M'tak Ka'fek (The T'aafhal Inheritance) (10 page)

“For true! Dis be a time to jump-up and celebrate,” Jesse's smile was almost as big as Ludmilla's. Their glasses were quickly refiled, and Freddy served as well. While the friends toasted the success of Captain Curtis and Task Force Alpha cheers could be heard breaking out at the other bars and eateries around the atrium—word of the victory was out.

Finishing her third Fantasy of the evening, Ludmilla sat her empty glass on the bar top. Rising a bit unsteadily she announced, “I am afraid that I need to get to the command center. There is no rest for the wicked.”

“Now I tink you need to set down a bit, Miss Ludmilla,” Jesse said, motioning with her head in the direction of Freddy's pole. The other two women turned toward the pole in time to see Freddy peal backwards off his perch and fall gracefully to the bar top. He landed on his back with a single bounce and lay supine, four webbed feet in the air, unhurt but passed out cold.

Jesse chuckled. “When de third round hits you, you had best be sittin' down. You too, Miss Elena.”

Task Force Alpha, Leaving the Kuiper Belt

Having secured the antimatter, salvaged equipment, and other cargo, the Peggy Sue and her entourage of corvettes turned back toward the Sun—only a dim and distant star from their current location. The crew was in a jubilant mood, not only because of their victory over the invading aliens but because they were on their way back to Earth. At this point no one wanted to think about the herculean tasks in front of them: building a fleet to prevent further alien incursions, salvaging human civilization, and healing Earth as best they could.

In a time of war good days are to be savored, for victory is fleeting and other trials surely lay ahead. The Marines and crew were celebrating with a round of drink on the Captain—beer, wine, and a taste of rum for all. So strong were the feelings of goodwill engendered by victory that no fights broke out between the sailors and Marines, a noteworthy event in itself.

In the refrigerated compartments aft the polar bears were also enjoying a bit of blackberry brandy, a vice introduced to them by the absent Lt. Bear. That, and possibly the last
nattiq
, or
ringed seals, they would ever eat made it a party to remember for the ursine Marines. Among the newly seasoned warriors was Umky, Isbjørn's cub sired by Bear. 

“How does it feel to be a bear in full, Umky?” rumbled Tornassuk, one of the older males.

“Really? I'm an adult now? I thought that a cub had to survive a winter alone on the pack ice, without his mother, before being considered a grownup.”

“Umky, you have journeyed to a place farther away than anywhere on the pack ice,” replied Aurora, “and just as dark as winter. Maybe darker with the Sun so far away you can't find it in the sky.”

“You have fought your first battle along side the human Marines, against alien monsters whose blood was colder than the coldest midwinter night,” added Tornassuk, between slurps of brandy. Bears had a habit of waxing poetic about combat. 

“I guess when you put it that way, Tornassuk. Maybe I'll finally get some respect from my father.”

“I wouldn't worry about that, Pihoqahiak may not even be alive.”

“My Mom thinks he still is,” Umky said, sucking on the straw from his brandy jug, “him and the human, Captain Jack.”

“Pihoqahiak seems like a hard bear to kill,” Aurora observed, “and that Captain Jack is a piece of work himself.”

“What do you mean?” the young bear asked.

“Well, the way I hear it Captain Jack snuck up on Pihoqahiak while he was shooting up a bunch of Inuit hunters with that big white rifle he used to carry. Supposedly, the Captain was unarmed.”

“Pretty brave for a primate,” Tornassuk belched loudly, “or pretty stupid.”

“I'd say he was pretty lucky,” Aurora retorted, “and remember, that primate talked all of us into joining him. So if he's stupid what does that make us?”

“Right now, it makes me thirsty,” Tornassuk growled, as he reached for another jug of brandy.

“I just hope our luck holds,” said Aurora softly.

Chapter 5

Administrator's Office, Farside Base

Ludmilla was at her desk, trying to concentrate on work while dealing with the lingering effects of her hangover. She and Elena had sat at Jesse's bar for more than an hour, sipping soda water and bitters, waiting for the room-spinning dizziness of three large Fantasies to dissipate. Finally feeling steady enough to stumble back to their respective quarters, they called it a night sometime after midnight.

