“That’s not a terrible description. But to be more precise, it’s a massive Pleistocene rewilding project.”
Caplan shrugged. He’d heard those words before, but had never paid them much attention. Unlike the eggheads who populated Hatcher, he hadn’t asked a lot of questions. He’d just focused on his responsibilities as Chief Ranger, namely managing the Eye, watching over the forest, and overseeing the occasional field expedition.
Corbotch frowned. “Didn’t you go through orientation?”
“Yeah, ranger orientation. For the most part, we talked about day-to-day operations. As for the Vallerio, we were just told to consider it an open zoo.”
“I see. Well, think of rewilding as the opposite of civilizing. The idea is to return large-scale areas to natural states.”
Caplan nodded. “Like a nature preserve.”
“Not exactly. Forest rangers and conservationists manage preserves intensely. They chop down new trees. Encourage overgrazing to control animal populations. And so on.” Corbotch’s eyes shone brightly in the dimly lit cabin. “They do those things because they’re afraid of change, of evolution. You see, nature doesn’t exist in a steady-state equilibrium. It’s always changing, always evolving. Rewilding takes advantage of that fact. In contrast to a preserve, a rewilded area is distinguished by a lack of management. It involves establishing a natural area and then stepping back from it. Letting nature take over, free from human influence.”
“What’s the point? I mean, it sounds great and all. But is there any real benefit to it?”
“Actually, yes.” Corbotch adopted a thoughtful look. “Have you ever heard of the Maclura pomifera, or horse apple tree?”
Caplan shook his head.
“Its most prevalent in Oklahoma, Texas, and Arkansas. Its fruit, the horse apple, is about the size of a softball. It’s filled with a sticky latex substance. Nothing eats it. Which is odd because that’s the whole point of fruit. Trees produce it in order to attract animals. The animals eat it and expel it with their own version of fertilizer, usually at some distance from the tree’s roots and shade. But since nothing eats horse apples, they just fall to the ground and rot away.”
“What’s your point?”
“The horse apple tree is an ecological anachronism. Simply put, it doesn’t belong to this time. It belongs to the past, to the Pleistocene epoch.”
His curiosity piqued, Caplan leaned forward.
“Thousands of years ago, megafauna — giant animals — roamed the world. Mastodons, mammoths, elephants, short-faced bears, bison, and eight-foot long beavers were plentiful in these parts. Some of those animals consumed the horse apples, spreading the seeds far and wide. And then everything changed.” Corbotch paused. “Some ten to 11,000 years ago, megafauna went extinct throughout the world and especially in the Americas. This was part of the Quaternary extinction event. With no one left to eat the horse apples, the tree’s natural range shrunk to the Red River region. The only reason it exists elsewhere today is because of human intervention. But it’s a doomed species. Unless something changes, it will eventually go extinct. And it’s not the only species in danger. The Quaternary extinction event has had a ripple effect, leading to large-scale extinctions of flora and fauna in the modern era. My experts call this the Holocene, or Sixth extinction.”
Caplan arched an eyebrow.
“It might not look this way, but nature is inching toward oblivion,” Corbotch continued. “Entire ecosystems were built upon the presence and influence of megafauna. Without them, things have run amok. The horse apple tree is just one example. The extinction of predators, for instance, has caused the elk population to explode in certain parts of this country. The elk feed on aspen trees, reducing seed production. Fewer aspen trees hurts other species that depend on them. And so on and so forth down the food chain. Now, the Vallerio—”
“Hang on a second,” Caplan said. “Why’d so many megafauna die in the first place?”
“It’s one of history’s greatest mysteries. Some experts believe in the Overkill Hypothesis. That is, the first people to reach this continent hunted them to extinction. Others blame climate change. And still others blame disease, a comet swarm, any number of things. Regardless of the cause, just one thing can cure it.”
“Rewilding?”
Corbotch nodded. “In most places, rewilding is a three-step process. First, the setting aside of protected wilderness areas, large enough to accommodate foraging and seasonal movements. Second, the linking of those areas together with corridors to allow for a greater range of movement. And finally, the reintroduction of megafauna… keystone species, carnivores, and apex predators.” He shrugged. “Obviously, we have much greater maneuverability, given the Vallerio’s size and wealth of ecosystems.”
Caplan’s brow scrunched up. “So, the creatures you’ve brought to the Vallerio are meant to replace the original megafauna?”
“That’s right. Since North America’s original megafauna is largely extinct, we imported proxies. Sumatran elephants in place of American mastodons. Asiatic cheetahs for American cheetahs. And Asiatic and African lions to fill the gaps left by American lions and saber-toothed tigers.”
Caplan thought for a moment. “You said nature is inching toward oblivion. How close are we to reaching that point?”
“We’ve got another generation or two before things spin out of control. But make no mistake about it. The Holocene extinction will not resolve itself. If rewilding isn’t implemented on a worldwide scale in the near future, entire ecosystems will collapse.”
“So, why are you so secretive about your little free-range zoo?” Caplan asked. “You should be shouting about it on the rooftops.”
“Bureaucracy has its benefits, but dealing with revolutionary ideas isn’t one of them. If the authorities discover the truth about the Vallerio, they’ll shut me down. They’ll seize the animals, maybe even the whole forest.” Corbotch looked out the window. “No, I need to keep this under wraps. At least for the time being.”
Caplan sensed a note of finality in Corbotch’s tone. Just then a tiny airborne object outside the front windshield caught his eye. It was a cargo helicopter, built for utility rather than comfort. Small letters etched upon its side read, Blaze.
Caplan nodded at it. “How many people are in there?”
“Twelve,” Corbotch replied. “Actually, thirteen with Cam Moline.”
Cam Moline was the real name for the baller from the alley. Although he’d sustained a multitude of cuts and bruises, Moline had quickly recovered from the fire escape fall as well as from the beating Caplan had dished out to him.
Caplan shook his head. “That’s too many people.”
“Don’t worry. They’ll remain out of sight until you’ve secured entry into Hatcher and gotten a chance to assess the situation.”
“So, I’ll be alone?”
“No. Julius will accompany you.”
“But—”
A blaring noise, akin to a billion sirens sounding off in unison, filled the air. It flooded Caplan’s head, turning his brain to instant jelly. He clutched his ears, but it didn’t help. The noise was everywhere, inescapable.
“Derek,” Corbotch shouted. “What is that?”
There was no response from the cockpit. Or maybe there was, but the blaring noise had drowned it out.
Tremendous heat, hotter than fire, engulfed the cabin. Sweat beaded up on Caplan’s face, his chest, and his legs. It poured down his body, soaking his clothes and the seat beneath him. He tried to breathe. But the air was thick and he had trouble getting oxygen into his lungs.
A brilliant light flashed to the north. A cold shiver ran down Caplan’s back as he stared out the side window. Just a few minutes earlier, he’d marveled at the Vallerio’s darkness. But now, that had changed.