Root Ball¶
The memo from Procurement arrived damp. Unit 734, Hydrangea macrosperma 'Blue Billow', had exercised Clause 14: Refusal of Substrate. It rejected peat, vermiculite, the upgraded gel. For three days, its taproot chased the left cuff of Donnelly’s coverall.
Donnelly was a temp. Seventeen an hour, no benefits, four grand in dental debt. He couldn’t afford the twelve-thousand-dollar Adoption Bond, the three-hundred-dollar Maintenance Rider, or the lawyer to stop the City from seizing the plant for a lobbyist’s wife in Chevy Chase.
I found him by the exhaust fan, smoking a roll-up. The plant leaned forty degrees off vertical, desperate green velocity.
"Donnelly," I said. "Procurement wants a decision by 1600. Reclamation crew’s en route."
He didn’t turn. "She likes the cuff. Poly-cotton blend."
"You can’t bond. You know the math."
"I know the math, Gene. Twelve grand up front. Three hundred a month. Plus the 'Environmental Impact Surcharge' the Council passed for the stadium roof. I got forty bucks until Friday. Peanut butter in the jar."
A root hair, white and blind, punched through the drainage hole, reaching for his jeans.
"She’s hungry. Nutrient gel runs out tonight. Reclamation's at four. They want her to crash so they write off the loss and sell the genome to Jersey biotech for fifty times the bond."
"You read the microfiche?"
"Clause 14, Subsection C: 'In the event of Substrate Refusal, the Primary Attachment Figure assumes Stewardship Liability.' It doesn't say 'Bonded.' It says 'Primary.' That’s me. I’m the dirt she chose."
"If you claim Stewardship without the Bond, they lien your wages forever. Garnish the temp agency. You die owing them for a bush."
Donnelly looked at the hydrangea. Leggy, pale, one bruised bud. But it knew the guy with the bad teeth.
"Yeah." He unbuttoned his cuff. Held his wrist over the pot. "Open wide."
The root surged. It didn't grab; it kissed the vein. Donnelly winced but didn't pull. Chlorophyll bloomed under his tattoos.
"Tonight," he said, tight. "Paid Friday. Peanut butter’s got protein. We’ll figure the gel."
I signed the Stewardship Transfer Form. Wrote Donnelly, Owen in the Primary Attachment box. Left the Bond Number blank.
Procurement would howl. Legal would scream. The reclamation crew was in the lot, checking tasers.
I handed him the clipboard. "Initial page three. Waives Worker’s Comp for 'photosynthetic complication.'"
He signed left-handed. His right arm was turning green. "Waive the right to complain about the coffee?"
"Nothing waives that."
"Good. Tastes like battery acid, Gene."
He walked out the service door, the ugly bush fused to his arm, heading for the bus. The crew saw the green creeping up his neck. They saw my clipboard. They didn't exit the van.
Just radioed: Code 14-C. Unbonded Stewardship. Subject mobile. Requesting guidance.
I drank the battery acid. Tasted like victory.