He kept sinking his boots deep on the mud surrounding the mounds, 
his combat pants completely ruined, slowly moving back into the dry 
dirt of the track between the rows. Then, he walked towards the next 
row; the plants were starting to emerge there, their leaves exuding a 
clear ichor-like substance that dripped down into the ground. Rico 
carried on narrating his tale as he bent down to check on the 
budding leaf green already shying through the soil. "After that we 
had the major's house surrounded on a thousand perambulating 
friggos when she was hosting a party for i! capo della mafia, all of 
them citing every lie she had told during the elections. And you know 
what? Just their faces would have made the prison worth it." 


"Damn right it would!" That was Martino's voice, graver and soft in 
comparison to his brother's. It came from across the line of already 
blooming mounds. "But it would have also been boring as hell, Rico! 
Or old Patroni would have got us shot. That would have been too 
little boredom and for too short a time right there." 


Enrico briefly laughed at Martino's words and retorted with a quick 
string of words in Italian, which was answered with another quick 
laugh from between the thickening greenery of the next row. Then 
he noticed Frank's expression and... Priscilla's lack of one, 
apparently? 


"We were just making a silly, unnecessary, uh... pun. In Italian." 


"I'm not a skipper anymore, Rico. You don't have to explain 
yourselves," Frank said. "And Locke is here just to see how we work 
so she can put a good word for us with the phoo. Not exactly ‘the 
Man’, you see." 


"Right, sure, they are not the capitalist, imperialist, hegemonist Man, 
but | would still like to see those Coalition fasci-" 


"Anyhow!" Frank clapped his hands once, a weary and slightly 
threatening smile coming to the already wasted corners of his lips. 
Rico got the message and adopted a mocking ‘it-was-not-my-fault' 
grin. "Why don't you explain Locke what you're doing here, 
gentlemen?" 


Rico shrugged. "Bene, this way. The mounds and the buds are 
already self-sustaining and the Vesta piping is already grown and 
working, so | can now show you the most interesting part of this 
camp in action, miss Locke." 


"Just Locke," the woman answered, her face behind the optics of a 
Nikon. 


Oh, yes. The Nikon, Frank sourly thought. How lucky that Alba had 
one to spare. 


Locke had insisted on carrying a camera and a small red handbook 
with a pen as part of her cover. Frank was irritated about that, and 


he knew she would get why; the woman, a fresh recruit — no matter 
how much of a refugee or a benefactor she might be — was taking 
pictures of an ongoing programme as if it was the only logical thing 
to do. Frank, despite his best efforts to suppress his paranoia, 
suspected she was deliberately trying to get under his skin. 


As if she could sense his thoughts, Locke took a picture of one of 
the most developed mounds, which was already covered in white 
and green leaves, gently waving as the soft stems underneath 
began to mature and its already hardening roots drilled down, avidly 
searching for water. Frank winced at that flagrant security breach — 
Will | ever stop thinking like this? —, but said nothing. 


Then, she glanced at Frank with those dead, steely eyes of hers and 
followed Rico, who was beginning a toured visit of the orchard. He 
soon was hid away by the greenery around them. 


"Some brainiac called them 'Myrmidon' seeds, because they make 
plant-like things that move and may take the form of people, see? 
Like the legendary army made out of teeth and all that." As he went 
around its bulk, Enrico's voice sounded from behind a magnificently 
well developed specimen. It was a six feet tall log entirely composed 
of long, knotting roots that turned into thick stems of green, living 
plant with no bark, like long tentacles that bent slowly to no wind. 
Together, they were thicker than Rico, who was now carelessly 
hugging the 'tree' and sticking his head out from behind it. "These 
ones here grow faster ‘cause they have been tweaked to do so." 


"Tweaked?" Pris asked. Frank looked at her. 


"Genengineering and some anomalous fertilizer. Opal can tell you 
the details on that second part." 


"| thought she was a medical doctor." 
"She can be a doctor,” Frank needlessly replied. 


"Man, that she can be!," Rico said from the closest row of Myrmidon 
plants. "Anyways, Opal told us to make sure they grew strong no 
matter how much her kids pushed the greens, so—" 


"Her kids?" 


"Right. She has a few trained volunteers with her assisting or 
replacing her with esoteric stuff," Frank explained. 


"Isn't that dangerous? Teaching them all this. They might spill the 
beans. Shouldn't it be confidential?" 


Rico, at first confused or appealed at the statement, soundly 
laughed in their faces and turned away, leading them between two 
of the largest Myrmidons in the orchard. The ecSec grimly stared at 
Locke and said: "I've been telling them that for years. They usually 
think that infiltration just doesn't happen. Know what? It seems to be 
true. No defections as of yet." 


