Under the Empyrean Sky (21 page)

The front half of the room is the model of scientific order. Everything in neat boxes, everything kept to the grids.

But toward the back half of the room the garden descends into chaos. Wildness has taken hold. The boxes are bulging; some are broken outright. Roots dangle from beneath the tables. The plants are thick, robust stalks—the tomatoes that hang are bigger than a baby’s head. The peppers are thick, swollen with asymmetrical lumps and curves. At the far side of the room, the plants have left the boxes entirely—they’re climbing up and growing
out of
the walls. They ascend toward the ceiling and push through the earth, clearly seeking proper sunlight.

Two Blighted women—one with a tail-like vine emerging from the waistband of her trousers, another with an ear that looks like a knob of cauliflower—tend to the plants, misting them with water, tying stalks to stakes, stroking the leaves with gentle caresses.

Pop goes out, stoops down to whisper to one of the kneeling women. She hands him something wrapped in a cloth, and he returns to Cael with a handful of strawberries so big they could be small apples.

“Here,” Pop says. “Taste.”

Syrupy sweet. A rush of pink juices. The smell is intoxicating: a sharp, earthy sweetness. It stains Cael’s hands red.

Cael hears a footstep behind him, followed by a “Whoa.”

He turns to see Rigo and Lane—both looking groggy, like the morning after Rigo’s father pickles himself with fixy—flanked by the big hobo.

“Thanks, Homer.”

“You got it, Pop,” Homer says with a deferential nod.

Cael’s not sure he likes other people calling his father Pop, but he doesn’t have time to worry about that right now.

“You okay?” Cael asks his two friends.

“Feels like I’ve got shuck rats fighting over a corncob inside my skull,” Lane says. “But yeah.”

Rigo nods, too, but in a barely-paying-attention way. Instead, he steps up next to Pop, eyes goggled out, staring at the garden of order descending into chaos, of sanity tumbling toward wild, unfettered growth. “Holy smokes.”

Pop hands Rigo a strawberry. Lane, too. They both bite in, and Cael wonders if that’s what he looked like: eyes
rolling backward, head lolling about on the neck. And the sounds:
nngh, mmmph, ohhhhhguhhh
.

“What you see here,” Pop says, “you can’t tell anyone. Not Gwennie, not Maven Cartwright, not a single soul up in Boxelder. Not yet.”

Cael stares out over the garden. He sees brown roots—like roots from a pear tree—and realizes they’re beneath the holo-flick theater. “What
do
I see here, Pop?”

Before Pop can answer, Lane pushes to the front. “It’s the future. Isn’t it, Mr. McAvoy?”

Pop nods. “I think so.”

“Your dad’s sticking it to the man.” Lane laughs and pops his knuckles. “Bad. Ass.”

“We thought we’d provide a safe haven for hobos and Blight victims,” Pop says, “and in the process grow some proper food. Start putting it out to those families in the Heartland we know need a boost—not to sell, but to eat.”

“But you could be rich,” Cael says. “
We
could be rich.”

“Being rich doesn’t mean squat out here, son. Sure, maybe we’d make enough ace notes to climb to the top of the manure heap, but it’d still be us sitting on dung. Things need to change. And food is where that change starts. That’s how the Empyrean controls everything. We’re not allowed to grow real crops. We’re forced to grow an invasive corn species that isn’t even supposed to be eaten. The amount
of corn it takes to make a single tank of fuel or sugar syrup for the Empyrean flotillas could have been enough corn—were it properly edible—to feed a single person for the better part of a year. And it’s killing the soil. Ten more years of Hiram’s Golden Prolific and our land won’t be able to support anything but the corn—
if
that. But they”—Pop stabs a finger upward—“don’t give a shuck rat’s right foot about us down here. They shut the schools. Killed off the livestock farms. We’re just slaves down here. Horseshoes for their pretty pegasus.” Pop takes a deep breath. “Besides, this is illegal. We start selling these plants, the flotillas will send down squadron after squadron of soldiers to clean house.”

“See?” Lane says, poking Cael in the ribs. “This is what I’ve been talking about, man. The rich don’t want us getting all think-for-yourselfy down here.”

Cael ignores his friend. “So, you can’t sell it. Now what?”

