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290 pages, Paperback
First published June 5, 2018
Science fiction has a bad habit toward homogeneity, whether it’s the depiction of a single-ecosystem planet, ubiquitous and monotone cultures, three-course-meal food pills, or futuristic silver jumpsuits for all. It would be an insult to the decentralized, localized nature of solarpunk to pin it down as only one thing. Single visions of the future ignore the cultural and ideological variations that make us human. They also ignore the interconnectivity of eco-systems, and the variations of landscape and climate that make up a world.
Every night, as the warmth of the day radiated back through the glass water-wall of her bedroom, Del curled up with her plush quokka and listened, enthralled, as her mother spun wondrous stories.
These were never stories of dragons and fairies, mermaids and centaurs. No, these were stories of fierce young women with flocks of tree-planting drones, firing seeds into the barren sands and rolling back the desert. Or tales of ravenous locusts sweeping across the land in suffocating plagues, and the farmers who responded by cultivating carnivorous wheat.
Xiaren followed her gaze. “Ah, I see you’ve noticed my portable domestic biogas system. Normally, biogas harvesting systems require thousands of tonnes of cheese to create a commercially viable amount of whey for anaerobic digestion. My system utilises less than twenty kilos of cheese, and generates enough gas for heating and cooking in a typical home. I call it the Fromagerie 5000!”
Xiaren swung open a panel in the tank to reveal five shelves of ripening cheeses surrounded by gurgling pipes and humming canisters. Del rocked back on her heels, the intense smell of gorgonzola hitting her with almost physical force.
“That’s…powerful.”
“I’ve specially cultivated the microorganisms to generate vastly more biogas than normal. And the cheese tastes amazing.”
Xiaren cut a gooey wedge from a creamy blue and offered it to Del, who, after a moment’s hesitation, took a bite. Notes of chilli and lychee simmered beneath the pungent flavour, and her eyes watered.
“This would make an insanely good pasta sauce.” She gave herself a moment for the sparkles to disappear from her vision. “So, why did you go into cheese?”
Xiaren shrugged. “My hometown isn’t overly fond of dairy, but we needed clean energy. And in my mind, gas is gas, whether it’s happening inside a cow or a star. Or a round of cheese.”
Del looked at the racks of peaceful cheeses, and wondered if they knew they had the heart of stars.
“They’re about to announce the winner. Shouldn’t you be networking in the Investor’s Lounge?”
“My details are online,” he replied. “And I saw this irresistible presentation about these incredible exploding cheeses.”
Xiaren sighed. “No one was hurt. And I’ve figured out the problem.”
“Go make yourself useful and see if you can find Talia,” Daesha said to Carlos.
“What if I don’t feel like it?”
“Well, then I guess I can put that in my progress report for The Council. I’m sure they’ll be happy to hear an update on how you’ve been feeling.”
People referred to The Council as though it were a small circle of government officials, when in reality it was a chaotic mixture of, well, everyone. That was how The Council worked. You could elect someone to represent your group based almost any factor—geographic area, race, age, gender identity…the list went on. You could elect multiple representatives, and there was no limit, as long as representatives were active in participating with The Council and in fulfilling their assigned roles and duties.
So when Daesha and the teenagers stood before The Council via the holoconference she set up next to the wall tear, there were actually thousands of representatives uplinking to listen in on the conversation. And since the meetings were open to the entire city, any resident could theoretically tune in. Imagining the size of the audience that might be opening the feed from numerous points throughout the city made Daesha nervous. She swallowed to wet her throat in hopes that her voice wouldn’t wobble anymore the way it had when she’d informed The Council of the problem.
“The active fire is the biggest concern,” said one Councilmember, an older Latina woman with white-gray hair framing her face in crisp waves. “If it travels just a few miles, it could arrive at the wall and rip right through the tear. Our buildings would be immediately at risk.”
“My community is concerned with the evacuation plan,” said a mid-thirties man in a wheelchair with caramel-toned skin. He rolled closer to the device he was using to project into the meeting. “The maps are outdated, and we haven’t been keeping up with accessibility plans the way we should have been. That’s why I kept bringing it up in—”
“The Fyrewall is our only source of power,” said a member who represented the nonbinary South Asian community. They raised a leather-cuffed arm to trigger the holoconference technology to amplify their screen. “We have backup power stored up to last us for a year or two, but we’ll have to figure out how to keep the air purifiers running past that point if we want the city to stay livable.”
“Forget the air purifiers. What about the other cities who come barging down to our door whenever they sense a weakness?” asked a precocious youth member. “Selling them the Fyrewall tech and keeping the barrier flowing has been the only way to keep them away long-term, right?”
