The Other Tree (42 page)

Chris felt as though the floor was slowly tilting, and she was sliding towards something not entirely pleasant.

“I think we could use a cryptobotanist,” said Hoyle, watching Chris casually.

Chris had the uncomfortable feeling that this was a test of some kind. She cleared her throat nervously.

“I’m not sure if I ever made it clear to you, but I pretty much think that SinaCorp is evil.”

Hoyle didn’t blink.

“I think ‘was’ would be more apt,” said Hoyle.

There was the faintest hint of a smile on his lips, and for some reason it made Chris feel both uneasy and intrigued.

She glanced out the window at the panorama of the slowly buzzing city.

“Do you know who killed Rana Arlin?” said Chris quietly.

“No,” lied Hoyle.

There was a pause, as thin clouds drifted across a blue grey sky.

“But I suspect it caught up to them,” said Hoyle. And pushed them down an elevator shaft.

Chris looked down at the grubby paper slippers she had picked up at the airport, then at the banks of flowing screens, then back at Hoyle, still watching her with casual poise.

“To be honest, I don’t think I’m worth your trouble,” said Chris. “But if you want to start convincing me you’re worth working for, there are some things I’d like to see you do first.”

* * *

Doctor Linneas Ogden of Varria University had received a very unusual letter that morning. It would seem that some corporation had read his paper on “Inverted Quantum Strudels,” and while they felt it was somewhat esoteric, they believed his approach to the matter showed considerable potential. In fact, they had an opening for a physicist on their engineering design team, working to overcome the problem of increasing the payload on their search and rescue helicopter, while maintaining a high degree of manoeuvrability. If he would like to interview for the position, they would love to hear from him.

Later that day, Ogden pulled the scrunched-up letter from his wastepaper bin, and re-read it. That evening, he sat in the living room and sketched doodles of airflow and resistance equations, while repeats of Doctor Who sputtered on the television. That night, for the first time in a very long while, Ogden dreamed of science.

* * *

A scooter buzzed down the narrow laneway, bouncing over uneven Neapolitan cobbles. The courier tossed a parcel through an open doorway, and inside the cosy soup kitchen, Father Patrick caught it like an easy football pass. Around him, the regular lunchtime crowd shuffled their chipped bowls and bent cutlery, while the aroma of boiled lentils filled the air. Patrick squinted at the package in his hands. It was wrapped in brown paper, tied with string, and it was addressed to “Paul and Fernice.”

Patrick snicked the string with a blunt steak knife, and unwrapped the layers of crumpled paper. Inside lay a pair of clear prescription glasses and a round-trip plane ticket to Iowa.

* * *

Demeter Arabest sat on a white, cast-iron bench in the east garden of Lilydale Progressive Care Clinic. She tried to spend as much time as possible in the gardens, but today she wasn’t here for the sunshine.

Today was the day her sister would come.

Every seven months, like clockwork, her sister would visit for three days. No more, no less. They would lie under the wisteria and chat about television, politics, relationships. Her sister would ask about her health, and Demeter would evade her questions. Demeter would ask her sister about work, and her sister would give vague assurances.

But today, Roman did not come.

Instead, a young man with a serious face and sad eyes came to see her. He said his name was Emir, and that he was a friend of her sister’s. He told her Roman couldn’t make it to see her, but had asked him to pass on her message of love and reassurance. He told Demeter that the remainder of her treatment had been paid for, and that the final course should be completed within five months. He told her he would visit her again then.

Demeter already knew what he would tell her during that visit, but she would wait for him to bring the news. Five months would give him time to process his own grief, and then perhaps they would both be ready to hear it said aloud.

* * *

Hoyle stood at a long metal work bench in the spotless laboratory, glancing over the various humming, whirring machines. The researcher across the room selected several vials from a multi-level centrifuge, then limped back towards Hoyle, inspecting a dropper of clear liquid. The researcher was dressed in a fashionably pin-tucked lab coat, covering the permanent metal brace running down her right leg.

“How’s it progressing?” asked Hoyle.

