Ruby’s Fire

From his case, George extracts and opens out a magical glimmer screen that hovers in midair—at least it’s magical to me. On it is a revolving 3D image of tall, red Fireseed stalks on the left. In the center are the scrunched, scalloped leaves of olive-green Fireagar bleeding crimson, and a tube of emerald-bright agar spins alluringly on the right. How does this guy, George do this?

 

He points to the middle plants. “Everyone knows that Fireagar is a hybrid of Fireseed and agar. Then he points to the Fireseed. “You all know that Nevada has a special, secret crop of the original Fireseed growing inside the protective border of the Fireagar.” He waves a generous hand her way as if she herself is an enticing product. She tips her head, setting her leaf earrings to jingling. “Now we need to discover what Fireseed can really do,” he says, “above and beyond just feeding us as Fireagar does. Because Fireseed is destined for greater things than food.”

 

Well, duh, Fireseed is a god.

 

What’s Nevada doing then, with all the pressed leaves we gather each day? Funny, I didn’t think to ask. The Fireseed won’t be secret for long if George is flashing this video around the sectors.

 

In one long, liquid motion, Vesper leans forward. “Why are you telling us this?”

 

George Axiom reaches for his case and dumps a pile of shiny packets on the podium. He clicks the screen into another 3D image. Its blinking headline spells out Axiom Student Innovation Competition. “Nevada tells me that you students at The Greening are some of the brightest minds of the Hotzone.” This gets a lively response. “I believe in good old competition, so I’ve started the first ever Axiom Contest to study and develop Fireseed!”

 

Blane booms out, “What does the winner get?”

 

“I’m getting to that.” Geo Man threads a tanned hand through his poufy hair and beams. “There’s a huge cash prize, 7,000 Dominions, and a bonus prize for The Greening, should one of you win.” Cheers erupt. Even Armonk’s face lights up. I wonder what he’d use the money for.

 

“How many schools are participating?” asks Radius. He’s the smartest guy here from what I’ve seen in history and math classes.

 

“The Greening, Vegas Central, Spokane Way and one up near the border, Baronland South—“

 

“That border school doesn’t count!” Jan bellows. “Those rich kids came down from the north. They’re not climate refugees.”

 

Climate refugees? Is that what we are?

 

George’s mouth opens as if he’s about to scold Jan, but he stops himself. “If I have my way,” he starts, “We, in this dominion will never again call ourselves refugees! We never ran from anything. The northerners did. We are proud to live where we do. In fact, if I absolutely have my way, we’ll rename our land Axiom Dominion, and never again refer to this rugged, beautiful land as the Hotzone.” He snips off the last word with extreme distaste.

 

The room breaks into enthusiastic clamor. Armonk looks over at me and we nod vaguely. Something we both can agree on. I’m not sure about naming the whole dominion after this George guy, but anything would be better than the north’s condescending name for us.

 

“So, with only four schools vying for the grand prize that gives you a darn good chance of winning.” George reassures.

 

“That and plenty of hard work,” adds Nevada in her teacherly way.

 

“Do we get anything else?” Only Blane would be so rude to ask.

 

“As a matter of fact, yes.” George nods. “The finalists fly into Vegas-by-the-Sea for a whirlwind tour of the city, a Skye Ride over the Pacific Fury Ocean and a fancy banquet.”

 

This does it! See the ocean for real? I’m wobbly with excitement. Does the sea look like blue jewels all gleaming at once? Surely no flesh-eaters live in Vegas-by-the-Sea if everyone walks around dressed like George Axiom in white shoes and pricy shirts with shell buttons.

 

George Axiom’s holo-screen switches to an image of a spinning beige lozenge. There’s a tiny pastel blue pearl-shaped logo on its widest part. “As part of welcoming you all to our Axiom contest community I’m passing out Stream implants. Northerners have had them for years. In fact, they get them stapled in at birth. It will be a great way to keep you pumped and for us all to stay in touch during the contest dates.” He picks up a bunch of shiny packets filled with beige lozenges and what looks like a staple gun.

 

Radius peers at the gadget with suspicion. “How do they work?”

 

“You’ll hear the latest contest details, inspirational chats and news from Vegas-by-the-Sea.” George winks. “And the daily surf report.”

 

I’d love to hear any report about the sea!

 

Bea recoils into a doubtful cringe. “Where do you staple them?”

 

George approaches Bea and opens a packet. “Everyone, gather ‘round,” he says as he inserts the capsule in the staple-gun. The implant reminds me of Armonk’s fake leg, with its line of round sensors and smooth beige surface.