Reflections on Horticulture Before the Apocalypse life. Most of his exterior had begun to rust from the constant contact with water. When he was built, the blueprint called for a humanoid shape with slight modifications for his specific task. Long metal legs balanced a small central torso where two thin encased arms stretched outward to enhance reach. Small amber eyes burned behind a titanium faceplate that covered his various motion sensors and inner wirings leading to his central processing core. The head-casing bore puncture wounds and deep gashes from pieces of shrapnel. One large and jagged piece remained lodged through the top of his metal skull. Ort was a gardener. Ort was also a robot. He planted the rest of the tomato seedlings and stood with a creaking groan. One of the gears in his right ankle began grinding; he swiped at it to stop the sound. Ort now stood fully erect; his silver frame glinted in the morning sun reflected through the glass as he shouldered his bag of supplies to head off to another fresh plot of dirt. His internal memory drives began to hum. Ethereal images flickered past his vision in rapid succession like a filmstrip slipping on the reel. Momentarily blinded by the vision washing over him; Ort sprawled over the ground, feeling himself sink into the dark soil. Audio systems re-synced as more sensors calibrated to the new sounds surrounding him. The hum of insects snapped on as they droned through the fragranced air. Ort saw points of light flash like tiny stars over his vision. The greenhouse blurred into a kaleidoscopic flurry of emerald, too fast for him to process. Sparks rose out of his dented hull and crackled in the air. He remained along the ground as the world around him came slowly into focus. Simultaneously, a gear whirred in his head in an uneven revolution until it stopped with a CLICK, locking itself into a new position. For the first time, dormant valves unhinged to activate an emotional generator. Using his hydraulic arms he rose from the ground, shrugging off the loose soil. Ort felt the grasp of a small hand. He peered down and saw a hazy outline grow more sharp and vivid. The boy reappeared. It was early Septem-
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once stood. Tufts of dead grass clung around their remains. He had noticed recently that golden daffodils had begun to grow in this area and he had even gathered a few for the garden. The rest of the wilderness surrounding the valley lay barren and bleak. His priority was to maintain the greenhouse and his memory became blank when trying to recall just when the forest had stopped growing. He was constantly busy, bringing in the new plants and maintaining the vitality of the rest, making sure the harvest was prodigious. He watered everything systematically from a manual irrigation system running from the nearby well. There had been an automatic sprinkler system, but now the spigots running along the roof of the greenhouse were nothing more than melted fists of metal. Crumbling shelves running the length of one side of the greenhouse lay encrusted in a thick blanket of dirt where the shattered remains of clay pots and a single cracked watering can sat perched. Nearby, a recent addition of wood from the cottage formed new shelves where propagated plants waited to mature. Coordinating under the cycles of the moon, and then only during the apex, he hauled and redistributed the soil to ensure a well-balanced level of nutrients within the garden. The routine was a perpetual process for him as his internal clock helped gauge the gestation and flowering cycles of all the plants. With his tools laid out in a neat array like a surgeon he began to work. Carefully he scooped out a hole for one of the new seedlings and sprinkled a bit of water to soften the opening. He deposited the young plant firmly into its new home. The sun began to creep further into the sky, detailing a silhouette of his harsh figure on the landscape. Growing things had come naturally to him for as long as he could remember. He was a walking encyclopedia of horticulture, using his knowledge to create life. It was a constant job to make sure his garden was immaculate. He could not recall the origins of his knowledge, but knew that his name was Ort. The coat of green paint had long ago worn away from his spindly fingers but they still created
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