Birch Glow 
by Rosemary Claire Smith
Things seen close-up are seldom as simple and clear-cut as they look from a distance. 

Who would ever think that a staunch individual like me could get into such a mess because of peer pressure? Or was it all caused by my unrequited love for a beautiful girl? At the time, I believed loyalty was what made me sneak off into Vermont's Green Mountains with my eco-purist buddies. In the dead of night, we set out to chop down as many trees as we could. We'd considered torching them, but a fire could get out of control. 
I bounced along in the back seat of Midnight Gypsy, thinking I really should be back in my dorm room doing my bio homework. Next to me, Eric O'Toole hummed a nuevo-jazztech tune popular on UVM's campus radio station. Danielle rode shotgun. Naturally, Mastodon was at the wheel of his 20-year-old SUV, which he'd retrofitted to run off electricity, driving as though the acid fog didn't limit his vision one bit. 
“What if the cuffers catch us?” I blurted out. 
“Shit, Jason, who's gonna see us in all this fog?” Mastodon eyed me in the cracked rear view mirror. That's not his real name, but at 6'5” and 325 pounds, it suited him a lot better than his given name, Martin Priest. When I was eight, his family moved into a house a block from mine. He was ten and big for his age. The first time Mastodon saw the neighborhood bullies make fun of my poor soccer playing, he folded his arms across his broad chest, widened his stance and gave them a frown that scared them into silence. I've looked up to him ever since. 
“Just hypothetically,” I said, not sure how far to push it. “Will your eco-purist friends pay our bail?” 
O'Toole smirked at my mistake. 
“Environmental restorationists,” I hastily corrected myself. Only the media called them ‘eco-purists.’ “Will they help us out?” 
“Of course,” Mastodon said. “You want to be part of the solution, don't you? I mean, you can't just loaf around sending email to your dick-face congressman and think you've done some good. Those biofactured trees are a skutting menace.” 
Except for Mastodon, the others didn't know my family had been getting a seven-foot Balsam Glo Christmas tree for the past three, four years now. This being my first semester away at college, the thought of coming home for Christmas made me jack happy. A part of me needed to smell that Balsam Glo and run my fingers along its papery white bark. Most of all, I needed to watch that tree glitter red and gold as we all sat down to Mamma's turkey, roasted under a layer of bacon strips, and spiced with onions, garlic, sage, and rosemary. 
Danielle peered through the white haze. “Turn here,” she said. 
Mastodon took the turnoff from the state road and Midnight Gypsy began to climb. Our equipment shifted in the back. 
“You're not going to chicken out on us, are you?” O'Toole eyed me with suspicion. In the semester I'd known him, I had figured out that O'Toole believed everyone was either for him or against him. No in-between. But Mastodon liked him, maybe because of O'Toole's willingness to act on his commitment to restoring the environment. 
“It's too late to change your mind, anyway.” At least Danielle's voice held a hint of sympathy. No point in wishing her voice promised more than that for me, since she'd been Mastodon's girlfriend for over a year. 
“I'm not backing out,” I said. “We've got to stop those mutants from outcrossing with wild firs and birches.” When the balsam/white birch hybrids interbred with either species, they passed on the firefly genes. 
“Damn straight,” Mastodon said, evidently satisfied with my devotion to eco-purism. “Before we know it, they'll jump the lake and invade what's left of the ‘Dacks. They're already colonizing New Hampshire and Quebec.” He had started as a biochem major before switching to communications. 
As we rounded a curve, the fog suddenly thinned. Mastodon pointed out the driver's side window. “Look at that.” 
I glimpsed a stand of white birch saplings. Their yellow-gold leaves had fallen two months earlier. They reminded me of spindly headstones marching up the hillside. Or they did until the tips of their bone-thin branches began flashing red, purple and orange. I shivered. 
“Luciferase,” O'Toole said with disgust. “The name says it all.” 
He meant the enzyme produced in a firefly's photocytes that enabled the bug to glow. A generation ago, the gene for the luciferase enzyme had been successfully spliced into a harmless bacterium, thereby enabling luciferase to be produced in the lab. But it was only recently that the gene was successfully spliced into the balsam fir's DNA sequence. Of course, they claimed that the new traits couldn't spread to other species, but here was clear proof that they lied. 
