Money Grows on Trees

There was a saying that had originated from a time before he'd been born that money grew on trees. From what Juan Morales understood, the meaning of the phrase as it had originally been constructed was different from the reality as it was understood in the year 2125.

Of course, he reflected, as he sat beside the jeep, drinking some water, times changed, and values changed with them. Money didn't grow on trees, so one had to pick a pocket or two. Centuries after some scamp in London said that, the world had realized that money did indeed grow on trees, or rather, trees had a monetary value of their own. Trees sucked carbon out of the air. Trees helped keep water in the soil. Trees helped protect coastlines. Trees were a renewable supply of wood, and a habitat for animals. Trees had so many values that they were worth their weight in gold. Problem was, not enough people had realized that until it was too late. Because now, standing here, sipping recycled water, he was in a place where there'd once been lots of trees. He was standing in what had once been the most biodiverse place on Earth.

He was standing in the Amazon Desert.

He took another sip of water and frowned, looking at the drones replanting trees, plus the volunteers that he'd got with him. Money might have grown on trees, but his group got a pittance from the Earth Council's South American Administration. Most of the Council's attention these days were turned towards the moon and Mars, or in its perpetual conflict with the Commonwealth. They were standing in the ruins of a dying world, and still were refusing to take the necessary steps to avoid total collapse bar paying lip service. The terraforming technology they'd deployed on Mars had been used on Earth, granted, sucking CO2 out of the air, but when it came to restoring Earth's degraded systems, they gave nothing. They did nothing. But, as Juan reflected, taking another sip of water, when 1% of the world's population controlled 94% of its wealth, when those people were sequestered in aerostats, orbital colonies, and luxury condos on the fucking moon, what could one expect?

"Juan?"

He looked up at Vera, approaching him from across the barren soil. He grunted, taking another sip of water.

"I'll get back at it, don't worry."

"Actually you have a call." He said nothing, so she added, "a holo-call."

That got his attention. Phones still existed in the 22nd century. Devices that were smaller, more efficient, and tossed aside by most people as soon as the next model came out next year, but still, phones. Holographic communication however? That wasn't new technology, but it was technology that was reserved for what was expected to be meaningful conversation. Not market surveys as to what kind of toothpaste one preferred.

"Fine," he said. "I'll take it." He took a final sip of water and headed across the desert sands to the tent they'd set up. Past the drones, pass the saplings, past the people who for whatever reason, had come out here. Mostly speaking in Spanish, but also with some Portuguese, English, and a few indigenous languages that had survived the collapse of the Amazon.

The Amazon Desert. Some might argue it was a misnomer, as a large bulk of the region was at least savanna. It wasn't the Sahel people were talking about, even as that desert encroached further south into the Central African Sector every day. But for Juan, for people like him, it was semantics. The Amazon Rainforest was gone. Its plants, and all their potential benefits for humanity, were gone. Its animals were gone. Even if the rainforest was restored, he knew it would never be the same. And looking at the people around him, at the quiet despair in their eyes, he knew he wasn't the only one. Nevertheless, he entered the tent and activated the holo-unit. It flickered, it spluttered, but eventually, a humanoid shape took form. Blue, transparent, and not with the best connection in the world, but still, he had an image.

"Juan?"

And also sound. The sound of a voice that he recognised.

"Rodrigo?"

The sound of his brother. And therefore, not the first person he wanted to talk to these days, but not the last either.

"What are you doing here?" Juan asked.

Rodrigo smiled. "Could ask you the same thing. I hear the temperature's forty-one degrees there."

"You know why I'm here," Juan said. He took another sip of water. "And it's forty-two, by the way. Which I'm guessing is a lot warmer where you are now." He peered at the image. "Where are you anyway? Havana?"

"Try Castro Station."

Juan shrugged. "Same thing."