The rumors that there is more than alcohol in Jesse's signature concoction must be true
, Ludmilla thought ruefully.
I have always been able to hold my liquor and Elena is no tea-teetotaler herself. I have never gotten that drunk off of just three drinks!
 

Despite a handful of analgesics and a half liter of re-hydration fluids her head still throbbed. Knifing through her pain came the sound of her assistant calling her.

“Da? Slushayu vas.”

“Colonel? Miss Scott Hamilton is here to see you.”

“Yes, yes. Send her in.”

Ludmilla attempted to sit up straight and look less disheveled than she felt as the food production expert entered. Melissa Scot Hamilton had been the horticulturalist on board the Peggy Sue during its first two voyages and was among the original people on the project to build the starship. A native of Mississippi, she had been pursuing a PhD in horticulture at Auburn University's school of Agriculture in neighboring Alabama. A falling out with her dissertation adviser led to her joining TK Parker's team.

“Morning, Dr. Tropsha,” the always sunny young scientist said as she crossed the room and took a seat in front of the administrator's desk. “You're lookin' a bit peaked this morning.”

“Indeed I am, Melissa. Too many of Jesse's evil concoctions last night.”

“Yes Ma'am, I've been there myself. Felt low enough to walk under a snake the next morning.”

“That is about how I feel, but enough about my foolish behavior. What can I do for you today?”

“Well, as you know I have been trying to set up a sustainable system that can raise enough food to feed our growing population,” the soft spoken horticulturist began. “We've got a bunch of hydroponic vegetable gardens and such goin' and the aquaculture tanks are coming along nicely. But there are some plants that just don't do good without soil.”

Ludmilla nodded encouragingly.

“Without soil as a buffer, any interruption of the hydroponic system can lead to rapid plant death. Plus the high moisture levels associated with hydroponics can lead to pathogen attacks and over watering. Verticillium wilt alone can attack over 300 species of useful plants: tomatoes, potatoes, eggplants, peppers and a bunch of others. Besides, wheat and other grain crops just do better in soil.

“Our alternative is planting
Triticum aestivem
in manufactured soil. We can control the temperature, humidity, and other factors to boost yields and speed things up: 23°C, 65% humidity, 1000 ppm of CO
₂
, a drip nutrient delivery system and continuous artificial sunlight. Still, we'll be lucky to get three crops a year per field, though we can stagger plantings so the harvests are more frequent. We also get runoff from the fields that needs to be filtered. Fortunately, we've gotten some good oyster beds established.” 

“Oysters? As in shellfish?”

“Yes, Ma'am. Oyster beds are terrific filters for organic runoff, each adult oyster can filter and clean up to 50 gallons of water a day. We mix the runoff and other organic waste with the water flowing into the oyster tanks and then send the outflow on to the shrimp, crab and lobster tanks. Our goal is to generate the maximum amount of edible protein in the shortest amount of time—and that's where I'm running into a problem.”

“A problem? What kind of problem?”

“Push-back from some of my colleagues. You see, I want to raise flies.”

“Flies?” blurted an incredulous Ludmilla. “Why in heavens name do you want to raise flies? Not having insects around is one of the truly good things about living on the Moon.”

“Not so much flies, really, as their larvae. Fly larvae can be bred, raised, harvested and ground into a meal that provides the same amount of edible protein by weight as fish meal.”

“That may be, but I think you will encounter strong resistance from the public if you try to feed them fly protein. How would you serve it? Fly burgers? Fly stew? That would give new meaning to 'waiter, there is a fly in my soup'!”

“No Ma'am, that's not what I mean. I want to feed the fly meal to the fish, chickens and other food animals. Flies can live on food humans waste, and the larvae on slaughterhouse or distillery waste. Each fly produces about 1,000 eggs. The eggs hatch into larvae and are harvested within a couple of weeks, before they turn into flies. Then they're dried and turned into protein meal.”

As Melissa warmed to her subject her enthusiasm grew. “In trials on Earth they raised a million flies in a space of 100 cubic meters. A setup like that can produce 100 tons of wet larvae yielding 25 tons of feed a month. The scheme is environmentally sound, the flies don't compete for human food sources or feed for higher animals. It's the most efficient way to produce a lot of edible protein from biological waste.”

