumpling his sweat-stained hat in his fists, and he whispered “Maggie” once, then again, and said rest in peace and goodbye and turned away. He put on his misshapen hat and faced the cabin in the distance, his face slick with tears, and he was overcome and couldn’t move. He waited several minutes before finally leaving the grave behind. He thought: I’ve planted you and made you full of growing. He wasn’t sure where that came from, but he thought it might be some Shakespeare he read when in school on Earth.
* * *
He listened to the rattle coming down the road from town and heard clanking and a horse’s whinny and knew a horse-drawn wagon was headed toward the cabin. No one had come down his way for a long time, and he only ventured into town once a month himself, if necessary. He didn’t like other people.
He was ready to shoo this nuisance away.
The wagon appeared, and Rosenquist knew right away the man driving it was a salesman. He shook his head at the ill-made wagon. The salesman had probably constructed it with Skystone materials if he’d flickered here from off planet. Funny to think a traveling salesman so far from Earth could have anything Rosenquist needed. He turned over a patch of Skystone’s ultra-black soil with his shovel, then thrust the blade into the ground and waited.
The salesman wore a tailored suit and there wasn’t a wrinkle in it. He was lean and had a sculpted look to him—very precise—and his thick hair, heavy brows, and sunken face suggested he might not be from Earth. Certainly not from Skystone. He said, “Whoa” to the horse pulling the run-down wagon, took hold of a briefcase by his feet, and stepped down even as Rosenquist waved him away.
“You should get on out of here,” he said as he bent over and picked up his hoe that lay nearby. He needed to make progress on his garden, and he didn’t want to talk to this guy.
The salesman didn’t stop.
“My wife,” Rosenquist said. “She’s…well, she’s quite sick, and I doubt you want to be here. Contagion being what it is.”
The salesman didn’t need to know she’d been dead four years. The thought of disease usually stopped most people inching too close. The man didn’t stop, though. He looked up, smiled, and walked past the small shed into the tilled soil of the garden. He tried to walk lightly, deliberate in his movements, as if the soil were covered with manure, which it wasn’t, but soon would be.
“Sorry to hear that,” the salesman said. “Is it plague?”
He meant a nasty Skystone virus that laid people low for weeks and forced a monthlong recovery—if they didn’t die first from extended bouts of fever. “No, not plague.”
“Flicker sickness, then. It happens, poor souls.”
He was a young man looked fresh from schooling, dressed in his suit, those heavy eyebrows nearly obscuring brown laughing eyes. He looked far too put together for this line of work, puttering about in his dilapidated wagon.
Rosenquist wiped sweat from his forehead. “It isn’t those things,” he said. “Something else took hold of her and won’t let up. You should go. Best not to tarry.”
The man held out his hand when he was close enough. He smiled wide. “Name’s Medak. Ted Medak, and I represent AgriCorp.”
Rosenquist ignored Medak’s hand. “Yeah? And what’s that?”
Medak shrugged and dropped his hand. “AgriCorp? The company that sends me to pique the interest of settlers out here past the flicker. You know. To guarantee you a more comfortable life. I’ve flickered in from Palacade, our biggest colony—have you heard of it?—where the company is based. We’ve got all the classic tools, of course, right on up to modern luxuries.”
“Isn’t that illegal? We all leave Earth with what we have and what we’re allowed to leave with and nothing else. How can you come and offer more?”
“I’ve a special travel permit granted by Palacade Provincial, so my trips through the flicker are backed by law.”
Rosenquist would have to disappoint him. “I don’t have the capital for anything other than what I’ve a need for,” he said.
“Didn’t catch your name?”
“No, you didn’t.”
“I like to help folks like you out,” Medak said. “Perhaps you’ll let me have my say and maybe we can come to an arrangement.”
“You’re not worried about the sickness?”
