The Greenhouse
Posted: Sun Aug 09, 2009 9:34 am1.
"How's the crop looking today, Harvester?"
The grizzled old man scanned the rows of fruit and vegetables from his vantage on the catwalk. Potatoes, tomatoes, carrots, cucumbers, onions, and more. One of the Gomez boys was tending the broccoli, checking Ph levels and fertilizer/water ratios with sensors hooked to a battered Robco terminal on an old push-cart. From the the crow's feet framing his blue eyes down past his faded denim overalls to the scuffed boots on his feet, Patrick Harvester looked every bit the farmer. Except for his pale skin. No sunlight down here, just banks of flourescent bulbs and UV lights hanging over this hydroponic garden of eden.
"Not too shabby, John," He replied. "Not too shabby at all, 'cept for them damn cukes. They never did all that well down here. Make decent pickles, though. Any word from young Thomas?"
"Nope, hasn't checked in for six days. Not so much as a peep." John too had turned his gaze to the crop, their own little half acre of heaven. The foundation of their continued existence. Their sole hope for survival. Now he looked back at his boss, running a hand through his thinning brown hair, "I don't hear from him by Tuesday, I'm going out there after him."
"The hell you are," came the stern reply. "You know-"
"He's my son, damnit!"
"And he's my grandson, I'm not so senile as to've forgotten that!" Patrick continued in a softer tone, "you know you can't go after him. Just be patient, son. He's been topside twice before, and besides, Thomas is a smart kid. He knows to stay off the roads and only travel at night. He can handle himself. If I thought he couldn't, I never would have sent him out there."
"Why did you have to send him out there, anyway?" John asked, though he already knew the answer.
"Don't play dumb," His father answered with no small amount of contempt. "For all the things we need that we can't make down here: scrap metal, fishun batteries, fresh meat. He drew the short straw. Every able-bodied male has to draw. That's the way your grandad done it, that's the way I do it, and that's the way you'll do it after I'm gone. It's the only way that's fair, so that's the way it has to be. Now did you wander up here to argue policy with me or did you have something important to share?"
"Actually, yes. Three hours ago," John answered, handing over a photo from the security feed. The camera from which it was taken hidden within the rusting husk of a protectron anchored to the southern wall of the small, ranch-style home that concealed the entrance to their little slice of utopia. The Greenhouse, they'd taken to callling it. They had placed three other cameras in various positions covering all angles of approach to and from their home. Frank Smith's dad, Simon, had rigged that up some thirty years ago. He'd always had a way with tech, and he passed that knowledge on to his son. Now it was Frank who manned the security room with its rows of monitors and receivers.
Patrick's eyes narrowed as he studied the image. Three figures clad in steel, heavily armed and armored. Walking single file with weapons at the ready. The one in the rear frozen in the act of turning around, presumably checking their backtrail. Had they swords and mounts, they could have easily been mistaken for knights of old. The eldest Harvester, though, had doubts as to their virtue.
"Where were they headed?" Not your usual transients shuffling along in broken boots, he thought.
"East. At a steady pace."
"Young Tom, he went south, didn't he?"
"Yes. What the hell are you grinning about, old man?"
"Oh, it just tickles me how what was once a basemant full of pot plants and dope dealers turned out to be the last safe place on this earth. You see..." Patrick began.
John, thinking of his son out there in the wastes, winced inwardly but held his tongue. He'd heard this story many, many times before and from the whistful look in his father's eyes, he was about to hear it again. Ah hell, he thought, it's not that bad of a story. And besides, the old bastard loves to tell it.
"How's the crop looking today, Harvester?"
The grizzled old man scanned the rows of fruit and vegetables from his vantage on the catwalk. Potatoes, tomatoes, carrots, cucumbers, onions, and more. One of the Gomez boys was tending the broccoli, checking Ph levels and fertilizer/water ratios with sensors hooked to a battered Robco terminal on an old push-cart. From the the crow's feet framing his blue eyes down past his faded denim overalls to the scuffed boots on his feet, Patrick Harvester looked every bit the farmer. Except for his pale skin. No sunlight down here, just banks of flourescent bulbs and UV lights hanging over this hydroponic garden of eden.
"Not too shabby, John," He replied. "Not too shabby at all, 'cept for them damn cukes. They never did all that well down here. Make decent pickles, though. Any word from young Thomas?"
"Nope, hasn't checked in for six days. Not so much as a peep." John too had turned his gaze to the crop, their own little half acre of heaven. The foundation of their continued existence. Their sole hope for survival. Now he looked back at his boss, running a hand through his thinning brown hair, "I don't hear from him by Tuesday, I'm going out there after him."
"The hell you are," came the stern reply. "You know-"
"He's my son, damnit!"
"And he's my grandson, I'm not so senile as to've forgotten that!" Patrick continued in a softer tone, "you know you can't go after him. Just be patient, son. He's been topside twice before, and besides, Thomas is a smart kid. He knows to stay off the roads and only travel at night. He can handle himself. If I thought he couldn't, I never would have sent him out there."
"Why did you have to send him out there, anyway?" John asked, though he already knew the answer.
"Don't play dumb," His father answered with no small amount of contempt. "For all the things we need that we can't make down here: scrap metal, fishun batteries, fresh meat. He drew the short straw. Every able-bodied male has to draw. That's the way your grandad done it, that's the way I do it, and that's the way you'll do it after I'm gone. It's the only way that's fair, so that's the way it has to be. Now did you wander up here to argue policy with me or did you have something important to share?"
"Actually, yes. Three hours ago," John answered, handing over a photo from the security feed. The camera from which it was taken hidden within the rusting husk of a protectron anchored to the southern wall of the small, ranch-style home that concealed the entrance to their little slice of utopia. The Greenhouse, they'd taken to callling it. They had placed three other cameras in various positions covering all angles of approach to and from their home. Frank Smith's dad, Simon, had rigged that up some thirty years ago. He'd always had a way with tech, and he passed that knowledge on to his son. Now it was Frank who manned the security room with its rows of monitors and receivers.
Patrick's eyes narrowed as he studied the image. Three figures clad in steel, heavily armed and armored. Walking single file with weapons at the ready. The one in the rear frozen in the act of turning around, presumably checking their backtrail. Had they swords and mounts, they could have easily been mistaken for knights of old. The eldest Harvester, though, had doubts as to their virtue.
"Where were they headed?" Not your usual transients shuffling along in broken boots, he thought.
"East. At a steady pace."
"Young Tom, he went south, didn't he?"
"Yes. What the hell are you grinning about, old man?"
"Oh, it just tickles me how what was once a basemant full of pot plants and dope dealers turned out to be the last safe place on this earth. You see..." Patrick began.
John, thinking of his son out there in the wastes, winced inwardly but held his tongue. He'd heard this story many, many times before and from the whistful look in his father's eyes, he was about to hear it again. Ah hell, he thought, it's not that bad of a story. And besides, the old bastard loves to tell it.
