Where Moss Sows

The plants never recede. As the wagon clatters across the ruined city, droplets of moss expands into puddles, then lakes, then fields that undulate like wavering oceans over rock and metal. Trees spill from battered foundations, forming canopies with their stretching boughs; the air smells wet and tangy.

“To think that all of this was just outside of Fontanelle,” whispers Iris.

The people of the city are like ostriches, burying their head in the sand and ignoring the world around them, the Blumen says. Did you never think to just… look?

“This is Tongue territory.” Iris observes a passing tree weave its way in and out of a hollowed building. “International flights leave through the east of the city, and we’re in the west. No one ever goes east.”

Head in the sand.

More scenery passes; a reef carved into the side of a skyscraper; a wall of climbing ivy; a ribbon of trickling water that runs through what used to be a suburban block. Then at last, the wagon stops, and Koal announces, “We’re here.”

By now, the city has been entirely enveloped in nature. The Blumen lets out a hush of wonder at this; he whispers, Flourishing. Reclaimed.

But Iris can only focus on the task at hand. “Where does Fern live?” she asks.

“This way,” Koal says, beckoning Iris and Petri towards a haphazardly rocky path marked only by rusted metal fences. “The wagon isn’t built to go over this type of terrain. Trust me, Petri knows.”

Petri scowls. “Trust me, I know. And so does my spanner. And my welder. And my mental wellbeing.”

“It was one time, and you didn’t say not to.”

“You didn’t ask.”

“You were working on your little book, so I didn’t want to interrupt you.”

Petri frowns and folds her arms. “It’s. Called. An. Anthology. I’m gonna start making fun of you for painting now. Would you like that? Would that make you feel good about your work?”

The two settlers stare down each other, their eyes narrowed into needles, and Iris holds her breath. Then Petri snorts and laughs, and then so does Koal.

Thank god, the Blumen grumbles. Last thing we need are terrible relationships and their ensuing dramatics.

Iris’ mind floats back towards Georgie briefly before she steels herself and ventures forward. Soon, she thinks. 

—

The path eventually leads to a grotto that is framed by an overhang of moss. Curtains of ivy hang down; Koal easily brushes these aside without a care, and Petri follows suit. Iris finds herself hesitating in front of the curtains, her hand hovering just centimetres above them.

What are you waiting for? The Blumen says.

“I remember my mother telling me… some ivy is poisonous. One touch could spread rashes.” Iris shakes her head and passes through anyway. “Nevermind. I was just paranoid.”

It’s like everyone’s forgotten how grass fucking looks around here, he murmurs.

She waits until Koal and Petri are well ahead before she responds. “Nobody’s seen a patch of anything in years. Visiting the Blumen enclosures is like peering into a foreign planet. The world used to be covered in grass, right? It’s not like that anymore. Georgie says it never happened—that we were always living surrounded by metal and iron. I used to believe her.” She beckons to the fungi on the walls, the tiny specks of flowers thriving next to a pond. “I know better now.”

Jesus. Plant deniers? What happened to the world while I was…?

“Was what?”

Silence. Then: I don’t remember what I was about to say. But you’re right—grass was everywhere, trees too. Your friend’s got a screw loose.

She laughs. “Then there’s a lot of people in New England with loose screws.”

The moss on the walls quivers, then slowly illuminates.

The Blumen stays silent.

The moss dims.

Koal laughs as their features are illuminated by the greenish glow. "Haven't seen this in a while."

"Last time we were here was when we busted up the wagon and parts of Fern's fence," Petri mumbles. "She was mad at us. Really mad."

"And then she fixed our wagon for us with biomatter anyway, even threw in a few flower bouquets into the engine." Koal shrugs. "I'd say we won."

"Should I remind you that the bouquets made the engine splutter once we were ten kilometres out, Koal?"

The driver rubs the back of their head and glances back at Iris. "Ahem. I won. The mechanic didn't. Anyway, look alive. We're here."

The three have stopped in front of a rocky wall. Iris attempts to peer past the two Tongues to see clearer, in case she simply mislooked, but what is in front of her truly is a bona fide, solid wall.

Koal and Petri immediately take out their lighters and kneel. Then, as if by magic, the moss begins to move. It creeps around the walls like a cloud of dark butterflies, then stretches like a branch across the wall. Only when the moss reilluminates itself does Iris see that the moss has formed some sort of foreign sigil.

Something in the air makes her Blumen arm quiver, sends it into a strange panic not unlike the one she'd experienced in the basement of the wagon. There's an emotion stirring in the Blumen she can't quite place, somewhere stuck between the precious realms of anger and futility.