“You still believe in Satan and Hell?” Danielle clearly enjoyed goading O'Toole. 
“All I'm saying is the Pope was right. Those trees are unnatural. Sinful. We ought to take them all out.” O'Toole had spent twelve years in a boys’ Catholic school outside Boston. Twelve years of indoctrination against corrupting the species God set on Earth. I never figured out why the Church didn't care about the previous 2000 years of plant breeding. Hadn't Gregor Mendel been a monk? 
Mastodon said, “It's not as though they're fooling with genes to cure human diseases. Those dick-faces are skutting with nature to produce self-lighting Christmas trees.” 
Pebbles pinged off Midnight Gypsy's undercarriage as we climbed above the last traces of the fog. 
Mastodon glanced up where something fluttered in the trees overhead. “That's another thing. They're driving the pileated woodpeckers to extinction.” It had been widely reported that the birds refused to mate in the presence of the flashing lights. What's more, they wouldn't even nest anywhere near a glow tree. 
“They probably can't get a decent night's sleep with all that flashing.” I was thinking of yesterday's all-nighter, and tomorrow's too. Finals were coming up. 
After another couple of miles, we passed a sign saying, “ENTERING BALSAM PLANTATION, HOME OF BALSAM GLO™, THE FINEST IN HOLIDAY TREES,” with arrows to the visitors’ center and tour bus parking. The visitors’ center perched like a wannabe ski lodge on the hillside. Inside the plate glass windows, several ten-foot Christmas trees blinked red, blue, green, yellow, orange and purple, like demented renegades from a shopping mall. Farther on, a big sign said, “WARNING-PRIVATE PROPERTY; AUTHORIZED EMPLOYEES OF BALSAM PLANTATION ONLY BEYOND THIS POINT.” 
We ignored it. 
As we drove past a flatbed truck, parked by the side of the road and half loaded with flashing Christmas trees, Mastodon and O'Toole glared at them as though they were leaky barrels of toxic waste. I gave them a frown, too. 
We pulled up to a locked gate and parked. Now came the tricky part. A twelve-foot-high fence of electrified wire mesh enclosed the processing sheds, the seedling nursery, and acre upon acre of blinking evergreens evergreens. Danielle had already hacked into the company's computers and come away with the security codes. She had boasted of her ability to disable the system and let us enter and leave without a trace. I suspected she came along more for the challenge than out of any true environmental zeal. 
While Danielle and Mastodon were working on the control panel built into the gate, O'Toole covered Midnight Gypsy's license plates with a couple of rags. We probably should have done that a few miles back, but no one thought of it. I wandered over to look at the propaganda displayed on the signs for the tourists. With all the twinkling, I could read it without a flashlight. They said the yellow-green firefly color was developed first. The real breakthrough was the reds and blues. That let them biofacture trees with the traditional Christmas colors. 
“Hey, Mastodon.” I couldn't resist needling him. “They say that Balsam Glo trees withstand the effects of acid rain lots better than natural balsams.” 
“But what they don't tell you,” Mastodon said, “is that the mutants produce less oxygen than unenhanced firs.” O'Toole smirked at me, pretending he'd known that all along. 
“Because they devote their energy to glowing,” I admitted. “But still, isn't it good that they can resist pollution?” 
Mastodon had all the answers. Without any hesitation, he said, “Hell, no. They're opportunistic-like kudzu and zebra mussels and killer bees. They invade the territories of the red spruces and sugar maples, which have already been weakened by all the acid rain and acid snow.” 
“And you can't trust the government to protect natural trees,” O'Toole said. “Ever since ultraright politicians gutted the environmental laws, look at what's happened.” 
I thought of all the freak ice storms in the last dozen years. Worse yet, the eco-purists pointed out that bluejays, pileated woodpeckers, red spruce, and sugar maples would all be on the endangered species list if the list hadn't been abolished. 
Mastodon nodded. “That's why all true environmental restorationists have no alternative but to take matters into our own hands.” “Got it!” Danielle exclaimed. “The perimeter fence is off.” 