“Turns out we have a secret weapon.”

Lane grins. “I like the sound of that.”

Pop says, “We thought we’d tend a nice little garden, have some yield, sneak it to the Heartlanders, and at least make sure people were eating healthy. But this stuff…” He spreads his arms out so they can behold the chaotic majesty of the garden. “This garden will not be denied. The plants don’t need much sunlight. Or water. Or anything. They’re like Hiram’s Golden Prolific: These plants are aggressive.
They’ll grow anywhere. They’re real competitors.” Pop points to the ceiling. “And they’re spreading. They’ve come up through the floorboards and carpets. Give it another year and this whole town will be a jungle of fresh fruits and vegetables. And as you know, it’s already left Martha’s Bend.”

“The garden trail,” Rigo says.

“Mmm-hmm. Heading toward Boxelder. And we’ve found other plants growing in other directions. The roots and tendrils have pierced the plastic blister. They won’t be stopped. Before long we won’t have to do anything at all—if we can keep this place hidden for long enough, the Empyrean won’t be able to stop the garden. It’ll be like Eden all over again.”

Eden: the garden where the Lord and Lady were born from the womb of the mother earth, from the bosom of the Heartland itself.

Just an old story
, Cael thinks.
But maybe not anymore.

“Where’d you get the seeds to grow this stuff?” Cael asks.

Suddenly his father pulls back. Cagey. Licks his lips. “Well, son. I have a… contact.…”

Lane blurts out, “It’s someone in the Sleeping Dogs, isn’t it?”

“An Empyrean double agent?” Rigo asks, still goggle-eyed.

Footsteps behind them. In a hurry. Homer and the
woman from earlier, Marlene, appear in a worried panic.

“Pop,” Marlene says. “We have more uninvited guests up top.”

“More kids,” Homer says, shooting Cael an accusing look.

“What?” Cael asks. “We didn’t tell anybody!”

“Come on,” Pop says. “I better take a look myself this time.”

Pop leads them to a backroom in the burrow, and Cael is surprised to see projected on the floor a series of changing three-dimensional holographic images, each revealing a location from the town up above. Outside the motorvator garage. Inside the Dewberry emporium. Looking out from the MOM bank machine. No wonder the hobos knew Cael and his crew were in town. They were on camera the whole time.

Pop explains, “Martha’s Bend is—er, was—a more prosperous town than Boxelder. Got a bigger hunk of the Empyrean dole, too. That means Empyrean agents were watching. But they cut the feed long ago after they wiped the town clean. We just hooked the cameras back up and used the holo-flick projector to give us access.”

It occurs to Cael that his father is far smarter than he ever gave him credit for.

“What the heck happened to Martha’s Bend?” Lane asks.

Cael sees his father’s brow knit, same as it does whenever he doesn’t want to admit an unpleasant truth. But Lane doesn’t have a chance to press him, because as the holographic surveillance flicks through image after image, one registers real trouble:

Boyland Barnes Jr.

His buckethead comes roving into view, trailed by the rest of his crew: Mole, Felicity, and Gwennie.

Gwennie
.

Cael’s palms go sweaty.

Pop tenses. “That’s not good.”

Homer leans in. The sonic shooter is back in his hand. “You want us to handle it?”

“We’ll fix it,” Cael blurts.

Rigo and Lane give him a quizzical look.

“Son—”

“If they’re here, they’re here because of us. I don’t know why or how, but they are. This is our mess, and we’ll run them off.”

Pop claps Cael on the shoulder. “I trust you. Go do what you have to do. And above all else,
don’t
let them find out what we have going on here.”

UNEXPECTED GUESTS

BOYLAND’S CALLING HIS NAME.

“McAvoy! I know you’re here.”

The words echo through the dead town of Martha’s Bend.

Cael and his friends come up through the trapdoor behind the icebox inside Busser’s Booze. Out the greasy, dust-caked window they spy the Boxelder Butchers walking down the street. Felicity’s got a corn sickle. Mole’s dragging a comically large chain behind him. Gwennie’s hanging back, arms crossed, looking none too pleased about any of this.

“They’re itching for a fight,” Lane says. “That’s not good. Rigo, why don’t you go kick all their asses while me and Cael here sip some Micky Finn’s gin.”