“Now, now,” Medak said, amused. “You know there’s no sickness. Why, a reputable salesman such as myself might get the idea you were trying to get rid of me. I’ve got the permit, but the trips to and from Palacade eat into my profits, and I like to see things through when I reach a colony. Perhaps I could talk to your wife in there.”
“She’s dead. And it was illness.”
“Ahh.” He bowed his head. “Well, again, sorry to hear that. My condolences.”
“Thanks. Now, whatever it is you’re selling, I don’t want it. You can just scat.”
The salesman looked up and smiled at Rosenquist. “You know, I had a hard time figuring out who’s who in this settlement. No phones, no directories, no maps. And by gods, you’re a good distance away, aren’t you?”
“A bit far, the way I like it.”
“Lucky for me someone knew where you were and pointed me in the right direction. To be honest, I wasn’t sure where I was going the entire trip out.”
Rosenquist sighed, leaned, and put his weight on the hoe handle. He scooted his boot up on the nearby shovel blade planted in the ground. “My name’s Rosenquist. Bud Rosenquist.”
“Bud. Okay, Bud.”
“Well? Give your spiel.”
“Mighty kind of you.”
“Just be quick about it.”
Medak grinned. “Bud, that wagon has a lot of goodies you’d find helpful. Look right over here.”
Rosenquist stared at the wagon. “In there?”
“Yes. In the wagon.”
“No, I don’t think so. If you have something specific, maybe I’ll listen.”
“Well then, here.” Medak dug into his jacket’s inside pocket and brought out a brochure. “You an educated man? How long you been here?”
“Long enough, and I can read and I can write from long before Skystone. What is it?”
Medak held out the brochure.
Rosenquist didn’t look at it. “Actually, I need to get back to work.”
“Just give it a look.”
“Perhaps you just explain it.”
“All right.”
Medak pulled the brochure and slipped it back into the suit pocket. He smiled and said, “I’m here for just the rest of the day, Bud. You’re my last run, so give me a listen, and then I’ll get out of your hair and on my way back to the flicker.”
“With your special permit. Fine. Go on already.”
“I mentioned AgriCorp, the company that sponsors my livelihood? Well, they’ve developed an exciting piece of technology I think you’ll be very interested in. Palacade has created a rigorous technology—in accordance with the new statutes, of course—and we’re second only to Earth in technological prowess. AgriCorp is so confident you’ll like their new planting device, they’re offering a once-in-a-lifetime challenge.”
“Did you say planting device?”
“We’ll plant half your garden with our new product, and if you like the results, you can contract with us to buy one.”
“I’m not signing any contract.”
Medak waved away Rosenquist’s distrust. “No, no, you’re right. It’s an option. Of course. Just an option. You can buy it outright, but the guarantees only come with the contract.”
“Yeah, of course they do. Did you say planting device?”
Medak smiled. “I did.”
Rosenquist let go of his hoe, and it thumped into the dirt. He passed his sleeve across his forehead and hitched his coveralls higher on his shoulders. He couldn’t imagine anything better than the old-fashioned way and told him so.
“But you haven’t even seen it.”
“Well then, let me see it.”
Medak crouched, placing his briefcase on the ground. He opened it and fished around inside while he spoke. “This beauty is so special it gets top billing in my inventory. A ride in here, always close by me. It’s basically an automated planting system.”
“What do I need that for?”
Medak stood and showed him what looked like a large silver bullet. “We call it a seed.” He returned his hand to his inside jacket pocket.
“A seed?” Rosenquist asked. It wasn’t like any seed he’d ever seen.
Medak had the brochure out again, and he flipped it over to a page that sported a logo and large block letters.
Rosenquist read it out loud, using his finger like a pointer. SeEDS, it spelled. “What is that supposed to mean?”
“Self-efficient Embryo Dirt Sower. Seeds. Sounds plural when you say it, but the acronym represents a single device.”
Rosenquist looked at the card without emotion and took a long look at the silver bullet before shrugging. “So?”
“The future, Bud. You’re looking at the future.”