Mastodon punched the code into the latch. For a couple of seconds, I held my breath, certain that the alarms would start shrieking. 
Nothing happened. 
Mastodon swung the gate open. Triumph filled his face. You'd think we would have whooped like we'd just done a dose of Joy Ride. Instead, it was dead quiet. As Mastodon stepped inside, the frosty ground crunched beneath his feet like cereal. The challenge in his eyes pierced us. O'Toole swaggered after him, then Danielle, who looked exceedingly proud of herself. 
Not a trace of fog remained to hide our deeds from view. I swallowed my apprehension and followed. At least, the four of us were in this together. 
* * *
We carried the axes, the handsaw, and the cans of black paint we had unloaded from the back of the old sport ute. Danielle cradled the brand-new sonic saw, which she had borrowed from her parents’ vacation home in Stowe. O'Toole eyed it, and Mastodon, too, but I doubted Danielle would let any of us get our hands on it. “This one's first.” Mastodon stopped in front of a six-foot balsam that twinkled silver and gold. 
Danielle switched on her parents’ toy. With a barely audible hum, the sonic saw turned day-glow orange. 
O'Toole frowned at the garish device. “What the-?” 
“That's a safety feature,” she explained as she touched it to the base of the tree. The saw tore into the papery white trunk, spitting wood chips and sawdust back at Danielle. The mutant balsam shuddered and toppled, crushing several branches as it sank with a soft sigh. Silence coated the hillside. 
I pried open a can of paint and sloshed some on the middle branches of the downed tree. That was to prevent the plantation owners from simply selling the Christmas trees we felled. Back in Mastodon's dorm room, Danielle had come up with the paint idea. But we also had to chop them down so that they wouldn't live to spread the firefly gene. 
“Do the next one,” Mastodon commanded, stamping his feet. “It's too cold to spend all night here.” 
“Just how many are we going to take down?” Danielle asked. There must have been thousands. 
“As many as we need to make a statement.” 
I picked up an ax and another paint can, and crossed over a half dozen rows. After choosing a tall balsam with a nice gap in the lower branches, I swung the ax. Thunk. It made a satisfying sound as the blade bit deep. I levered the blade loose and swung again. Thunk. And again. The exertion soon brought the blood flow back into my hands. By the time I had leveled three trees, I'd worked up a sweat and was feeling considerably more relaxed about our enterprise. 
The noise of a gasoline car motor stopped me in mid-swing. 
“Shit!” Danielle swore. 
“Jason! Come on!” Mastodon was barreling down between rows of trees with Danielle and O'Toole at his heels. The light from the newcomer's headlights swept over the balsam grove as the vehicle rounded the bend. Right behind it, a second car was coming for us, too. 
Clutching the ax, I charged after my friends. Midnight Gypsy looked impossibly distant. As I ran, I accidentally clipped a branch with the ax. It threw off my stride. I stumbled and fell to my knees. 
I looked up to see the others had reached the SUV. Two sets of headlights were closing the distance. 
Mastodon started the engine. “Wait!” Danielle was tugging on Mastodon's arm and pointing back at me. 
I scrambled to my feet and began sprinting. With a crackle of electricity, the perimeter field leaped up between my buddies and me. I skidded to a stop. Panic hammered in my skull, drowning out the small voice that said, ‘Just stay calm.’ 
“Go! Go!” O'Toole shouted to Mastodon as he shoved Danielle into Midnight Gypsy and dove in behind her. The door slammed. 
The sport ute roared forward, spitting gravel. Mastodon swerved around the oncoming cars, then skirted the perimeter fence. He came to an old, washed-out logging road and plunged down it. 
I whirled around and dashed back toward the biggest trees. Had to find a thick one to hide behind. Tomorrow morning they would turn off the fence. I could sneak out with the tourists. It would be tricky with the trees lighting up the place, but with a little luck- 
“Freeze!” 
Before I could do so, what felt like a tub of cold, wet mud hit me from behind. Tangle gel. Already, the stuff was hardening on my back and legs. I tore at it with my gloved hands, having lost the ax. My struggles threw me off balance. I tumbled face first into the dirt. The tang of evergreen needles filled my nostrils. I tried to kick, but my legs felt like they were bound by a thousand icy ropes. 