It wasn't, but the space station that was at the top of the space elevator off the coast of Cuba was still close enough. Up, rather than across. Technology had come that far that breaking orbit wasn't a feat of engineering anymore, but a regular occurrence. Regular enough for resources to keep coming in from the moon, Mars, and even the asteroid belt, to keep the gears of Earth turning. Maybe not so long on Mars now, based on what Juan had heard, but…

"Listen," Rodrigo said. "I can't talk much. You'll know more in twenty-four hours' time, but…" He trailed off, looking around, before looking back at Juan. "I'm being sent to Mars."

Juan stared at him. "That meant to be news?" he asked. "EDF goons like yourself get sent to Mars all the time."

Rodrigo, looking at bit miffed at being called a "goon," nevertheless said, "not like that. It's called deployment in force. Things on Mars…well, they're bad. I know you still watch the news bro, but trust me, it's worse than you think. Soon as the Hy…the ship, sets out, the Council's going to make an announcement as to how bad things really are."

Juan wasn't fazed. If the Council said things were bad on Mars, then that meant that they were even worse. But then, what was new? When had things not been bad on Mars? The planet had once been owned by the Ultor Corporation (in practice if not in paper), and things had gotten so bad that in 2075, a miners' uprising had brought the whole operation to a halt. Course, that had only been achieved by the EDF, and in the four decades since, the EDF had turned out to be no better than the corporate overlords they'd overthrown. Small wonder then, Juan reflected, that a new Red Faction had formed, taking its name from the original miners who'd fought for their freedom. And small wonder that the EDF was going to carry out a "deployment in force."

Earth needed Mars. Despite the propaganda, everyone knew it. He knew it. It was why he couldn't muster himself to be angrier with his brother because as bad as things were on Earth right now, they'd get worse without a constant supply of resources from the fourth planet in the Sol system.

"So they're bad," Juan said eventually. "When do I get to hear from you again?"

"At best? A few months."

"Right." Juan went to sip more of his water, but found that the bottle was empty. "Well, have fun with the whole subjugation thing. I'll be here. Doing my part. Just like what the EDF says every time they play an ad."

"Juan…"

"They also ask if I want to know more. Well, I-"

"Don't play this game Juan."

"Excuse me?"

"Don't play the game," Rodrigo said. "I know you think you're all so high and mighty when you're standing on sand, but some of us actually need to put food on the table. Some of us actually need to work for a living."

"Fuck you Rodrigo."

"Jealousy doesn't become you brother. I've got a wife, a son, and-"

"And how's that going out for you?" Juan snapped. "You're flying around in spaceships, while Maria and Escobar are starving, and-"

The line terminated, and Juan just sat there. He went to sip more water, before remembering that he had none left. He sighed, rubbing his eyes and head. He had a headache coming on, and it wasn't just because of the heat.

"That bad huh?"

He shot to his feet. At the entrance to the tent, Vera was standing there.

"I wasn't listening," she quickly added. "Just saw that the light was off, so I assumed you were finished."

"I am finished," Juan said. He went to the water cooler and poured himself more water – recycled piss to be exact, considering how valuable water was in this world. Nevertheless, he took another sip.

"Was it your brother?"

Juan grunted. "How'd you know?"

"Well, your brother's in the EDF, and the nets are speculating that something big's about to happen. If they're moving in on Mars, makes sense your brother would want to contact you."

Juan grunted. "My brother's fine. The EDF will be fine. The Council will be fine. It's the insurgents I'm worried about." He looked back at Vera. "The violence on Mars has gone on for years, and flared up in the last few months. You really think the EDF couldn't take the planet if they wanted to?"

Vera shrugged.

"Come on," he said. "The EDF can save Mars. We've got to save what's left of the planet."

She snorted as she passed by him. "You really think it can be saved?"

He went to speak, but had no answer. Or at least, not an answer that he could call true. In the end, he murmured, "things can always get worse," before heading back out into the scorching sun, and the wasteland that surrounded him.

A day later, EDS Hydra set out for Mars. A month later, the ship was destroyed in orbit by an unidentified weapon based on the planet's surface.

Things got worse. Much worse.

On Earth, things could always get worse.