"How can you tell?," she said while jotting something down in her 
book. "Where were the docs on these things? They aren't listed in 
the programme." 


"They are, as non-abnormal assets. That is because the Momio 
brothers explained them to us in detail; we know how to use them, 
so they are not really abnormal to the Charitable. Well, and..." 
Frank's voice came to a halt and resumed only in a much lower 
tone. "You see, the Momios don't like to admit it 'cause these things 
can churn literal metric tonnes of fruit in a matter of weeks once they 
bloom. Any fruit they program them with. It's really cool and all, but 
the real problem with it is the cost." 


"| don't see any costs here." 


"The soil gets depleted real fast, Locke. The seeds got discontinued 
a few months back because of that. These do not bypass physics as 
the mold does, they can only make local soil far more, uh, agreeable 
to their own metabolism. Then, they die. Or worse, uproot 
themselves and look for another place to plant themselves." 


Both looked at the rows at both sides. Their motile roots could 
almost be heard as they devoured the ground. 


"That can't be good. Can they move now?" 


"Nah, unless you use very specific irritants or the soil becomes too 


acidic or dry, they just stay put and happy. With proper irrigation and 
clean water, and you know where those are coming from, we can 
create food by the truckload in minutes. Now, for the soil itself, I've 
been told by Dodger you can help." 


Locke jumped. "Dodger," she said, suddenly tense. "She's coming 
here?" 


"Ah, you know her? From the entry meeting, maybe? She's an 
observer from Continental. Sort of a wild card. As most free agents 
are, | guess-" 


"She agreed to kill my sister if | tried to defect you people." 


Frank's brow burrowed. "Say what-she threatened your sister in the 
middle of a meeting?" 


Locke shrugged. "| said they knew where my sister was if | tried 
anything. To make them trust me." 


"... yes, on second thought that sounds like something she would 
say," the ex-agent reminisced on how the self-centered, big- 
mouthed maniac had gotten herself into the MCF, getting a new life 
in the process. "Stories," he whispered, and immediately said: "She 
is arriving today. Now, for the testing on your thing, whatever it is-" 


"We're almost there," Locke lowly growled, grasping at her backpack 
with her free hand. "We'll have our testing chamber done in days, 
right? It's a matter of time." 


"| hope so. Because these orchards are our food provision for the 
next months." 


Locke looked at her escort, furious. "Why didn't you say so earlier?" 


"| did. Over breakfast. You might have been distracted," Frank 
answered. His voice sounded slightly concerned. Locke slowly 
blinked, and for a brief moment, the hand holding the camera 
shuddered. 


The moment was over all too soon, interrupted by a fuss raised a 
few rows away. She moved away, walking towards the Momios' 


angry shouts. "Great, fuckin' goompahs are really working for the 
greater good here-" 


"Tone it done, will you!?" 


The Momios argued over one of the mounds. While the others on its 
row were already showing its first leaves, that one remained as a 
tight coil of snake-like vines that shivered occasionally. As they 
came closer to it, Locke and Frank saw the vines were so tense that 
they were tearing themselves apart, a bright white liquid oozing from 
its injuries. 


Enrico moved away after a particularly angry shout directed at 
Martino, who remained behind, looking flustered and with his arms 
crossed in a firm position. He cried back a single word and then 
realized the presence of both his superior and the WPhO officer. 
"I'm sorry, Skipper," he finally said. Martino was a green thumb, 
good with plants in general and particularly good with the 
Myrmidons. "Rico thinks we should burn this one." 


"It looks sick," Locke contributed. Martino shook his head in a 
negative. 


"It's only developing in an unexpected way. | say we wait and see 
how it goes. He says it's not gonna go anywhere, because 
aberrations end up killing themselves. And | answer to that, good, 
then there is no problem! And that way | don't have to kill it." 


Frank looked into Martino's big eyes and placed a hand on his 
shoulder. In a way, both of them were good kids, but Martino was 
particularly nice, almost naive. "Listen, Tino, this one might become 
greater, and | get why you want to see it turning into something 
bigger... cooler. And maybe any other day you'd get to do that. But 
we're trying to feed hundreds of hungry people, not experimenting. 
Please, take it somewhere else and freeze it or burn it, okay?" 


"| Know, Frankie. It's just-" The young anartist scratched the back of 
his head and sat alongside the mutant plant and its mound. "It's just 
that we are forgetting that these things could be better than what 
they are. I'm thinking about applying to a Research Group next 
rotation." 


"Does Martino know?", the ecSec said. 
"Si. That's what we argued about, actually. He's mad, for sure." 