Rosenquist said nothing, thinking about his future, thinking about Maggie’s lost future, and not really caring about Medak’s future, which, he reckoned, was Earth’s past. Probably a cast-off, this contraption: old technology that no one on Skystone had ever seen, no matter how much Medak tried to wow him about Palacade tech. It would likely malfunction the moment Medak flickered back home.
“Maybe you could say something,” Medak said.
“I’m not interested.”
“That’s not what I hoped you’d say. Look, this baby does everything. You program in the dimensions of the garden—”
“How about a field like over in my west forty?”
“—or, yes, the biggest field you’ve got. Program, start, and away it goes. It burrows to the proper depth and sows the seeds in a perfect line, correctly spaced. Measures soil density, acidity, water content—well, yes, including a unique planet’s specifications, such as you have here on Skystone. It even tags the end of the row with a designation of what’s been planted. We also have specialized SeEDS available, but those are a bit on the costly side. One of them will help you maintain your garden as it grows. No weeding, no fertilizing. Just add water.”
Medak laughed at his joke, but Rosenquist bent down to his hoe and retrieved it from the dirt. “I’m still not interested.”
The smile on Medak’s face lost its good-natured outlook. “Now, now, I understand it’s difficult to change, but I assure you—”
“I can plant it myself. This garden. My fields.”
“But surely, now, with your missus gone, and you alone out here? You could use the help.”
Rosenquist nodded at the wisdom behind this, but he’d already made up his mind he’d finish out his time on Skystone on his own; he owed it to Maggie to see it through. “I’ve been doing fine.”
“At least consider the benefits. Face it, Bud, you’re not getting any younger.”
“Everyone dies when it’s time,” Rosenquist said. “Time for everything, season for everything, right? There’s a verse about that in the Good Book.”
“I’ll make a believer out of you, then. Let me show you what SeEDS can do.”
“No.”
“If you’re not interested after my free demonstration, you owe me nothing. You can plant the rest of your garden today by yourself, and you can plant all your fields after that if you’re still standing.” He winked.
There he is, Rosenquist thought. Standing in the garden with his pressed suit and polished shoes, his SeEDS in one hand, the brochure in the other, looking as if he knows everything there is to know about planting. Pretending he knows what makes things grow on an alien planet other than his own. Rosenquist squinted into Medak’s brown eyes, looking for wisdom and finding nothing there, and he was a mite sad that the young man was spending his future this way, wasting his life flickering from one shithole outpost to the next.
“Okay,” Rosenquist said.
“Okay?”
“I have a challenge.”
Medak frowned. “Pardon?”
“We’ll divide my garden in half. You plant one side with your silver bullet, and I’ll plant the other my way. We’ll see which of us makes a garden first.”
Medak considered it silently, probably searching for a reason not to accept, thinking there might be a scenario in which he might not win.
“If you win,” Rosenquist continued, “I’ll pay the price for the thing. No goddamn contract, though. If I win, you just head home and leave me alone.”
Medak took more time, and Rosenquist was fine giving it to him. He watched the sky. The sun was higher, but there were clouds now, and in the muggy air everything seemed to curl. There was rain coming. Across the garden, toward the west field, was the tree Maggie was buried under. He could spot that tree from anywhere on his property.
“It’s absurd,” Medak said. “You wouldn’t have a chance. Do you know how fast SeEDS works? Do you have any idea what you’re saying? This is modern tech, Bud.” He held the silver bullet higher. “This would have my half of the garden planted in under—”
“I want three rows of carrots—our purple carrots—two of peas, and one of flasp on your half. Can your gadget do that?”
“Certainly, but—”
“Fine. And by the way—since this is my property, a tie is a win for me. Are we agreed?”
Medak hesitated, as if still struggling to figure him out.
Rosenquist looked at the wash of sky again, the hint of rain out on the horizon. “Tell me, Medak, do you know the story of John Henry?”