Rough hands rolled me over and I stared up at a rent-a-cuffer. The weasel gave me a jack-happy smirk and said, “I'll get a bonus for catching you.” 
A state trooper strutted over to us, reached into his jacket pocket, and dug out a card. “Listen up. You have the right to remain silent...” 
* * *
They scheduled my trial right after New Year's. It was a miserable Christmas, between my dismal grades on final exams, my mother's tears, and my father's lecture about what a disappointment I was, to say nothing of the seven-foot Balsam Glo that hogged the living room in front of the picture window. I went for a walk during the tree-trimming party, and still couldn't manage to get away from the skutting things. Everywhere I looked, there were Balsam Glo trees in living room windows or planted in back yards. 
I called Mastodon several times, but the Christmas week passed and he was never home, or maybe he thought the line was bugged and I'd give him away. A few days before New Year's, I walked over to his house. He came outside and we sat on his parents’ snow-covered patio furniture. 
“Listen, you've got to get in touch with your eco-purist network to raise money for my defense-” 
“Already tried that.” Mastodon shook his head. “They all said yours is a worthy cause but none of them have any cash to spare.” 
“Shit.” I balled my hands into fists. “If you could see the public defender I'm stuck with. The nervous spinach-brain told me this is only his third trial, and he lost the other two.” 
The public defender wanted to get me a plea bargain in exchange for turning in my friends. I had thought it over, but I couldn't rat on Mastodon. He always stuck up for me when we were kids. He wouldn't have driven away without me if he'd had a choice. Although I would have happily fingered O'Toole, who had been all too ready to leave me behind, he might name Mastodon. 
“Can't your parents come up with the dough?” Mastodon asked me. 
“Their cash went to pay my out-of-state tuition and the bail bondsman. How about Danielle? Her family can afford the best lawyer in the state.” 
“They're vacationing in Portugal.” Mastodon looked glum. “Jason, stay away from her.” 
“But-” 
“It's too risky-for her. Look, we'll both get in touch with you in a few months, when this dies down.” For the first time ever, I saw fear cross his face. 
* * *
The prosecutor was one of those perfectly manicured women who knows she's smarter than everyone else and always has to win. Each time she spoke, the public defender gripped his pen real tight and looked grim. I was too shell-shocked to remember much of the trial, except that the public defender tried to convince the jury that there was no evidence I'd chopped down those trees and that they could have been cut by someone else before I got there. 
I was sentenced to three years of community restorative justice. Nice sounding concept, whose origins date back to the days when people thought enlightened sentences involving community service and restitution to victims of crimes would do convicted felons some good. By the time I learned about the program program up close and personal, the system was rigged to give jack-happy deals to big business. 
My sentence was auctioned off to Balsam Plantation Tree Farms and began the following week. 
* * *
I straightened my back and pulled off my work gloves to rub my hands. After weeks of digging irrigation ditches and pulling weeds, the calluses across my palms had thickened nicely. You'd think Balsam Plantation would have used a backhoe for the job, but they claimed it was cheaper to pay minimum wage than to invest in fancy equipment and a person with the skill to run it. Ditch digging wasn't any worse than lugging fifty-pound sacks of fertilizer and mulch, which was my other principal task. Back at UVM, my friends would be celebrating spring break this week. I hadn't heard a word from any of them, not even Danielle. 
“Good morning, Jason.” 
Dr. Foster plodded toward me, her rubber boots sinking into the muddy ground. The grandmotherly geneticist was the only one of the corporate lifers who talked to me like I was a human being. The woman at the front desk, the tour guides, Plantation Manager Dean, and the other employees all treated me with suspicion, if not full-blown contempt. 
I smiled and waved to her. Everyone liked the diminutive white-haired scientist who brought the staff home-baked peanut butter cookies and told stories of the old days before they'd even mapped the human genome. 
“I have good news for you.” 
“They commuted my sentence?” 
“Hardly.” Dr. Foster gave me a wry smile. “What would you say to a less strenuous job as my lab assistant?” 
