The Crest

“Fuck.” Danielle screamed as she sprinted out into the complex of FORC greenhouses. The alarm blared loudly. It was 8:00 pm.

“What happened, Hakim?”

“No damage, we got the doors open in time. Power failed and the fan system stopped. Back-up generators turned off. Don’t know what happened.”

“Sabotage?”

“Maybe.”

“Any idea who?”

“Not really. Could be anyone, Antisis that snuck in or sympathizers. Haven’t seen anything suspicious though. God, I worry if this happens again.”

“Yea, why don’t you have one of your workers sleep out here? We can build a hut. Pay them extra. We can’t lose these seedlings. What about the seed locker?”

“The seed locker is at 15 F and those backup generators are still working.”

She walked into one of the greenhouses to survey for any damage. “My poor babies, how are you today?” she asked the seedlings.

These were the replicate siblings of those growing out in the nursery including Bristlecone pine, her favorite. Danielle required redundancy at every level. There was a method to her madness, the sign of a good scientist, one cohort in the nursery and one in the greenhouse, extra seed in the locker. That was the way it was. That safety net allowed her to sleep at night, not that she slept anymore anyway. With ten of each cohort in the greenhouses, that meant safety in numbers. With a thousand different plants out in the nursery, each with their own unique genetics, there were 10,000 plants housed in the greenhouses, in case something happened in the nursery.

Danielle knew that the best science practice was to not put all your eggs into one basket. She knew these genes were too unique and too valuable to be trusted in any single nursery plot outside.

“How are the bristlecones?” she asked Hakim.

“They are your superstars, Danielle. You know that. Why do you bother to ask?”

“I know, I know. They’re our toughest cookies for sure. True extremophiles. I have great expectations for them, Hakim. They thrive in the most infertile soils; they can take the harshest temperatures and with little precipitation.”

“What is it about bristlecones that allows them to survive such harsh conditions?” he asked.

“Well, among other things, they have an expansive root system that lets them absorb the maximum amount of water in dry environments. Second, they have thick waxy needles that can stay on the tree for forty years. And lastly, bristlecone wood is very dense and resinous, and thus resistant to invasion by insects. They are so much different from western red cedar and others that evolved in cooler conditions.”

“Then why are we growing them?”

“They are suited to the new environment of Oregon. The temperature could be ten degrees warmer by 2100. You and I won’t be around by the time that comes, but it’s about the future, Hakim, always about the future. I often always wonder if we picked the right traits.”

The far-right part of the huge greenhouse held grow tables with their most prized possessions, the tree seedlings from the seed of the Northern California forests, the most drought and disease resistant. Over the years, she’d culled out hundreds of those plants, ill-adapted, and disease prone, and these were what remained. Hidden in the corner behind a closed greenhouse curtain, someone hid and waited.

Danielle continued, “Over the centuries, these trees moved northwards three kilometers a year and upwards in elevation, trying to avoid the heat and drying, but now, we must help them migrate or they will perish. The trees on south-facing slopes are toast, anyway. No chance there, except for Oregon White oaks.”

“What type of forests are we creating? It seems hit and miss,” he said.

“Not quite hit and miss. We use our best science and then pray,” she joked.

“Carbon in the atmosphere is skyrocketing. Our models tell us that the Oregon Coast Range will move to subtropical species like oak, maple, madrone, and Ponderosa Pine, and even Bristlecone.”

“Fascinating, I’m going to check the other greenhouses to see the damage.”

“Okay, Hakim. And check the generators again. I don’t want them going out.”

“Got it.” He left the structure.

Danielle gazed at the potted seedlings and took a deep breath. We dodged a bullet this time.

She saw the man out of the corner of her eye but it was too late. He grabbed her by the neck with his massive forearm and held a huge hunting knife in his left. She felt the steel of the twelve-inch blade with its huge curve against her neck.

“Any last words, science bitch?”

“What do you want? I’ll give you anything.” She recognized the man, but from where?

“Nothing except to slit the throat of a necromancer.”

The seedlings began the binaural beat subtly with no one knowing except Danielle. The attacker stood in the middle row of the large greenhouse, holding Danielle.

On one side of the greenhouse, the assailant heard the soft clicks as a simple tone that passed in his right ear. On the opposite side of the greenhouse, the man picked up another soft tone that he heard with his left ear. The two soft frequencies synchronized with each and became one gentle beat as they entrained the attacker, a binaural beat.

Danielle whispered to the attacker. “You want me? My body?” The clicks continued from plants somewhere in the greenhouse. The man relaxed his grip.

“Whatever you want, I’ll give to you,” she whispered.

“Really?” the man asked.

“Of course. What do you want? Drugs, sex, money?”

The man loosened his grip ever so slightly. Danielle could breathe a little easier.

“All the above, but right now just me and you, little lady.”

“Your wish is my command.”

Danielle knew the binaural beat needed to last at least thirteen minutes to change the attacker’s brain wave rate. The frequencies appeared to Danielle to be in Theta at 4 to 8 hertz. She stayed alive if she kept him talking.

The plants kept up the dual frequencies of click tones.

“What is your name?” Danielle asked.

“They call me Reno.”

“Reno, that’s a nice name. My name is Danielle.”

“Uh, huh,” he said.

She could feel his breath. She noticed his breathing slowing down somewhat. The man pulled Danielle to the ground and began to force himself upon her. She estimated that the binaural was now at about eleven minutes. It might not even work, she thought. She knew that the Theta wave activation period would be short, perhaps seconds where he would be in a more relaxed state. She needed to act without delay.

She smelled the gross man and felt his disgusting fingers clutching her breasts.

She looked into his eyes and noticed them relaxing.

Now or never. She tried to move, but she remained absolutely pinned by his heavy body. Just then, she saw the blur of a long instrument smash the man’s head from behind. The attacker lay motionless. Danielle crawled out from under the dead man. Hakim stood above them with the baseball bat.