“Much better than their prototype batches,” said Lien, turning the colourless dropper in the light. “The nanites are doing a great job of repairing blood vessels, but we’re still having difficulty getting them to repair muscles and tendons. We’re making progress with nerve repair, but now we’re getting these mushy side effects.”

“Mushy?” said Hoyle, having visions of liquefying flesh.

“Emotional
side effects.” Lien rolled her eyes. “It’s creating a heightened sense of affection and generosity in test subjects.”

“And that’s a bad thing?” said Hoyle, the schematics in his brain incorporating the new data.

“If one more participant tries to hug me, I’m going to bludgeon them with my cane.”

“Naturally,” said Hoyle. “Out of curiosity, would it be possible to isolate the function creating this psychological effect?”

Lien considered this. Creating nanites to heal the world and unite humanity in a joyous brotherhood of love—it sounded like something that would end in the courtrooms of a post-apocalyptic Hague.

“Sure,” said Lien. “Why not?”

22

It seemed like a lifetime ago that she’d stood outside this grey laminate door, her head and heart churning with impossible questions. Chris stood in the doorway of the religious guidance office, watching as Luke packed a handful of magazines into a small cardboard box. He adjusted a small pot plant on the desk; two silver, heart-shaped leaves swayed on slender stalks.

“Hey,” said Chris.

Luke looked up with a warm smile.

“You’re looking much better,” he told her. “You look nicer when you don’t have things crawling all over you.”

“Yeah,” said Chris, watching as the spartan office became even more spartan. “So you’re really going? Denouncing the priesthood and everything?”

“I’m not denouncing the priesthood. You make it sound like I’m burning Bibles and hurling them through church windows. I’m politely resigning. We’re allowed to do that if we realise…we’re not doing it for the right reasons.”

Luke raised a hand slowly, almost uncertainly, and pulled the clerical collar from his neck. He held it for a moment, looking at the plain band of fabric, then laid it gently on the grey desk. He took a slow breath, almost as though a weight he hadn’t realised he’d been carrying had been lifted.

Luke straightened the tray of FAQ business cards on the desk and placed another tray of cards beside them, promoting “Licensed Weddings at Almovar’s Castle!”

“I think I have a lot to figure out before I can answer someone else’s questions,” said Luke. “But it’s been a heck of a sabbatical.”

There was a knock on the door frame, and a red-haired woman in a green camisole and grey woollen skirt peered in uncertainly.

“Thena?” said Luke.

“Hi,” said Thena with an awkward smile. “You’re alive!”

“You sound surprised,” said Chris.

“Well, the last I heard, you were in the canyon with Bunsen, you couldn’t hear what I was saying, and then the phone went dead,” said Thena. “Usually that means you’ve been eaten by Bunsen. Not that it happens very often.”

“We used the command,” said Luke. “Thanks for that.”

“It worked?” said Thena.

“You sound surprised,” said Chris.

“Well, it’s just that sometimes it works, but sometimes it just makes her angry,” said Thena, giving a faintly apologetic smile. “But I’m glad it worked.”

“Just to set the record straight, we didn’t have anything to do with the, you know, tranquillisers,” said Chris. “That was SinaCorp. We
did
tie up Tate, but we thought he’d appreciate the irony.”

“I’m no longer working with Tate,” said Thena. “After the incident with you two, there were some heated debates in the group, and we’re now two separate organisations: the original cryptoconservationists, also known as the militant cryptoconservationists, and the progressive cryptoconservationists, also known as the soft-power cryptoconservationists.”

“You’ll have fun fitting those on business cards,” muttered Chris.

“I’m glad you’ve found a better way to achieve your objectives,” said Luke. “Things like that will follow you.”

“Which brings me to why I’m here,” said Thena. “I don’t suppose you happen to have the keys to the truck?”

There was an awkward silence, then a clinking noise as Chris rummaged through her pockets.

“Oh, you mean these?” said Chris, pulling out the keys to the cryptoconservationists’ monster truck. “Yeah, we didn’t get a chance to, um, return these.”

She tossed the keys to Thena, who caught them with a gracious expression.

“Well, I have to be going, but it’s good to see you survived,” said Thena. “If you’re ever interested in joining the good fight, drop me a line.”

“Thanks,” said Luke.

