Future Farming
The ending to "Future Pharming"
This one has a bit more sex than Part I, but not much. It's in LW for continuity. Again, I consulted actual scientists, even though it's fiction. Besides, I've been in the food distribution business for thirty-five years. Knowing how and where literally all of our food is grown, slaughtered, and processed gives me a leg up on the details herein. Suspension of disbelief is important in such a heavy story. So, this story's future timeline is based on what could be possible, based on current, real-world facts.
This futuristic fictional story has changed the name of the chemical coating used on some of the fruit (avocados and tomatoes are also fruit) you buy at the market. The real name is '
Apeel
' and I'd suggest you do some research on it. Try some of the articles from actual food scientists, not USA Today. More than half of the fruit producers nationally do not use it, so consumers have a choice - for now.
Relax; it's just a story, people.
From the ending of Future Pharming:
"Steve, it's Gabriela," her voice was barely above a whisper, and I couldn't be sure it was her. "Do not turn on any lights. I'm coming into the room, where are you?"
She'd heard me scramble. I didn't want to take the leap of faith, but I did. "I'm here at the door," I whispered back. Gabby entered her gun trained on me. She lowered her weapon and got right into my personal space.
"If you want to live," she said. "Come with me. Don't bring anything. We're leaving now. I have everything you need in the car."
****
The look she wore told me not to argue or hesitate. I only nodded as I followed her down the stairs and out of the house. As I started towards the driveway from my porch, she grabbed my elbow and sternly said, "No, this way."
We went out through my back gate into the alley, Gabby taking the lead. I followed her down two houses opposite mine, and we jumped over a small fence, then across the backyard, to a gate next to the neighbor's garage. She closed it carefully, and I followed her to a white 1965 Mustang GT, two-door sitting at the curb. We were now on the opposite block from my house and had evaded surveillance.
Gabby motioned for me to hop in the passenger seat, as she pulled a bag from the back. "Put these on and put your clothes in the bag." She ordered. I was only wearing my boxers and a T-shirt.
As Fontes pulled away from the curb, she began to fill me in. "We have about a two-hour head start," she said, "which isn't much. We need to cross the Mississippi in that window, and that's about an hour forty-five out. If I can get us at least sixty miles into Missouri we'll at least have a chance."
A chance at what?" I asked, very much in the dark.
"Tom, Agent Wilcox, and I," she started with a sigh, "We were supposed to bring you in this morning. You're officially a suspect in possible domestic terrorism."
"Why?" This wasn't unexpected, but I was shell-shocked that they'd go from surveillance to that extreme.
"Because" she stated emotionlessly, "you left your wife. More precisely, because she officially left you. The feds see you as a risk, because of your former wife, your skill set, and your proximity to others in your field. Stratagem has convinced the higher-ups that you pose a threat."
That last part hit home. "Have my friends been arrested?" I was steaming then.
"Not as far as I know," she replied. "But your little laptop stunt didn't help either you or them. Christmas Eve almost cost us everything."
"Cost who everything?" I questioned as another light came on. "Why are you helping me instead of arresting me?"
After a pause and another long sigh, Gabby continued. "Because we need you. I need you. Your expertise, to be exact. Steve, I'm now a fugitive too. That's a long story, but your life as you knew it was ending anyway, and where we're going your knowledge and skill could save millions of lives."
"Sounds familiar," I grunted. "We have plenty of time now, so explain it, so I can at least decide for myself. Don't get me wrong, I'm grateful for your help, but I'm not sure I want to get in any deeper than I already am."
I expected she'd tell me about some new medicine, or some interaction with medicines or vaccines already available. She shocked me with the real situation she wanted me to get into.
"My Father is Dr. Raul Fuentes," she told me. "We have different last names for just about any and every reason you could imagine. Mostly, so the government doesn't know we're related. He has a PhD in chemistry, a Masters in Analytical and Environmental Chemistry, and a BS in Geological and Earth science, from the National Autonomous University of Mexico.
"Early on, my father was adamantly critical," she went on, "of almost every environmental issue controlled or partnered with the US Government. I think he was already being labeled a quack before I was born, regarding stratospheric aerosol injection."
"What's that?" The woman was damned smart.
She giggled. "Sorry, a force of habit," she said with a wry smile. "I think you might know it better as cloud seeding, you know, chemtrails. It started long before any government officials admitted to it. They began testing in the mid-1940s and started making rain in 1957. Part of the problem with the soils in our heartland has to do with the metals used, and how they interact when they get into the soil and groundwater."
"I'm sorry," she was taking too long. "What has this got to do with me?"
"Patience, Steve," she scolded. "I'm getting there. Let me jump ahead and spare you the boring stuff that twenty-five percent of the world calls 'conspiracy theory.' After the Bill Yates' hearings and his subsequent imprisonment, my father received an urgent attaché from the federal government. Suddenly, instead of countless, ruthless smear campaigns, they asked him, literally begged him, the way he tells it, to help save the US farmlands."