Rigo bugs out. “I’m not going out there!”

“Hey.
You
said you were a tough guy. Always talking about putting the beatdown on the Butchers. Here’s your chance, stud.”

Cael gives them both a scowl. “Hush up. We’re all going out there.”

He sucks in a breath, puffs out his chest, and exits the store.

Boyland and the others have already passed by—but Mole hears the door and turns his squirrelly little head toward the sound. “Whistle-pig at the hole!”

The Butchers turn and face Cael just as Lane pushes Rigo out the door and follows after.

“Hey, McAvoy,” Boyland says, laughing. “Funny seeing you here. I don’t remember the Empyrean opening up Martha’s Bend yet. Did you get a special dispensation from Proctor Agrasanto? Did he, Mole?”

“I don’t think so!” Mole says, cackling, the chain rattling behind him.

“I don’t think so, either. What gives, McAvoy? Lottery’s not till tonight. Did you think you won early? Did you think you’d bust your way in here, get first pick on the scavenge, and make off like a magpie with money in his beak?”

Cael shrugs. “Guess that’s exactly what I figured.”

Boyland walks forward, closing the distance between them. He tilts his head left and right—the bones in his
neck pop and grind. “That’s not gonna happen.”

“You could’ve just told your daddy. Begged and whined and had him put in a call to Agrasanto.” Cael watches Boyland’s lip twitch. “Why didn’t you?”

“Maybe I like to handle things myself.”

“That ain’t it. You think you’re gonna get first pick instead of us. You just couldn’t stand it. Just the
thought
of us coming out number one really burns your hide, doesn’t it? How’d you know we were here anyway?”

“Field shepherd saw you heading this direction. I grabbed the yacht, and we took a ride. Followed your stench all the way here.”

That corn sickle of Felicity’s is rusty but sharp. Cael can see the edge whetted to a steel gleam. Mole might not do much with that chain of his; but if Felicity wants to, she’ll cut them all up pretty good. And out here in the middle of nowhere, too.

The slingshot feels heavy in his back pocket.

Cael’s fast. Real fast. But can he draw a bead on her before she puts that blade to Lane’s neck? Or sticks it in Rigo’s stomach? He wouldn’t put it past her. She’s crazy, that one. Always was a bully. Cael’s pretty sure she has a thing for Boyland, too. Can’t be happy about Gwennie being on his arm and with them now.

Gwennie’s watching the whole thing, not saying a word.

“What do you want to do here, Junior? We gonna throw down? Is that the plan?”

“Might be, McAvoy. I still owe you for sucker punching me back at that turd-box you call a farm. We all know I can take you.”

Cael sneers. “I wouldn’t be so quick on the stick with that one.” A little voice inside his head is screaming:
You’re supposed to be getting rid of them, not getting caught up in a pissing match
. But here? Now? In front of Gwennie? With his father watching on camera? Cael wants to tussle. He wants to make this thick-necked dope eat a whole fistful of ball bearings.

“Wait!” Rigo says, stepping between them. “
Wait
. We’ll give you what we found.”

“
Rigo
,” Cael hisses.

“What’d you find?” Boyland asks.

“Buncha cases of Micky Finn gin,” Rigo says. “Good stuff.
Old
stuff. Worth a ton of ace notes. Get you all the recognition you want. Heck, with a find like that, they’ll be carrying you around on their shoulders for a week.”

Their drunken shoulders
, Cael thinks.
Hope they drop you on your head.

“Micky Finn, huh,” Boyland says. “What else?”

“That’s… that’s it,” Rigo says.

“Rest is picked over,” Cael lies.

Boyland shoves Rigo out of the way, thrusts his face up in Cael’s. “You think I’m mule kicked?”

“I do,” Cael says.

A fist pistons into Cael’s stomach. Pain radiates up into his chest and down into his balls. Boyland doesn’t let him fall, though. He hauls Cael to his feet. “I know the drill, dirtbag. You give me the Micky Finn, and meanwhile you’re sitting on something here that’s a hundred times bigger. I come home thinking I’m the champion and then you roll into town like Jeezum Crow himself. No way.” The mayor’s son reaches down, grabs Cael’s wrist, turns the hand over. “And what’s with the pink hands, anyway? You smell like a girl.”