Alexi dug his hand into the soil mix 00183, going over the granules of dirt and mineral between his fingers. It was moist, almost gelatinous — not the earth he was used to. He felt a tap on his shoulder. “That’s the transplant pile. All of this —” the soldier stepped back and pointed out at the decaying forest, his demeanour like a messiah, “—it will be dead in few years time. And we have 975,674 more lots to do.”
“What if it doesn’t work? I thought transplants were too disruptive. Everything would just die.” Beads of sweat were rolling down Alexi’s cheek. He looked around at others in his unit. The Ares suit wasn’t as adaptive as Canopy promised — and this was the latest model, the 2097. A drifter in white linen passed, giving Alexi a brief lookover, his mass of mountain goats not far behind.
“You’re going off early century knowledge. That’s some Holocene mindset you have there. Wake up, kid. The old rules don’t apply anymore.”