“Useless as ever,” crackles Sarra’s voice over the communications link, but Conor isn’t paying attention.
“Are you seeing this, Naht?” He says into another monitor, and he’s redirecting the footage from the grey box to Northcrest. He knows that this is the right thing to do because Naht is Yjarj—an alien with the ability to draw on the collective knowledge of her race.
Naht responds at once. “Yes, Conor, I have,” she says as she watches the alien plant sprout from the cracks in the earth. “It is a Vulgarons seed pod. Several space-faring civilisations have been known to employ them in order to weaken worlds ahead of a full-scale invasion.”
“But that’s impossible,” says Conor. “The Earth is hidden…”
“As well I know,” says the Yjarj, for the few survivors of her metallic-skinned race found refuge on Earth after their own civilisation was destroyed.
The video feed from the grey box now shows a set of needle-teeth approaching the camera. “No,” says Conor. “Don’t eat that!”
The view from the computer spirals wildly as the plant picks up the computer with its mouth and attempts to chew on it. A moment later it falls to the ground, Conor’s view now obscured by spittle and dust. The other members of Westcrest are nowhere to be seen.
“How do we kill them?” Conor asks Naht.
“Vulgarons have no specific weaknesses,” she says. “In the absence of a high-potency herbicide, I would recommend purging the location with fire.”
Conor knows that he can’t set fire to the farm—not with the rest of Westcrest trapped there—and he doesn’t have any high-potency herbicide. But he can make some.
“You will never be able to extract it in time,” says Naht when he tells her his plan. “To brew something potent enough to hurt the Vulgarons would require at least an E-class engine.”
“It’s a good thing we have one then,” says Conor, but he doesn’t mention that it’s currently attached to Marcus’s motorbike. Then he’s up from his seat and it’s wheeling across the floor as he rushes towards the garage.
He lays a hand on the smooth metal of the conveyance before he begins gathering supplies. He slings several tubes around his neck and hauls two tanks onto the back of the bike. He rifles through several storage crates, collecting nozzles and sections of metal pipe and other pieces of junk that largely appear useless.
Then he climbs onto the bike and wonders for a moment if he’s lost his mind.
A moment later he is riding down the drainpipe that will lead him out onto Lake Freyja, but he steers it away from the mainland and heads back towards Chatravati’s garden instead.
“Ailanthus,” says the memory of Chatravati’s voice in his ears. “Reviled as a weed in many parts of the world, the so-called Tree of Heaven is renowned in the East for a variety of medicinal properties and its potential effectiveness as a powerful herbicide.”
Most people wouldn’t have remembered a pointless fact like that—but Conor does. And there it is: a tall green tree standing quite away from any other on Westcrest’s north-east lawn.
He guides the bike out of the water and up onto the grass, leaving a muddy smear in his wake. Then he steps off of the bike and begins pulling it apart.
“Sorry, Marcus,” he says.
Above his head the branches of the Ailanthus sway softly.