The Bradford Culling Pt. 1

Year 3866. I used to listen to the stories my grandmother would tell me about what life was like before the culling. She would speak vividly about the landscapes on Earth. There was a time I believed she lived it. It’s foolish even to remember that I thought that as a kid. Nonetheless, her stories make the work I do easier. There’s an unnatural pang of anxiety that grips you the moment the cargo ships plunge into Earth’s atmosphere. Something about it doesn’t seem real and the feeling doesn’t set in while you're staring at it from orbit. It’s hard to believe there was a time when people lived here.

On Earth there aren’t any blue skies, just dust-filled air and Pyrus toxin-coated waters. The landscapes my grandmother described were more like what we have back on Ateera, our home world. Earth has nothing that resembles that. But from what she told me, it’s enough for me to paint a pretty picture over what I see and get me by for two weeks.

Fourteen days straight on Earth feels like a lifetime every time we land here; I’ve spent seven of them already. Today’s the last day until the next harvest and I can’t wait to be back home.

“Last day, Jade. Last day. Finish strong!”

Locke’s voice rings in through the headset. He’s overall in charge of our entire team and watches us by drone back at the cargo ship. I serve as one of the leads for the smaller teams. It’s a glorified position with no real responsibility but the pay is better.

“Quota!” I say it in unison with him.

He laughs and the comms click out. It’s the first thing they hammered into our heads on my first day of training years ago. I can still remember the twenty-minute video they made us sit through on the importance of the quota and ways to either meet or exceed it. Naturally, safety came second. For a fellman though, there’s nothing more important than the quota, which includes safety. It’s just the way it is. Safety is just another tool for us to meet our targets. During harvest months, it's endless work, but back on Ateera, it’s the reason all of us who join the FMC, the Fellmen’s Coalition, can live like kings.

I don’t mind it though. The sound of the anti-gravity saws or AGSaw is muffled enough by the hearing protection that a soft and soothing hum comes through. It’s the soundtrack of the harvest, at least that’s what Locke says. I breathe deep into my mask, start my saw back up, and finish cutting down the tree in front of me. We’ve cleared miles of trees in the past two weeks. The only thing within view is the thick cloud of Pyrus toxin covering everything beyond it, dust in the air, and the stumps of fallen trees. We’ve been at it from sunup to sundown for fourteen days and this is the result. We mount the timber lorries, massive 18-meter-long trucks, as they roll down the cargo ship ramps into a new worksite. The cargo ships design is a bit archaic, it is only capable of vertical take-off and landing so it was outfitted with wheels to be driven around on the surface to new work sites at night. From there, we fan out in all directions in six teams accompanied by a couple of timber lorries. This method increases yield and makes for a better opportunity to find denser forests. It all comes back to the quota.

My grandmother was always surprised that woodcutting is just as relevant now as it was back then. But the wood from the Resina Pear isn’t anything like the trees she studied that existed centuries ago. They started as a simple, invasive Bradford Pear tree. In time they became the cause of one of the greatest purges of life on Earth, in its history. It all stemmed from a need for a quick solution to the problem the trees had posed to native flora globally.

Scientists designed a chemical compound bio-engineered to target and kill the trees that appeared to work at first. Eventually, it caused a mutation in the trees that made them produce a resin that leeched into the trunk and hardened it to a strength and durability comparable to steel. The real issue came with the discovery of the Pyrus toxin that the tree released into the air from the first sprout to maturity non-stop. It caused an incurable surge of pain throughout the body at first exposure. With further exposure came blindness, paralysis, and then death. Every attempt was made to cut them down, but most tools broke the moment they contacted the trees, either that or groups of men and women were crippled with pain before they could get close enough.

The toxin killed off most other plant life and the seeds were light enough to be carried by wind across the planet. Sprouting took two full days to happen. There was no way to combat the problem. My grandmother said if humans had not already become a space-faring race and the arcs not already had been under construction then we would’ve become extinct. So, space became the next best option.

Those who were lucky enough not to be affected by the toxin were quarantined into underground bunkers until the arcs were built. After a little over a year, the launch of the first arc, New Hope, led to the great exodus of the human race from Earth to colonize the stars. We exist now in splintered factions of a few hundred million across the galaxy.

The FMC was started after a historian, like my grandmother, came across archived accounts of the culling that discussed in detail the strength and durability of the wood produced by the trees. They also uncovered research that had been conducted on the trees during the time before the construction of the arcs was finished. Now, the wood from the trees is used for everything from building to high-powered fuel. It took decades before the first cargo ships landed here when toxin levels in the air were low enough for the filtration mask to hold up.

From the start of bloom up until the temps on Earth drop to their coldest in the winter, levels are too high for us to land here. That leaves a couple of weeks leading up to bloom when rising temps cause the resin to warm and it seeps into the trunk of the trees before it hardens.