Thena gave them a bemused smile before disappearing down the corridor.

“Yikes,” said Chris. “I mean, seriously, were we supposed to trek back through the desert to find their secret base and return the keys?”

“I think they were actually expecting to take the keys from our mauled corpses in the canyon.”

There was a contemplative silence. In the bland fluorescent lighting of the tiny office, the events in the desert seemed almost like a dream.

“So, where are you going?” asked Chris.

Luke stretched his back, gazing at some distant horizon.

“I’m not sure. I need some time to think things through. I thought I might spend some time with a group rescuing sea turtles on the coast of Thailand, then maybe the orangutan orphanage in Borneo. I thought I might try saving non-humans for a little while.”

“Sounds very tropical—I mean topical. Very noble,” said Chris with a crooked smile.

Luke piled the last of his books into the box. After a pause, he added the pot plant.

“So you’re really staying?” he asked.

“Yup,” said Chris. “I’m going to spend some time with my dad, keep applying for research grants, and continue studying plant samples from a very memorable trip. And next year, who knows?”

“Maybe I’ll come and drag
you
off on a crazy quest one day.”

“Look me up,” said Chris with a grin.

Luke smiled, and warmth seemed to flood through him.

“I’ll do that,” he said.

With one final look around, he picked up his cardboard box and walked from the oppressive, grey office, on his way to rediscover the world.

* * *

Although it was a Wednesday, Chris was at her father’s house, pulling a tray of sugar-free cranberry muffins from the oven. In the living room, a documentary about unexplained earthquakes in the Middle East was segueing into a story about plagues of giant crows in Naples.

“You should come see this,” called Mr. Arlin. “Crows the size of watermelons.”

“Is this like the watermelons the size of capsicums, and the capsicums the size of strawberries, and the strawberries the size of apples?” asked Chris. “How many muffins did you want?”

“I’ll get that,” called Mr. Arlin.

“Get what?” said Chris.

There was no answer.

“Dad?” called Chris.

There was the sound of the front door scraping open.

Chris had the briefest vision of Marrick standing in the doorway, dripping with seaweed and barnacles, holding the disfigured fruit in one hand.

“Dad!”

Chris rushed into the living room and saw Mr. Arlin walking in from the front hall.

“Bring another plate,” said Mr. Arlin with a broad smile. “You remember Emir?”

Emir followed Mr. Arlin into the living room. He was dressed in jeans and a crisp button-up shirt, a satchel over his shoulder and a small package in his arms.

There was a pause.

“Hi, Chris,” said Emir.

Time seemed to slow down, go backwards, spinning back to a moment long ago when things should have gone down a different path, to a goodbye that had lasted far longer than either had intended.

“Hi,” said Chris.

She saw the leather cord hanging at Emir’s neck, the piece of amber tucked under his shirt. There were things in life she had held onto for too long, and others she had let go of too easily.

“We missed having you around,” said Mr. Arlin. “What have you been up to since uni?”

“I’ve been doing a lot of travelling, but I think I might stay put for a little while,” said Emir. “I brought these back for you.”

Emir handed Mr. Arlin a box of gourmet dried fruit.

“It’s not what we—what I hoped to bring back, but life’s unpredictable like that,” said Emir.

“Thank you,” said Mr. Arlin. “It’s just good to see you again.”

Chris looked from her father, to Emir, to the box of dried fruit.

“I’m just going to get the muffins,” said Chris, excusing herself to the kitchen.

As she emptied the warm, crunchy muffins from their baking tins, she heard Emir enter the kitchen. He walked over to the bench, standing close beside her.

“You turned down SinaCorp,” said Emir.

“So did you,” said Chris.

Emir looked around at the small, tidy kitchen.

“Actually, I’m going back to uni,” said Emir with a wry smile. “I’m going to give archaeology a go. You know, find out how to do it without everything caving in at the end. You going to be around campus?”

“Probably,” said Chris. “Need a study buddy?”

“Maybe.”

Emir paused.

“I brought something back for you, too,” he said.

Emir reached into his satchel and pulled out a gnarled, blackened twig and a handful of dark green leaves. Chris’s breath caught in her throat.

“That’s from the—” began Chris.