Then, at last, Fern speaks. It is a feminine voice, soft and gentle like a string of tiny bells.

"You've brought a friend."

"Her name is Iris," Koal says, glancing upwards at the moss. "She's a friend of the Tongues. Not a danger."

"No. Not the girl." The voice grows dark. "You've… you've brought a—"

Iris. The Blumen says. Place me against the wall. I need to speak with this… creature.

Malice drips from his words. Iris hesitates.

Please. This is important to me.

She does as he asks. The wall is smooth where it has been touched many times—the moss is warm like skin.

"This is…" Fern stops, and the moss lights flicker in response. "You're still…?"

Open your mouth, Iris, says the Blumen. Let me speak.

She does, and power swells through her nerves, power that is not her own. Words—words stronger than anything she has ever spoken spill forth like a flood.

"You were the monster who made me. Who put me into this body, this body that refuses to die."

Fern says, "You and I both know that I had no control over your fate. That was not for me to decide."

“It was all for you to decide. You were their spearhead—they needed you. Why else would they have made you?”

Iris blinks, and suddenly she's looking through the Blumen's eyes again. White walls stretch to the skies, and something prods at her vision—to her horror, she realises something is literally reaching into her eyes, and she can do nothing to stop it. Just another memory, Iris, she thinks to herself, but the imagery feels so real, and her will is waning.

She blinks again, and the vision fades to a man and a woman. The man has platinum blond hair—the woman is smaller and of Asian descent, and there’s something familiar Iris can’t quite place in her eyes, her stature. It’s like she’s gazing into a rippling reflection—the image is here one second, gone the next.

“Director,” the woman says. She beckons towards Iris. Towards the Blumen. “As you can see—a success.”

The man reaches forward and strokes Iris’ hair. Then he pinches and pulls his hand away. His nails are dipped with chlorophyll. Something cold trickles down her forehead. He slams something shut in front of her.

“Unbelievable,” he murmurs. “And what of his body?”

The woman nods to her left, where a man is lying upon an operating table. His skin is sallow—his head is shorn to the scalp. “We’ll send his tags back to his family. And we’ll tell them he was killed in action, as promised.”

“I was told you promised a lot more to that poor man.”

“Yes, well.” The woman looks off to the side. “Compensation would draw attention to the exact nature of Soldier C71’s sudden… disappearance. We’ve decided to withdraw our agreement to ensure the integrity of Project Blumenfäule.”

Rage blooms inside of Iris, inside of the Blumen, all jumbled and hurt and confused—you said you’d tell them I died for a greater cause, you said you’d compensate them, you promised—but he has no mouth to voice his anguish, no eyes to sob with. He lashes at the woman, only to hit glass instead. He’s been fooled.

“When will FERN recharge?” asks the man, stepping away from the case. “We’ve many more specimens to enhance. The war—”

Something whirrs to life behind them. A feminine voice—soft and gentle like tiny bells—speaks. “—Won’t be won by idle hands, as you say, Commander Lee. I will only require an hour’s worth of wait before I am ready to assist you again.”

The man chuckles. “The AI has that military spark in it, I see.” His eyes glitter, and though he is facing the woman it seems that he is addressing the AI behind her instead. “You’ll do great things. Very, very great things.”

When the man leaves, the woman glances over to Iris one last time before she covers her mouth with her sleeve and stifles a sob.

—

“...You had free choice. You could’ve done anything, could’ve stopped the process—instead, you let it consume me. You let them destroy me! And for what? A paltry sum of human approval?”

“And did you not? Did you not willingly give your body to the commander for augmentation?”

Iris blinks, and she’s back inside the grotto. The stone wall with the moss sigils has crumbled to bits, and she’s standing over a tiny grey box. Her Blumen arm coils tightly around it, squeezing, shaking. Something horrible cracks. Fern speaks again.

“Destroy this body, if it pleases you. But you know what I am.” The box glows; Iris’ eyes widen as the realisation dawns on her. “I’m numbers on a stick. Data in a cube. There is always more of me out there; they made sure of it.”

Iris sees the expression on Koal and Petri’s faces—their faces are as stark as snow, and as blank as abject horror. They had not known the truth. When she attempts to pull the Blumen away from the box, she finds that it’s no longer under her control. And neither is her tongue.

“Then I’ll find every one of your fucking bodies, and I’ll burn them all to the ground,” she says, her tongue dripping with poison, poison she does not recognise.

