“Are you saying unequivocally that it is the position of your candidate that global warming is behind these two national tragedies, and that implementing an all-encompassing strategy designed to target and neutralize that threat is going to be a high priority for her during her first hundred days in office?” The stoic face of Continental National News Network was in full gravitas mode as Bernard Charger looked over the rim of his glasses, locking eyes with Democratic surrogate, Yaba Dabadouin.
There’s the glasses-lowering, Yaba thought to herself, remembering the agreed upon cues they had discussed prior to the interview. The intimidating stare indicated it was time for her to sit up straight and give an unwavering answer, thus sending a message through the camera that her candidate’s position was strong.
“Absolutely, Bernard,” Yaba responded. “But it’s far more than that. The Secretary has a clear plan to not only reduce and eliminate carbon emissions, but also to imbue the Environmental Protection Agency with expanded powers so they can truly crack down on those companies who pollute our waterways.”
“And this would prevent the formation of things like this ‘Super Algae,’ which scientists blame for the collapse of the Black Hawk Bridge?” he prompted.
“Exactly, Bernard,” Yaba nodded. “The relaxing of environmental regulations nationwide has given companies carte blanche to dump their waste wherever they want without facing the consequences.” She gave a thin-lipped smile. “But with Mother Earth, there are always consequences.”
Bernard looked down at his prompter, where one of the assistant producers had sent him a note: “The current President has issued dozens of environmental regulations by fiat since taking office. How can she say they’ve been ‘relaxed’ with a straight face?” Bernard did not react to the message, but made a mental note to have a talk with the network about having the person reassigned. If he was not going to be a team player, he could take his meager talents elsewhere.
“So what does the Secretary plan to do to safeguard our aquatic infrastructure?” he asked, sticking to his prepared script. “And can we even afford to wait until the elections? Could we see even more disasters before she takes office?”
“Exactly, Bernard,” Yaba nodded again. “The relaxing of environmental regulations nationwide—”
“I mean, what will we do if another bridge succumbs to this ‘Super Algae?’” He looked at her hard over his glasses, trying to communicate with his eyes to get her back on script.
Yaba stammered for a moment as she struggled to remember her place. Acting had never been her forte. She often wished she had remained an opinion columnist for her mother’s newspaper. “The Secretary has an extensive and hard-hitting plan for corporate offenders, which she plans to enact in her first hundred hours in office,” she said. “It’s that important. I can tell you this, there are a lot of chemical plants that are going to go out of business in the new administration.” She mirrored the smug grin of her host, then tried to shift into a more somber expression. “But your concern about the bridges is well-founded,” she said. “We can only hope that nothing else happens before she takes office.”
· · ·
“Who’s a good boy, hmm? Does he want a treat?”
The woman with the cinnamon skin cradled a white kitten mewling in her arm, its milky-blue eyes barely open. “Yes, you are hungry, aren’t you? Momma’s little boy needs a mordisquito, doesn’t he?”
The kitten purred. Unfortunately for the ball of fluff, he was not the one she was talking to, as she carried it up a stepladder and held it out over the opening of what looked like a large grotesque vase with a hinged lid. “Here you go, my niño bonito,” she cajoled, letting the kitten slide into the opening. Its feet landed in the slimy goop at the bottom. The kitten protested, loudly and rapidly, frantically seeking purchase against the slippery walls of its prison. Its attempts to climb out were unseen; the plant’s reddish leafy lid had already closed, trapping the kitten inside.
Such was the diet of the Nepenthes raja, although few had ever grown to this size. A purring sound emanated from the swell of the enormous pitcher plant, too loud to be the kitten, which was slowly being digested.
Anna Maria Consuela Conde smiled at the kitten’s muffled cries. Anna hated animals, including humans. She loved the Earth, and its copious variety of plants. She felt the whole place would be better off without the meat sacks that saw fit to trample, prune, mow, smoke, eat, and pee on them.