I suppressed a snort of amusement. “Mr. Dean would never agree to that.” 
“It took some doing, but I persuaded him.” She held up her arthritic hands. “As you can see, I'm losing my ability to do precision work. The company won't pay the going rate for a trained lab assistant. But since you're a bright young man and know some of the basics, Mr. Dean reluctantly agreed to give you a shot at it. But he wants you to know that if you ever try any funny business, you'll spend half your life in prison. So what do you say?” 
I hesitated, picturing how Mastodon would react if he were here. He would probably accuse me of aiding and abetting the enemies of the Earth. But he wasn't the one digging ditches. 
“Jason, I hope you're not waiting for a better offer.” 
“It's nice of you to think of me, but I don't ... What I mean is-how can someone like you propagate those evil-” 
“Nonsense,” she said sharply. “Gene splicing is no different than the grafting, hybridization, and the genetic selection methods farmers have been using for centuries. Nowadays, we take more precautions than at any time in human history. We've learned from past mistakes.” 
“No more DDT?” 
“That's right.” 
“But what about the glowing birches? Your company claimed the firefly genes couldn't spread from the firs to other species.” Seeing her look of dismay, I pressed on. “Aren't the new mutants as opportunistic as zebra mussels? Look around. They're already invading the territories of other species that have been weakened by too much acid rain.” 
“We've made some mistakes,” Dr. Foster admitted. “Normally, genetic enhancements can't be transmitted to unrelated species. But what we failed to take into account was that we transformed the Balsam Glos into first cousins to the paper birches.” 
“You did?” 
“We spliced in birch genes to speed up growth and to give the balsams that papery white bark that's so wildly popular. It's not generally known, but we also borrowed quite a number of other useful traits from the birch family including the ability to enrich the soil with calcium, potassium, magnesium, and phosphorus. But I believe the transgenic Betula papyriferas probably won't survive. You see, the energy they devote to flashing lights probably places them at a competitive disadvantage.” 
I shook my head. It was easier not to have to decide which side was right. 
“You don't believe me? Let me show you something.” She grabbed my hand and led me to the seedling nursery. Amidst rows of newly sprouted balsams were scattered handheld computers and other equipment. “Here we go.” She picked up a thick log book and began paging through it. Seeing my expression, she explained, “I always preferred paper records. Now take a look at this summary chart.” 
I glanced through the columns. They demonstrated that substantially higher energy inputs were needed to maintain mature Balsam Glos. But the eco-purists claimed the biofacturing companies lied. And yet, Dr. Foster didn't strike me as the kind of person who would fake lab records. 
“Why take unknown risks just to make a profit from prettier Christmas trees?” 
“Jason, we're not merely creating prettier Christmas trees here. We can't ever count on the politicians to protect our evergreens from acid rain.” 
“That's for sure.” 
“So instead, we're trying to breed new species of spruce, fir, and pine whose needles and cell membranes and root systems will be more resistant to sulfur oxides and nitrogen oxides.” 
I gave her a skeptical look. 
“It's just good business. The company can't afford to have half its product die before harvesting. You'd be helping to create hybrids that are less vulnerable to insects, disease, drought, and frost. Now how about it?” She smiled her grandmotherly smile. 
“But the sugar maple and the red spruce are close to extinction. Pileated woodpeckers, too.” 
“You got me there.” Dr. Foster threw up her hands in exasperation. “We don't have all the answers. Those are harder problems, but I'm working on them-especially the sugar maple. Do you want to help me find a solution or not?” 
Mastodon wouldn't approve. But he might be wrong about the balsams. On the other hand, perhaps I could eventually figure out if there were mistakes in Dr. Foster's methodology. 
“Yes,” I said. 
* * *
The day after Thanksgiving, I was working late in the Balsam Plantation lab, recording soil nutrient figures for the latest batch of Abies balsamea lampyria-Balsam Glos. It felt good to be using my brain again and contributing to a scientific study. Maybe someday I really would finish up that biology degree. When I ran the comparison with unenhanced Abies balsamea, the difference in nutrient levels in the top three centimeters of soil was pronounced. Concentrations of calcium, nitrogen, phosphorus, magnesium, and potassium were all up substantially. The difference was so striking that I immediately double-checked the numbers and got the same result. I called up the figures for the two different breeds at two, five and ten-year intervals intervals. If anything, the news just got better as time went by. Figures spun in my head. 