The work comes with great risk, but the payoff is well worth it. Two weeks of work on Earth and a total of about twenty-two weeks of travel and work time on the transport ship from Ateera to Earth and back again. A full year's pay, for half a year’s work. For fellmen, it’s a life of ease that anyone that hasn’t done this work can’t understand.

“That’s harvest." Locke’s voice comes in calm through the headset.

The work seemed shorter, but I don’t complain. We finish up our final cuts and drive the AGSaws into the side of the slow-moving lorries. Doors fall behind us as we drive inside the massive trucks. It’s half the team to each of the two lorries. We park, power down the saws, and strap them down to the floor. The conversation is the usual, talking about the things we’re going to do once we return home and all that we missed out on. From the time we depart Ateera to the completion of the harvest work on Earth, we receive no updates from home. A rule justified by highlighting the safety risks such distractions can cause. It’s bullshit but we don’t mind after a while. It’s like a reward once we’re done here and our pay is waiting for us the moment we land.

I just can’t wait to be back in orbit, in my stateroom. The restrictions on our light pads will have been removed by then and we can contact home. This time around, I’ve missed my family a lot. As the lorries crane the final logs into the cargo hold the alarm sounds for us to take our seats and strap in for the drive back to the cargo ship. It takes about an hour to get back. I know we’ve arrived when the lorry slows down to a snail-like pace to queue up behind the others from our team to load up onto the cargo ship.

Once everyone and all the equipment is on board and strapped down properly, flight checks are called out by Locke. Once the checks are complete, the engines are powered on, and the vibrations are felt beneath our feet. We watch as dust is blown into the air from the cargo bay. Atmospheric shielding covers the bays' wide-open sides from any foreign matter breaching the ship while the doors are open.

“Standby!” Locke calls over the speakers.

A blue wall of light shoots down to our boots from the top of the floor-to-ceiling cargo bay doors. It takes a couple of seconds before it turns green. If anyone were to be across the boundary it would turn red and cut the engines, halting take-off.

“Clear!” he announces.

We walk back to claim one of the many seats that line the bay and strap in for the return to orbit. The engines boom and the countdown for takeoff begins. I close my eyes and visualize our landing back on Ateera. My parents, wife, and kids will be waiting for me, arms spread wide, smiling from ear to ear, happy to see me. I fall deeper into my seat even more with every deep breath and relax for the short flight to the transport ship before the engines shut down and the vibrations cease.

The bay is left in silence, save for a few scattered conversations here and there. I open my eyes. My team is questioning me, but I can’t offer them any answers. Another lead and I make eye contact, stand to our feet, and head to Locke’s office. The other leads follow suit once they see us. The cargo captain's voice comes in through the loudspeaker to ask for patience while the issue is resolved. It’s enough to keep everyone in the bay relatively calm. We wait outside of Locke’s office while he takes a call, and he waves us in once he finishes.

He orders one of the leads to shutter the windows, blocking the bay’s view of our meeting; It’s nothing out of the usual. We all stand around the table.

“What’s going on Locke?” I ask.

“Not sure. Engineering is running system checks, and the bridge is contacting orbit for further guidance. Once I hear back, I’ll inform you.”

Russ, another lead starts to respond to the information as the phone rings. Locke answers. The rest of us anxiously wait to know what is going on. I know something is up when Locke dips his head down and turns his back to us. He tries to add to the conversation but the person on the other end of the call interrupts him.

“Will do, sir.” He hangs the phone up.

“Who was it?” I ask.

“Cargo.”

“The captain?” Russ asks.

“Engineering reported all positive checks from their rapid testing system.”

“What’s the word from orbit?” I ask.

Locke doesn’t answer immediately. He just gives us a disheartened look.

“Locke?” I say demandingly.

“Comms are down and we’re unable to contact Orbit or any of the other cargo ships.”

“That’s not possible,” I say in disbelief. “What about-.”

“Path phones are down too.”

The others burst into a line of questioning directed at Locke. I fall completely silent as Locke tries to calm them. He has no choice but to project his voice over them.

“We’re in the dark here and no amount of yelling or finger-pointing is going to change that.”

The others go quiet.

“What are you saying, Locke?” The truth is I know exactly what he’s saying, but the shock of what he’s told us leaves me in a state of disbelief.

“For the time being, until all ships have reached orbit, and we remain unaccounted for on the muster, we are alone down here.”

++++++++++REMARKS+++++++++++

The inspiration for this story came one day before the start of spring when Kaneisha and I walked out the front door of the house to run errands for the day. We both become choked up by the pollen from the Bradford Pear trees in the neighborhood in the air. I remember saying, "It feels like I'm suffocating."

Once we got in the car and drove off I said, "I could write a story about these trees." and from there it became the story I'm sharing here for you all to read.

Hope you enjoyed it!

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