Medak straightened and squinted, trying to remember. “Now that’s an old one. I think so. Didn’t he go against some modern machine that lay railroad tracks?”
“I’m impressed you know that, Medak. The machine could supposedly lay track faster than any ten men.”
“No chance for him to win, then.”
“He won.”
“Got his reward, did he?”
“He died afterward, so I’m not sure I’d call that a reward.”
“Oh.”
“Died of a broken heart,” Rosenquist added, and he thought again of Maggie.
“It’s a myth, Bud. A tall tale. It doesn’t compare with what you’re proposing. Technology is our future, not some old story.”
“Not out here past the flicker. Not on Skystone.”
His father, back in the days when they lived in Iowa, on the old family farm, taught him that people took control, not technology. You couldn’t count on anything or anyone but yourself, and maybe your loved ones. When Rosenquist was a kid, if his father was tired, he’d order his son to do those chores, but the things he really wanted done he did on his own. If you want something done right…
His old man didn’t start life as a farmer, but he caught on quick, and one could see knowledge pooled in his eyes when he mended a fence, milked a cow, or planted a field.
“Carrots, peas, and flasp,” Rosenquist said. “Six rows. Three, two, and one. I’ll plant four rows of green beans, two of lettuce.”
Medak nodded, having finally calculated the fine details of the challenge, thinking, no doubt, he had nothing to worry about.
Rosenquist raised an eyebrow. “Deal?”
“Very well. Frankly, Bud, if you win, you can have the bullet. It can’t lose, so let’s do it. Now, how do you want to—”
Rosenquist turned away, and with his hoe, started a furrow to mark the midpoint of the tilled soil. The heat beat down on him as he trailed the hoe behind him; the humidity had soaked his shirt through. He felt his bones creak even with this simple task.
Medak was probably right. Technology took over Earth, apparently had taken hold on Palacade, and maybe it would out here too someday, even though the powers that be had insisted colonists tackle the frontier with very little—unless you had a special travel permit. Maybe modern conveniences were a good thing for most people—maybe it helped more than it harmed—but there were some things technology had no business intruding upon, no matter how wonderful or efficient.
He knew he couldn’t beat the SeEDS, not in any way he could think of right now, but he’d give it his all, even if it killed him. He started humming “John Henry” to himself.
I’m a seed-planting man.
When he got to the end of the garden, Rosenquist turned and raised his chin at Medak. “Ready?”
Medak blinked, confused.
“Set, go,” Rosenquist said, and started his first row.
“Shit,” Medak mumbled, and while Rosenquist hoed, the salesman fumbled in his briefcase, his dress shoes sliding in the dirt.
With a mixture of amusement and curiosity, Rosenquist watched the salesman work, looking up from his hoeing every few minutes. By the time Medak had taken the measurements of his half of the garden, Rosenquist had finished hoeing his first two rows. By the time Medak had programmed his SeEDS, Rosenquist finished his third row, but his back hurt like a son of a bitch. He tried not to let his discomfort show. During the fourth row, Medak put the actual seeds inside the silver bullet and did some more programming.
Rosenquist started his fifth row. Maybe he had a chance after all. That is, if he didn’t keel over before then. His heart thudded, his head throbbed. One more row to hoe, plant the seeds, and he was done. What was that saying? Slow and steady wins the race. The Good Book said the race was not to the swift, no favor to men of skill, that time and chance happened to everyone. Something like that.
Rosenquist’s fifth row was nearly done, and he panted like a dog in need of water. God almighty, he thought, pressing his free hand to his chest. Just keep going. Keep going.
A high-pitched whine made him wince. He clapped one hand to an ear and grimaced, looking up at Medak.
Medak waved the silver SeEDS tauntingly at him, holding the casing between thumb and forefinger. Rosenquist squinted. Medak looked all smug and sure of himself as he placed the SeEDS on the ground, dug his hand in another suit pocket, and withdrew a device.
