The Legacy of Fern Greenskeeper

Blearily, the last Hyla trudges across the surface of the planet. The blazing stars of SCN-2X-1-14 bearing down on him as he makes his way across the barren landscape. In his hands, a pressurised crate with its fragile cargo. The sound of their own breathing on the inside of their respirator deafening.

A voice echoes up out of the ground. That of the Colonel:

“Welcome, Fern. A chamber has been prepared for you below. It will be sufficient, until the samples in orbit are sufficiently able to prepare the atmosphere.”

A gaping opening in the ground before him, a ramp leading down a tunnel. They follow it, the transition out of the direct light of the sun darkening his vision. He steps forwards into an airlock. As the oxygen atmosphere starts to cycle in, so too does a familiar sensation. The humidity of the swamp. Of home.

With a hiss, the second door slides open, revealing the room beyond. Bright growth lamps shining down on a bed of damp mud across the entire floor, a pervasive mist filling the room. The voice of the Priest speaks:

“They will be safe here. You are, naturally, welcome to visit. It will not be too long before they can be taken out across our surface.”

At this point, Fern puts down the crate, opening it up and taking out the plants inside. The last survivors of Anamiph. A stalwart symbol of defiance against the apocalyptic fate of his home. Carefully, he takes one of them alongside a trowel, gently planting it into the floor of the room, talking as he does so to the two Artificial Intelligences stored inside the planet. He talks of his home and its people. Of Hylan architecture, vertical wooden buildings jutting out on stilts over the marsh. Of the wreaths they would weave during the festival time. He speaks too, more sombrely, of war and exploitation, of pollution and death. The AIs listen to the words, the story that they know all too well. The story of civilisation.

Eventually, Fern finishes their work. He gets up from the ground, pink hands covered in dirt, and looks around. The plants are fast growers, and should thrive in the conditions provided. A chamber, thousands of light-years from home, contained in a structure created hundreds of thousands of years ago.

And while there may be no Hyla left on Anamiph, their legacy will not die with Fern.

Once the roots have grown enough, a propagation can be transferred from water to soil, with care and a gentle hand. Fern’s body moves through the motions, well-remembered and engrained in their muscle memory. 

His hands place delicate roots into soil with ease, the same way he could carve letters into leaves with eyes held shut. 
(At first the Hylan script he had taught Vel was imperfect, influenced by how Fern’s mother had guided his hands when they were young, every curve and line bearing the marks of generations. The same could be said for the words, the dialect of Fern’s Marsh woven throughout every sentence. They did not worry. Perfect Hylan could be found through one conversation with River Wayfinder, kept safe in a dictionary now, thanks to Vel’s efforts. 
He could nurture the language of his Marsh, the tones, the sayings. Tend to it like a cutting taken from a dying plant, in preservation, so the whole would not be lost.)

They pat down the soil around the stem, water it, watching droplets bounce down through leaves like raindrops. He finds the perfect spot in the greenhouse for this new shoot to grow, on a low shelf with plentiful light, besides the flower whose roots he had repaired while teaching Lina, the Priest, and the Colonel as he did so. It blossoms now, a vibrant, cheerful orange. Fern brings it with him to every conversation with the trio, showing them its progress as he regales them with tales from home, for the AIs to hold tightly to long after he is gone.

His newest journal sits open on their worktable, scattered with dirt and potting mix, the inevitable mess staining its pages. These days it is filled more with his own sketches and musings and little notes about life in the Cartographers' Guild. Their research proper finds itself filed into the Guild’s databases now, documents and spreadsheets and neatly made diagrams, shared with Thea as they work together to heal wounded worlds. In their journal, Fern draws without a care for messy lines or smudged graphite, only creating a little snapshot of memory to keep, more precious than a photo.
(The journal that holds that terrible sketch his sister drew is kept safe, pride of place on a shelf above their desk.)

Eventually, as the station quietens with the passing hours, and all work is done for the rotation, perhaps Fern will go look for a friend to bother. Rea or Yael or Lightning Meets The Sea, he takes in their presence, basks in their companionship. The Guild is always active, buzzing with life, terribly loud, and he finds comfort in sitting quietly by their sides while they work, busy as they are, kinder reflections of those first days on the Station, alone and aching and sinking into the dark waters of an overwhelming grief. Sometimes Fern wanders to the Retreat Station, the loving recreation of Anamiph resplendent in green. Maybe he will take the Hylan ship for a flight. (They name it eventually, in honour of its creator. The Raincloud is well cared for, many charms dangling in the cockpit besides the compass Lightning first gifted him.)

The hurt returns, every now and then, the ache of left-over love, the terrible hole in his life that can never truly be filled. But he can grow around it. In his dreams, his sister smiles at him, does not begrudge him this new life. He has been terribly alone, for a long while. No more. The roots have grown enough. The sprout finds home in a new Marsh.

Written by Noureen I.