I switched to the databases for Picea pungens, Pinus sylvestris, and a dozen other species. With mounting excitement, I saw clear evidence that Ms. Foster was on the right track! By replenishing key nutrients in the soil, Balsam Glos would pave the way for the stabilization of other conifers, and hardwoods too. Who knows, maybe the red spruce and sugar maple could make comebacks. Why, if enough acreage could be restored, the pileated woodpecker just might survive! 
The familiar whine of an old SUV shifting gears jerked me out of my concentration. Midnight Gypsy. I hadn't heard the sport ute in almost a year, but I recognized the sound instantly. My hand went to the alarm button-and hung there. The transmission noise grew louder, closer. 
After our break-in, security had been tightened and closed-circuit cameras installed. I rolled my chair over to the backup monitors in the corner of the lab. One of them showed the night watchman in the security office with his feet up on the console. Sound asleep, as usual. 
Until this moment, I had relished my newfound responsibility. Starting on my first day working in Dr. Foster's lab, my coworkers had gradually begun to accept me. Maybe it was my susceptibility to peer pressure again, but I enjoyed fitting in. 
The headlights and the motor cut off. This time, the license plates were already covered. The flickering monitor linked to the gate showed three figures wearing ski masks get out and look around. I recognized Danielle's striking figure and O'Toole's self-righteous swagger. Mastodon must have put another forty pounds onto his massive frame. 
Why didn't I hit the alarm? I longed to savor the sweetness of seeing O'Toole's panic-stricken face as he lay on the ground looking up at a sneering cuffer reading him his rights. But I couldn't let the same thing happen to Mastodon or Danielle. I stared at the monitor screen, trying to will her to wander away from the others so I might warn her before the security guard woke up. 
How was I going to explain this tomorrow? I could hardly say I was so engrossed in my work that I didn't see or hear anything. Would they believe I held off to find out if the perimeter defense was still vulnerable? In theory, the Balsam Plantation computer techs fixed the problem after the last break-in, but you never know. 
Danielle and Mastodon went to work on the gate. While keeping an eye on the monitor, I pulled out a tank of tangle gel and placed it in easy reach next to the door. The sleeping watchman had a gun. I was glad I did not. I shoved the remote alarm trigger in my pocket. It would work from anywhere on Balsam Plantation. 
Suddenly, the status display screen turned red and flashed, “Warning. The electricity to the perimeter fence is off.” 
Shit. Danielle had broken the code faster than before. The electric mesh couldn't be reactivated from here. I should push the damned alarm button. 
Danielle unloaded her sonic saw from the back of the SUV, then handed an ax to O'Toole. Mastodon reached in and grabbed a satchel. He opened it and pulled out a propane torch. Danielle put her hands on her hips and began talking animatedly to Mastodon. The monitor had no audio, so I couldn't hear what she said. Mastodon made an angry gesture and evidently began to argue with her. O'Toole grabbed Mastodon's arm and nodded toward the lab building. Mastodon turned and headed my way. O'Toole followed. Danielle stood frozen inside the gate, then hurried after the other two. Apparently, Mastodon and O'Toole must have decided that cutting trees was a dramatic gesture, but ineffective. Torching the labs would seriously set back the research. 
I decided to make my stand in the doorway, foolishly thinking I could talk them out of it by showing them the lab records. When Mastodon was a half dozen strides from the door, I swung it open, then jammed my hands into my pockets so he couldn't see them shaking. 
“You!” Mastodon's eyes widened in surprise. 
I realized he had never bothered to find out where they sent me. Some friend. I clenched my fists. 
“Jason!” Danielle gasped. “I was so worried about you.” 
Before I could stop it, my anger at Mastodon came out at Danielle. “So worried that you never got in touch with me, not even once?” 
