Growth
"Animal, vegetable, or mineral?"
"Who the fuck cares?"
Christian Pierce supposed no-one did. Not the average joe, nor anyone else in this day in age. Tiberium was tiberium. It looked like a mineral. It grew like a plant. No-one could call it an animal…as far as he knew at least. But maybe the "animal" analogy had some weight to it. One could hate animals, whether they be visceroids, the scrin, or even other humans. So if tiberium was indeed an animal, it would make Dil's look of disgust towards the green crystals a bit more comprehensible.
"Fuck 'em," the farmhand said as he used the duster to extract the infected yield. "Fuck 'em all."
He kept talking, he kept dusting, he kept talking as if the tiberium was a living thing that could understand him. Regardless, Christian did the same. Separating the chaff from the wheat, or rather, infected corn stalks from those that managed to survive everything from tib showers to ion storms. The infected yield would be used for small-scale power generation while the ever diminishing untainted crop would be used to feed themselves, and the hunger of an ever diminishing populace.
"You like that?" Dil whispered as the tiberium continued to enter the duster. "You like it, huh?"
"Oh for God's sake give it a rest," Christian murmured.
Dil didn't hear him. Or if he did, he wasn't listening.
It hadn't been like this once, Christian reflected. Or so the stories went, the notion of living in a pre-tiberium world seemed unimaginable to most people, him included. Once, over thirty percent of the world's surface was used for agriculture. Once, it was worried about the notion of fossil fuels running out and/or contributing to climate change. Once, there was so much corn to go around that entire crops were dedicated for bio-fuel production rather than consumption. Now the opposite had come. Now, thanks to tiberium, there was no shortage of energy of any kind. Instead, there was a shortage of food. And its covering of Earth's surface was over ninety percent rather than the measly thirty-something that humanity had achieved.
And so far, the pair of Kentucky farmers (or Red Zone 483 if one used the proper designation) were reducing that spread by a few measly metres. The last tib shower hadn't been too severe, and they'd only detected contamination in this field.
"There," said Christian, scooping up the last of the infected corn. "Done."
Dil grunted. He seemed disappointed, Christian noted. As if he wanted more tiberium. As if he wanted more of the crystal so he could take out his frustrations out on it.
"Come on," Christian said, slapping his friend on the back. "Jess will have lunch ready for us."
"More rations. Yay."
Christian frowned. More rations indeed, he thought. Synthesized from within blue zones to send back out to the red, as if to say "here's your food, now give us the good stuff." But it was all they had, and the prospect of getting out of his environmental suit was even more appealing, so Christian started trudging through the corn. Tall yellow and green stalks, standing firm against the tide. All GMCs of course – no naturally occurring floral species could ever last out here. But even then, they kept succumbing to the green death. Harvest was three months away and Christian knew that he'd have plenty more tib to extract before that came round.
"Think we'll get a good rate?" Dil asked as he walked alongside him.
"Probably."
It was a lie. But the question was the first set of words that Dil had uttered that didn't involve cursing and/or tiberium, and Christian wanted his relatively good mood to continue. So that meant placating him. And hoping that he didn't look too far to his right as giant green shards of the crystal spread across an adjacent field. A sonic emitter had been swallowed up by them. A testament to how sonic technology was now no defence against tiberium's spread, but had been left running in a vain hope of doing the impossible.
And that's what we're doing. Christian reflected, casting his gaze to the left to see blotched clouds before him. Trying to do the impossible. Postponing the inevitable.
Dil still hadn't spoken up. He kept walking. Maybe he was hungry, or maybe he was just too tired to utter expletives at any more of the tib.
"This can't last, you know," Dil said eventually.
Crap.
"I'm thinking of leaving, actually," the farmhand continued. "This place is dead."
"Dil, come on, they've been saying that for decades," Christian said, trying to put on a brave face. "I…we're not out of it yet, right? And besides, there's still the militia. Least we get some creds for holding GD-twos while doing nothing."
"Nothing. Right. That's all GDI does nowadays. Nothing. Fuck-diddly nothing."
"Oh give it a rest."
Dil stopped walking and turned round at him. "What you say?"
"Dil, I'm sick of your whining. Life sucks, okay? It's sucked since tiberium landed. It sucks since a bunch of fanatics decided that was a good thing. It sucked when a bunch of aliens decided to join the party."
"And yet you're in the middle of the suck," Dil said. "I'm sure your wife and daughter are very happy about that."
Christian stared at him. Spitting inside his visor, Dil kept walking.
Christian wanted to yell at him. To tell him that he could go to his own home to his own lunch, to his own dead wife who'd been on the receiving end of a Noddie's rifle. But he couldn't. He didn't have the energy. He didn't have the conviction. And deep down, he knew he was right. There was no future out here in the red. Not for him. Not for Jess. And certainly not for Andrea, their daughter. It would be at least ten years until she could work in the fields. Christian doubted that the house would still be standing in that period of time.
He glanced back at the tiberium. He wanted to shoot it. Hit it. Tear it down. Erase this…this crop from the world that the scrin had planted. But he couldn't. He had no means. And humans had been transforming the surface of the world for their crops for thousands of years. In this regard, the scrin were no different.
Sighing, he kept walking.
Right now, it was the only thing he could do.