Frank noticed right then how Locke was looking at Martino. Her face 
was a particular blend of polite confusion and brisk impatience. 


Sighing, he slowly moved towards Martino and sat with him on the 
mound, suppressing decades of hard-earned distrust and revulsion 
towards anomalies that demanded him to run away, get a torch and 
incinerate that unnatural weed. Instead, he asked: "Martino, tell me 
so miss Locke knows about it... why did you join the MCF?" 


Martino looked up, seemingly puzzled. "That? Well, we joined 
because we were offered a place to hide from the other Foundation 
and the police and all that." 


"Sure. And why did you stay?" 
"What?" 


"You've been with us for three years now. With this Work Group, as 
specialists. You could have gone back home. Why did you stay?" 
Frank got out his notebook and checked a date several pages back. 
"Right here, I've got it: First and only Koons Donation, relayed by 
Momio brothers upon their entering O-1 WG, three years and a 
month ago. Why?" 


"Well, see, old Koons had an idea about an exploit that-you see, it 
was a giant dog made of flowers placed in front of a big museum! 
Only he wanted it to walk inside the place and fill it with pee and lick 
everything and stuff, but he only managed to make it slobber and 
dribble on everything, but he only managed to make it slobber and 
pee and stay still out of the museum-" 


"Martino, Mar-Martino, | know all that!" Frank half-laughed. Locke 
was making an utterly priceless face at Martino's fast rambling, and 
he couldn't help but to laugh out loud. He managed to calm himself 
enough to add: "Just-just tell me why, man. You could have gone 
back to Italy by now, or wherever the hell you wanted with your 
specialist wage and your anart. So why did you stick with us?" 


The younger Momio reflected at those words for a few moments. He 
finally rested his head on a hand and said: "Well, art is all about 
context, we used to think. Put an installation here, it means a thing; 
put it there, it might change its meaning or remain the same, 
depending on the context you give it. The person's context changes 
the meaning, as well. But when we joined the Charitable we were 
submersed in context, pure context. People suffering and dying 
every day in agonizing yet natural, avoidable ways. And we saw 
anart should denounce, condemn their suffering-but it would get 
shut away, shunned by the audience who did not like to see a piece 
from such a context. Besides, it had been done. It is being done. 
And only a few people, most of them already working to help poor 
countries, get it. | mean properly, really get it. Most shut it out 
because they don't like what it talks about." 


Martino scratched the back of his head again. 


"Art denounces, but by using anart, we could save those people, on 
this very context, on this very now, and on every possible context it 
would be a statement on its own and a pragmatic approach to the 
problem of transmitting the perspective of the artist to the public... to 
a different public." 


Locke raised her hands. "Wait, wait-that means you think you're 
doing art even now?" 


"Sure," Martino answered. "We may not make the best pieces, but 
really, | can't figure out a better place to put these on, don't you 
think? These trees are the army the richest people in the world 
would not be able to hire. An army made with the only purpose of 
making healthy, fresh food for people in need. Trees that will pick up 
their own fruit, pass it over to the firsts of their row with perfect 
discipline and feed thousands. Besides, we are learning a lot about 
our craft and getting bits and pieces from people around us. Live 
and learn e tutta quella roba." 


The anartist looked at the rising sun shining through the higher 
leaves of the next row, already beginning to develop the light 
receptors that would turn them into rudimentary eyes, the first 
bulges on their vines betraying the places where buds would slowly 
grow into self-fertilizing flowers and, in a few days, edible fruits. 


Frank knew what was going through the mind of that man; never 
mind that the soil would become barren in months, never mind that 
the fruit would only partially cover nutritional deficits in the area; 
people from the camp would feast and there would be songs and the 
Momios would listen and sing along. 


"True, not many people get it. But these people get the piece, they 
get it better than most artists, even if they don't know it's an 
installation. But oh, e’arte. Purity of concept, good execution, an 
attentive audience." Martino slumped at both of them. "On this, Rico 
and | agree wholeheartedly. What else can an artist ask for?" 


As they left both Momios to another of their usual discussions, 
Priscilla and Frank left the orchard and headed into the camp. Most 
of the rows they had seen were already grown into low bushes, 
bustling with waving leaves. Priscilla had taken a few more pictures, 
furiously jotted down notes and kept very quiet. 


They passed the small yard that served as a field school. It was 
filled with small, fascinated faces who stared at Alba Escudero's 
exaggerated gestures and florid words in a mix of Somali and 
Arabic; she was teaching them English. Later, Frank knew, she 
would teach them about the cycle of water. 


Tomorrow, perhaps about art and beauty. He glanced at Priscilla. 
"You alright there, Locke?" 
"Fine."