“And we have usable flies on hand?”

“Yes, some of the biology labs use them for experiments. There are several suitable species available.”

“You are sure this is the best thing to do?”

“Doctor, do you know how much food 10,000 people can consume? More than 18 tons a day, 560 tons a month, 6800 tons a year. An average human from a developed country eats nearly eight times their body weight a year. Right now we have no way to produce that much food in the closed environment of Farside Base. We are barely producing enough raw algal protein to feed the aquaculture tanks and people are already complaining about being fed too much seafood. If we raise twenty million flies we can have enough protein to raise pigs, chickens and cattle.”

“I see, and you are convinced that this is the best way to solve our impending food crisis?”

“Yes, Ma'am. If you want bacon and eggs with a glass of milk for breakfast, this is how to get it. It's what I did my dissertation on in grad school,” Melissa said, adding meekly, “my adviser didn't like it either.”

“You say some of your colleagues are resiting the plan? Would these be academic types with PhDs?” Ludmilla asked with a smile.

“Yeah, they all think they have better answers.”

“How many of them have successfully managed a closed ecological system like, say, a starship, on two interstellar voyages?” Ludmilla asked rhetorically. “I will tell you how many—none! Because you are the only horticulturalist to do so.”

“I think it's partly because I didn't finish my doctorate; they treat me like a grad student, not an equal,” Melissa added in a subdued voice.

Ludmilla sat silently for a few moments, tapping her fingers on her desk. She had been patronized and discriminated against many times in her career. Such behavior angered her, making her sympathize with the younger woman in front of her. Still, she was responsible for the common good of everyone on the moon base. Clearing her throat she asked a question: “Do you keep a copy of your dissertation?”

“Why, yes. I have been carrying it around on a flash drive since I joined the Peggy Sue. I always thought that I would defend it one day.”

“Here is what you do. I want you to document the numbers for this fly larvae scheme—including all the links and feedbacks in such a system.”

“Yes, Ma'am”

“I also want you to update your dissertation to reflect what you learned while on the Peggy Sue. Cite your observations on both voyages and include your proposed food production system for Farside Base.”

“Yes, Ma'am.”

“I will have some qualified scientists read your dissertation, and if they feel it ready you will do your defense in front of them and the public. After all, a university faculty is nothing more than a collection of scholars, some more qualified than others. With the world in ruin, we probably constitute the only center of scholarship and learning left. That makes us the University of the Moon, and you will be our first doctoral candidate. Then we will put your plan into action and let those who dare try to dispute your claims.”

“Yes, Ma'am. Thank you, Ma'am.”

“And one more thing, Melissa. We have known each other for two voyages, I would appreciate it if you would call me Ludmilla in private, as my other friends do.” The chief administrator smiled kindly.

“Yes, Ma'am, I mean, Ludmilla,” Melissa stammered in her soft southern accent, smiling back at the imposing woman in front of her.
My momma always said be careful what you ask for,
she thought,
but I know that I can do this, I know that I'm right.
 

* * * * *

Melissa left the base administrative offices and headed back for her own world of hydroponic growing rooms, artificial wheat fields, and fish tanks. She needed to check on the expansion of the hog, chicken and cattle facilities—at least no one was arguing with her over their design. Trouble was, without the fly larvae there would be nothing to feed them on. She sighed.

She decided to check in on NatHanGon on her rounds. She and the Triad ambassador had become friends since it fell to her to keep the alien plant's environment comfortable. First on board the Peggy Sue and now here at Farside, they conversed daily when she checked on the conditions in its room. What did it say about her that her best friend was a triple brained alien plant more than 100,000 years older than she was? No matter, she had always felt more at home among plants and wild things than with people.

Lost in her thoughts, Melissa took no notice of the unremarkable looking man tending a stand of decorative plants in a nearby bed. Dressed in a plain gray jumpsuit, like other maintenance personnel, the man watched her as she headed back to her domain. As she disappeared around a corner he quickly packed up his tools and followed her into the maze of tunnels and chambers that housed the base's supporting infrastructure.