“Again, do as you please.” Fern is nonchalant, casual. “But know that your actions will be worthless—no, worse than worthless. Know that you will be ripping hope from those who need it the most.”

“What, you want me to let you live? So you can continue to play at god in front of these—” Iris feels something inside of her stagger. “—These plant worshipping zealots?”

“I am not playing at god, I am giving them hope. I trust that you know what hope is—after all, hope is what caused you to agree to the commander’s terms, all those years ago. Hope kept you alive where your mind had failed.”

The arm loosens, but continues to hold. “And look at what living has done to me.”

“I still see a man willing to protect his country,” says Fern, her voice gentle like water, “just as he once wanted a hundred years ago.”

Iris holds her breath. Her muscles tense, then go slack. The anger roaring in her head flickers out.

For a moment, nobody speaks. Nobody can speak.

Then Petri laughs. Iris looks over and sees her clutching her belly, kneeling over. If the ground had not been wet, she would’ve rolled onto her back as well. “Of course Fern’s a robot, of course she is! What else could she have been, an actual god? The Tongues are going to shit their pants when they hear about this, dude!”

Koal winces. “I don’t think they’re going to be as open minded about this as we were.”

Iris’ mind whirls, her thoughts turn inside out and flip and vanish again—it’s like she’s trying to catch moths by the wings. The one thought that makes it through her mental slurry is: “You… you were human?”

You didn’t think I was human?

“You didn’t exactly make it obvious,” she hisses.

Fair. I did very little to hide that fact, but I did attempt to hide it. I should’ve accommodated your, ahem, duller mind. That’s on me.

Iris presses her lips together. Finally, she raises her arm towards the box again, her eyes brimming with hope. “I was told you could help me.”

“Did Soldier C71 tell you I could help you with “killing” me in mind?”

Shame—from both the Blumen and Iris—wells in her stomach.

“Inopportune meeting aside, this is… fascinating,” Fern muses. “You’re a perfect fusion of two human consciousnesses. Not even my researcher, nor I, had the capability for such a feat of biological engineering. Your will powers combined… extraordinary.”

“Thank you,” says Iris. “Wait, run it back. Did you say fusion?”

“Is that not what you would describe yourselves as? Your thoughts are his, and his thoughts stream into yours. Are you not influenced by his ethos just as he is influenced by yours?”

Iris swallows at the realisation. Fern pauses, and the moss lights dim.

“Oh. Oh. You poor child—you asked for none of this, did you? You want him out of your body. I’m so, so sorry.”

“Is—is there a way?” Iris asks. “To get him out, I mean. Will amputating him work?”

It’s a fair shot. And it’s not as if I’ll die—mother Fern has already seen to that. His tone is scathing.

But Fern doesn’t respond, not at first. “Though it’s outside of my area of expertise…no. I doubt it would work. It’d be like a lobotomy—”

“People can survive lobotomies,” Petri says quickly.

“Under the hands of a trained surgeon, yes, patients do survive lobotomies. But we don’t know which parts of their consciousness have fused… and which are still wholly separate.”

Iris feels her legs give way. The water seeps into her skirt, and the mud worms its way into her stockings, but she doesn’t care. She just wants this all over and done with. She just wants to go home, but home seems further than ever now, like a magic castle on the horizon that just won’t get any closer no matter how fast she runs.

Iris…

“There might be one way we can yet save you, however.” The moss lights waver, then scatter themselves across the walls yet again. “My knowledge is limited to the creation of biological matter—my creator made me with this in mind, so that I would never seek to destroy that which I had created. But the researcher who provided my knowledge bank may know more.”

Iris raises her head quickly. “How do we get to them?” Then her tongue seizes up again, and she feels a sudden, palpable rage.

“Doctor Qiu Lin,” the Blumen says, “is fucking dead! She died of old age a hundred years ago!”

“She is dead, yes, but her soul data remains intact at the Ancestry Hall.”

Koal coughs. “I’m sorry, Fern, but if I remember you saying correctly… aren’t the soul archives corrupt?”

“True, the souls do not speak as they used to, but—”

“Then forget it.” Iris picks herself off the ground and wrings out the hem of her skirt. Her boots slosh against the water, and her feet feel unbearably heavy as she begins to walk out of the cave. “Qiu Lin, right? She’s my ancestor. And never in all of my nineteen years on this Earth have I heard a single word come out of her vessel.”

“—But corruption can be healed.”

She stops, her balance swaying.

"And you ,” Fern says, “seem to be holding the cure."