“I tried to when I got back from vacation.” Her eyes flashed. “Your email address stopped working. I called your parents’ house, but they wouldn't tell me anything.” Then in a softer tone, “What happened to you?” “Balsam Plantation bought my sentence.” 
“You work for those skutting bastards?” O'Toole's face held contempt. 
“I get it.” Mastodon chortled. “You're sabotaging them from within. Tell you what. If you give me a hand, I'll let you come away with us.” He lit the propane torch. 
“That's mighty thoughtful of you, after getting me into this mess in the first place. If I had only had the money for a decent lawyer-the money you said the eco-purists would-” 
“You see, Mastodon, we can't trust him.” O'Toole gripped his ax. It was a threat. 
“Stop it,” Danielle said to O'Toole. “He didn't rat on us before.” 
“You got a better idea?” 
She glared at Mastodon's propane torch, then turned to me, “If all we do is chop and paint trees, you won't give us away, will you?” 
Dr. Foster's face sprang into my mind. How could I ever explain it to her if I shirked my responsibility to save our experiments? Maybe these balsam hybrids weren't the total solution, but they were a giant step in the right direction. They had to be protected. I felt the rightness of that in the pit of my stomach. 
“Of course he will.” O'Toole began circling around to my right. 
“Look, you're making a mistake.” I gulped a lungful of frosty air. “The glow trees can withstand acid rain better than other species. They enrich the-” 
“The plantation's turned you into a pure blond-brain,” Mastodon snorted. 
Danielle smothered a giggle. That tore it. I could take Mastodon's superiority, and even O'Toole's baiting, but I wasn't going to be laughed at. 
I reached for the tank by the door, but Mastodon was almost as quick. His bulk makes people think he's slow. He isn't. 
I drenched him with the tangle gel. He bellowed in surprise or pain. Before the ropes hardened, he managed to slam me back against a table. My vision dimmed as agony lanced through me. Mastodon lost his balance and his shaggy skull smacked into a work bench. Petri dishes and equipment flew in all directions. He collapsed to the floor, his head coming to rest on the broken glassware. A few inches from Mastodon's hand, the gel-coated propane torch sputtered out. A second later, O'Toole was coming at me with the blunt side of the ax. 
“No!” Danielle screamed and yanked him away at the last instant. He whirled toward her. She switched on the sonic saw. They stood frozen, glaring at each other for a long minute. 
I pointed the tangle gel sprayer at O'Toole and squeezed the trigger. He danced to the side and it doused Danielle instead. She gasped. O'Toole wrenched the sonic saw from her hand and shoved her struggling body at me. Instinctively, I reached out to catch her with my free arm. O'Toole turned and fled. 
Already, the gel rope was hardening around her-binding my arm and my left side, too, which were pressed against her. Danielle felt ice cold and her fragrance filled my nostrils. I ached to kiss her. If only she'd ever given me the smallest hint that would be welcome. Instead, I said, “I'm sorry I yelled at you before. You weren't the one I was mad at.” 
Danielle was staring down at Mastodon like she hadn't heard me. “How could you do this to him?” Her teeth chattered. 
“He'll be all right,” I snapped. 
With my free hand, I set down the sprayer and groped for the remote alarm in my jacket pocket. It was partially gelled shut and I had to rip the fabric. The whoop-whoop-whoop of the alarm jolted the night guard awake. 
“As soon as the watchman applies the dispersant,” I said to her, “you'll start to warm up.” Midnight Gypsy's engine roared to life. “The cuffers should be here in about five minutes.” 
“Too late,” she replied. “O'Toole's getting away.” The sport ute's motor gradually faded as it tore down the gravel road. 
“He may think he is, but the surveillance cameras captured the whole thing. And if we both testify against him...” Seeing her troubled look, I stopped. 
She whispered, “You wouldn't testify against Mastodon and me, would you?” Mastodon and me. I shut my eyes. “Don't ask me that.” 
The cameras had recorded every detail, but I still intended to do my duty. Maybe a high-priced lawyer could get them off on a technicality. If not, I supposed they might be sentenced to work on a tree farm. I hoped it would be one far away from me. 

Copyright © 2001 by Rosemary Claire Smith.