Daesha crossed her arms over her chest and closed her eyes for a moment. She hated Council meetings for this very reason. Too many voices, and not enough leadership. Sure, it was more fair, but it amazed Daesha that anything got done at all within this system. She suspected it was due to the multitude of citizens who ran the sub-committees for budgeting, resource management, and security. They kept the city running, while those who wanted air time made a ruckus in holoconference convenings.
By the second day at Henkel’s, I’d been given a potted tomato plant and a woven hemp hat and been asked to settle four disputes. This morning’s involved two new mothers and the last remaining frozen bagel. I could forgive ’em their anger—teething babies without teething rings could set anyone’s teeth on edge. At least, one of the mothers had brought me a duck egg omelet, full of mushrooms and chives, still steaming from the kitchens. The mother, and the omelet.
The cognitive limit that a person could maintain interpersonal relationships, known as Dunbar’s number, was about one hundred and fifty, and such small communities had proved both viable and robust—to expropriate some of my former corporate vocabulary. At that size, you always knew what your neighbor was doing so crime wasn’t a problem. Basically, with Dunbar’s number, the criminal element’s number was up.
When she finally called her family’s home, saving the best for last, she frowned at how long it took for her mother to pick up.
“Aina!” her mother finally replied, sounding breathless.
“Ibu!” Alina’s mind jumped to the worst conclusion. “Is everything okay? Or did the deal with Megajaya not happen?”
“What? Oh, no, that’s not a problem at all. We’ll be taking that contract, of course. But Aina, best news, we may have found you a partner after all!”
“A part—”
“Business only lah, of course, but who knows! Quite good looking.”
“Ibu!” Alina rolled her eyes to the ceiling in exasperation. “You know I just broke up with my boyfriend.”
“Yah, best timing my girl. Now you can focus on this one.”
Jason had balked. He had had no Old Rich connections, but he still thought what Alina’s family did was heinous.
“Have you no respect for the dead?” he had demanded, when Alina finally told him.
Alina had thought about this question before, and was ready with an answer. “No. They didn’t have respect for us when they were alive, so why should we respect them now that they’re dead? (...)”
Meanwhile, on the far side of Parco Sempione, close to Cimitero Monumentale, a flash mob has ensued, much to the bafflement of the law enforcement.
Citizens have taken to the streets with streamers of cloth, plastic balls, bowling pins, and hula hoops and are now pretending, awfully for the most part, to compete in an Olympic gymnastics event.
A trio of elderly Chinese ladies from nearby Via Paolo Sarpi, allegedly alumnae of the National Gymnastics Academy of Beijing, are sitting on a public bench and act as judges, raising numbered placards and yelling scathing comments about how even in their eighties they would be able to do much better.
In Parco Solari, naked cyclists and skaters have taken over the scene, 1920s swing music blaring from their eighties-style ghetto blasters. Nearby residents are leaning out of windows and balconies, clamouring for the police, the army, the Avengers…anyone to make the din stop.
In Largo Marinai d’Italia, the park built on the grounds of a former Austro-Hungarian fortress, a six-foot-five, copper-skinned, very muscular woman dressed in a Victorian gown and armed with a huge parasol is leading a crowd of similarly dressed people against a cluster of scared-looking Austro-Hungarian soldiers.
“Independence or Death!” she yells with a strong Brazilian accent.
There are pagan rites at Parco Nord; mass pillow fights explode in Viale Padova; dancers perform around a machine that blows giant soap bubbles in front of the Lambrate station; a torchlit, 17th century penitential procession marches down Corso di Porta Ticinese so that the plague of racism and intolerance will stop, and, to top it all, Charles VIII of France has descended through the Alps yet again and a few Milanese knights are engaged in strenuous battle with his bodyguard at Stazione Centrale.
The whole city has exploded into insanity all at once.
...
“It does pay off to have friends in different subcultures,” Stabby writes.
I had switched a few batteries into the charging hub, not because I needed to, as I didn’t use much electricity in the summer, but to have something to do. And hey, who knew if next week would be unusually cold and cloudy and dry, with no winds to speak of. Then the power-mosaics on the outside walls wouldn’t have anything to generate power from. No sun for the solar panels, no wind or water to move the microkinetics. Plus, as long as Krista stayed here, there’d be two of us who needed warm water. I set the house-AI to recalculate power usage for two inhabitants until canceled.
“The only person who helped me build it is a little girl, Qiuyue. I doubt she’ll ever forgive me for not taking her with me, but I think her parents would have had a few problems with that.” Krista gave me a sidelong glance. The look challenged me to laugh or ridicule her next words. “My best friend is a ten-year old girl, and I miss her like crazy.”
I nodded. It wasn’t a laughing matter to me, who didn’t have any close friends at all.