“You lost,” Medak said, and he punched the device.
The silver bullet screamed. It dove into the soil and disappeared, its high-pitched whine suddenly muffled. Rosenquist followed its progress by the tiny mound of dirt it left behind like a high-speed gopher. He watched, fascinated, as a small plastic tag sprouted at the far end of the row. Then, one row over, another tag, a new trail, and soon after that, a tag at the end of that row, and so on, and so on.
Rosenquist hobbled over and inspected the first white tag.
CARROTS, it read. The carrots pictured on the tag were purple. And in smaller print: AGRICORP SeEDS.
Well, that was impressive.
The whine stopped.
When Rosenquist looked back, Medak was holding the silver bullet. Jesus. Six rows done, just like that, bordered by twelve tags marking the ends of the rows.
“You haven’t even finished hoeing, Bud,” Medak said. “Where are your seeds? Why, they’re still in their containers over there! You see what I was saying?”
Rosenquist felt his face redden. “You enjoy that, Medak?”
Medak nodded.
“Your hands aren’t even dirty. You’re not even sweating.”
“So?”
“There’s nothing to it. Your SeEDS are a toy. A gimmick. It’s not natural.”
“It’s not a toy, and it’s not a gimmick.”
Rosenquist gripped his hoe tighter, and he felt as though he might be having a goddamn heart attack. But he knew what he knew. The joy came from planting the seeds himself, doing it while he was still able. His body ached with the thought of the hard work ahead of him. Someday, he would become ill, and like Maggie, he would die.
“There’s no joy in it,” Rosenquist said.
“Still,” Medak said, “you lost.”
“No. I didn’t.”
Medak stuttered, looked uncomfortable. “But—what do you—of course you lost.”
Rosenquist shrugged. “I don’t think so.”
“You what?”
“Let me tell you something, Medak.”
Rosenquist explained how his father had to quit the farm in Iowa when, sure enough, technology caught up to him, as did his age, and he was asked by folks to move into town and let someone else take care of it. A big company gave him a good price, and as much as his father missed the farm, Bud was happy to spend more time with Maggie, whom he’d started dating his senior year.
His old man did some real estate, and, without fanfare, the town dwindled down to near nothing. The earth swallowed everything up. New life sprouted, but the people flickered away. Rosenquist held on as long as he could with Maggie while attending the state college.
He never forgot that last night on Earth, picking her up at her house, and the two of them taking the endless walk to the complex, ready to leave for good. It didn’t matter what happened on Earth anymore. It only mattered that Maggie left it with him and they spend the rest of their lives doing what they wanted amidst the flicker of new beginnings.
“It doesn’t matter what you think, Medak,” Rosenquist said. “I won, because soil gives and soil takes, and it gives back again, no matter the planet. You can do all the fancy divinations and complicated science you want, but you don’t rush life or death. We do things right in Skystone.”
“That doesn’t explain shit.”
“The challenge was, we’d plant our halves and see which one made a garden first.”
“My memory’s fine, Bud.”
Rosenquist turned and motioned toward Medak’s side. “I see a bunch of white plastic markers. I don’t see carrots, peas, or flasp.”
“Well of course not,” Medak said, “they have to grow—”
“And they’ll grow at the same rate as my green beans and lettuce. I’ll finish planting my side here in a little bit—hopefully before this rain starts—then both sides of the garden will grow together.”
“That means nothing. That’s not a win.”
“You’re right, it’s not. But it’s not a win for you, either. We have to call this a draw. A tie. Which means I win, you lose.”
Medak’s mouth dropped. He stepped toward Rosenquist and raised a finger to object, but slipped in the loose dirt and landed on his ass on one of the rows of planted seeds.
“Goodbye, Medak.”
“Son of a bitch,” Medak mumbled as he picked himself off the ground and dusted his hind end.
“Thanks for the demonstration.”
“That’s not fair. Not fair at all.”
