“Thanks,” Tress said, letting Ann lead the way down to the hold. Bright sunlight bathed the normally dim confines, shining in through a hole near the ceiling. The hold was taller than the other decks, putting the hole some nine feet up in the air.
“I’ll get a ladder,” Ann said. “So, what you need to do is grow some spores in that hole. It don’t have to be pretty—I’ll do the pretty part with wood over the next few days. We just need that hole filled. Roseite is good at resisting silver, and can last quite a while once in place. So it makes a great plug, assuming you…ya know…don’t kill yourself first.”
“Any advice on avoiding that last part?” Tress asked, her voice growing more shrill.
“Wish I did, kid. Those are the right two tools, but I stayed real far away whenever Weev broke out the spores. That guy was nuttier than squirrel droppings. No offense.”
Ann set up the ladder, then backed away. She didn’t offer any further help, but Tress was thankful nonetheless. She climbed to the top of the ladder and looked out at the ocean of spores.
At the moment they were calm, flat, stable. But the instant the seethe started, the ship would move forward—and the verdant spores would come flooding through the gap. Even if the hold had a silver lining, the ship would quickly take on too much weight and stop floating.
Tress didn’t hear any more shots from above. She pretended that was a good sign as she set her equipment on a nearby shelf for sacks. Last of all, she opened the aluminum box of spores. They looked like grains of pink salt. Trembling, she tipped the box until a few of them dribbled out onto the edge of the broken wood.
Unfortunately, by the time she had the dropper open and the water ready to squirt, the spores had turned a dark grey. Dead from the silver in the deck just above. Feeling stupid, she closed the box—but not before a number of those inside had died also.
She took a few deep breaths. Then, forcing herself to keep trying, she put some water on the wood first—then opened the box. Leaning back and shielding her face, she sprinkled a few spores onto the water.
It was a commendable execution of a terrible plan.
The rose spores burst into thick roseite crystals—like big chunks of quartz. While they weren’t sharp, some broke up into the ceiling and another shot diagonally past Tress’s head—nearly smashing her in the face.
It didn’t plug the hole—the crystals left far too much space between them, and their weight caused them to rip off the wood and tumble down: half out into the sea, half down to the bottom of the hold. Tress gasped, belatedly.
“Tress!” Ann said. “Be careful!”
Moonshadows…what was she doing? The entire ship was depending on her, but she knew as much about this as she did about weaponized vexillology. （Watch out for the solid-colored flags. They’ll getcha.）
You saw that sprouter on the Oot’s Dream, she reminded herself. He sealed the hole. The tools were different, but you know what the patch is supposed to look like.
As she fumbled with the tools, she noticed something. The roseite was still growing. When the large crystals had broken free, they’d left small bits attached to the hull—and those, touching water, were expanding slowly. Like a creeping mold.
Did the same thing happen with verdant spores? Did the vines keep growing if you added more water? She didn’t know. But she added some water to the growing roseite spores. And yes, although the growth was slow, they did continue to expand.
Far too slowly to fill the hole, she thought. Still, like the proverbial politician in a dumpster, it was a good start.
She took the tool that resembled a shield and pressed it to the roseite. The crystals responded immediately, pulling toward the metal, which （from the slate grey color） seemed to be simple iron. The other tool, the trowel, made the crystals grow away from it. It was of polished silvery metal. （Steel, for those who compulsively track these things.）
Right, so each tool influenced the growth of the spores. That made sense. Perhaps—
A low, rumbling noise came from outside the hull. A reverberating horror. The sound of spores churning. The seethe was beginning again.
“Tress!” Ann shouted.
No time for contemplation. If those spores flooded in, Tress would be the first to go. She took the shield-tool in her left hand and pressed it to the hole. With her other hand, she grabbed a tiny pinch of two or three spores—no time to worry if her hands were dry enough—and dropped them in the water on the rim of the broken wood.
They exploded, but were pulled to the shield—and it prevented them from going in unexpected directions. The force of it did nearly shove her off the ladder. Ann cried out and grabbed the base of it to steady her, which helped.