Her epiphany came while watching a low-budget film about trees taking revenge on humanity. The only theater to show even a modicum of profit on the film was in São Paolo, and that was only because Anna sat through multiple viewings every day of the film’s run.
She bit off another chunk of salted beef. Her diet consisted of only meat and dairy products, never seasoned with any herbs or other plant derivatives. As a result, she did not have irritable bowels, but absolutely enraged ones. It also gave her breath a gamey quality that equaled her body odor. She would not wear cotton, and while the leather skirts, tops, and boots had a certain appeal to them, leather underpants simply did not breathe the way other fabrics did.
She sighed contentedly as she strolled about her greenhouse, checking on her criaturas, her babies, checking the pH content of their soil, and inspecting their leaves. She found a grubworm that had sneaked into her sanctuary, blithely munching on the edge of a water hemlock. She scowled, and plucked it off with a pair of tweezers, then walked it over to a Bunsen burner. Turning up the flame, she roasted the intruder, looking on with scorn as the worm coiled, curled, and sizzled.
Anna’s genius with plants, especially deadly ones, had earned her a certain notoriety among the agencies that partly shared her interests—partly, in that they wanted to kill some people, while she wanted to kill all of them. And what better bio-weapon could there be than something as natural as a plant?
However, her relationships with these agencies were always short-lived, as the chiquita verde, as she liked to be called, proved too quickly to be the chiquita loca. But when she parted ways with an organization, they always kept her contact information, just in case they were ever desperate enough to need her again.
Her cell phone danced across her counter, buzzing like a hornet’s nest.
She tapped the answer button and said nothing.
“Did you encounter any problems delivering the package?”
Anna Conde had a list of problems. “Sí,” she snapped. “Your so-called ‘charter jet’ was not properly pressurized to safely transport my children! The vehicle you rented did not have adequate temperature controls for their comfort, and you did not have sufficient safeguards at the drop site. I just barely finished setting my babies free, when I passed a car of sightseers!”
There was a pause on the other end before Yaba Dabadouin spoke. “We apologize for the inconveniences,” she said. “Was there any damage to the plants that would prevent them from thriving?” She very carefully avoided the word ‘algae.’ PHONUS already had enough headaches with her private emails making the tabloid circuit. The last thing she needed was some NSA glory hound looking to make a name for himself as a whistleblower with a recorded phone conversation.
Anna grunted noncommittally. “They will do what they do,” she said. “Your reports will have the evidence you need.”
“That may not be enough for us now,” Yaba said. “We may need a few more shipments. Can you deliver?”
“I can deliver, if you can deliver better,” Anna said. “How much will you pay?”
“The foundation will meet any reasonable request,” she replied. “We’ll even throw in a bonus if they actually work.”
“Puta! They work fine!” the Venezuelan vixen spat hotly into the receiver. Her hand clutched at her abdomen, which was developing sharp stabbing pains again.
On the other end of the conversation, Yaba struggled to find a way to communicate that she needed the algae to actually take down a standing bridge, not just appear that they did, without explicitly saying so. “You misunderstand,” she said calmingly. “This new location is still standing. We want it not to be. Can they make that happen?”
Anna considered her words. She knew her specially-bred strain of algae would quickly eat away at concrete, but she did not know if it would be quickly enough to weaken such a large structure before the cold northern waters killed them off. But this client had deep pockets, and was rumored to have the ear of the Disciples of Mohammad and Fathers of the Caliphate. A successful performance here would surely get back to them, opening up a new stream of revenue to fund her ultimate goal of a meat-free planet.
“It will not be a problem,” she answered with forced confidence. “For ten million dollars.”
Anna’s only concern afterward was how quickly Yaba agreed to the terms. As she hung up the phone, she regretted not doubling her demands, a mistake she would not make again.
Her gut stabbed at her once more. She slid the phone across the counter like an air hockey puck and made a mad dash to her fertilizer collection facility, wondering how long the flight to San Francisco would be.