Rosenquist returned to his side of the garden and began hoeing again. “Oh, it’s fair and square. That’s the bet we made, and I think you should hold to it, don’t you?”
“I was just trying to bring you some ease,” Medak said.
“I’m good. I’ve got to get back to the garden here.”
Medak stood still, the SeEDS in his hand, his face showing some anger. Or disappointment. Rosenquist wasn’t sure what that look was.
He focused on his row, letting the hoe divide the soil carefully and at its own speed. He hoped Medak would go away, that he wouldn’t try to stick him with a bill for the SeEDS.
After a while, Rosenquist looked up and saw Medak had retreated to his wagon. The salesman hoisted himself up and, with a last look at Rosenquist, clucked the horse and maneuvered his way back to the rutted road. The wagon screeched and clattered and set off toward town.
Rosenquist stopped, leaned on his hoe, and watched until the salesman disappeared over a small hill. He looked toward the horizon and saw the rain sheeted over there and knew he better hurry with the rest of the garden. It was all he’d get done today, what with the storm coming.
He looked over at the other half of the garden. A black bird—a crow that wasn’t quite a crow—was hopping aimlessly along the first row, searching for seeds.
“Bird, shoo now,” he said, walking as fast as he could toward it. It squawked and flew away.
Shining in the dirt where the bird had been was the silver bullet. Rosenquist had forgotten that part of the bet. Medak had left it, as promised. He wondered how the salesman would explain that to his AgriCorp people.
Rosenquist picked it up. The weight of its casing felt unnatural. The future, he thought, rubbing his lower back with his free hand. Every year life started again, with the seeds. They sprouted and produced. By winter, crops died. In the spring, he buried seeds and started over.
Where they see SeEDS, we see seeds. See?
A cool wind picked up off the plain, smelling like wet dog. Maggie’s tree swayed, but the pinecones from last season had dropped in the late fall. They were still there on the ground—they took a long time to break down, and they did some good fighting soil erosion. They even provided a habitat for spiders.
Rosenquist turned his attention to the other half of the garden and noticed right away something wasn’t right. The seeds planted by Medak’s device had already sprouted, breaking the surface of the dirt.
What? He shivered at the strange sight of life visibly creeping from the dirt. The yellow sprouting leaves of the flasp. The dark green leaves of the purple carrots. How could that be? If Medak had known this would happen, he would have waited. He would have seen that his SeEDS had won.
Medak had used the wrong one. One of those “specialized” SeEDS he talked about. That had to be it. Rosenquist saw the plants inch up, growing, taking shape. At this rate, he’d have fresh vegetables for dinner. By morning, after a good dousing from the approaching rainstorm, he’d have enough vegetables to sell to the farmer’s market in town and make some extra money, if he felt strong enough to make the trip.
Were the seeds that Medak put in the silver bullet unique? Or was it the contraption itself?
He twisted the bullet back and forth, holding it up to the sky where columns of clouds were forming, and he tried to get a better sense of its nearly featureless surface.
There’s no joy in it.
He lowered his arm, and in an instant his back seized up. He swore and reached around with his other hand, searching for the source of the ache and pain. He massaged the bottom of the spine.
Of course he would keep the bullet. After seeing what it could do? He wasn’t stupid.
Medak hadn’t left the brochure, so Rosenquist would have to figure it out, but he was decent at tinkering with things, like his old man had been before him. He knew someone in town might be able to help if he couldn’t puzzle it out for himself. If things worked out, he might even loan the bullet to other farms for some extra cash.
Tomorrow, if he worked out the secret of the thing, he’d try the bullet out on the west field closest to Maggie. He couldn’t help but wonder if…no. That would be ridiculous.
In the meantime, the impending rain wasn’t going away.
Just add water.
He figured he’d better get right to it, so habit took over; he wanted to finish the garden the way he started. He put the silver bullet into his coverall pocket and picked up his hoe. He had another row to finish, and there were seeds to plant.
The End