Fighting for the Future, page 15
"We can't seem to keep tradespeople either, they get lured away by the city life—we've had four plumbers in six years." Dardee madly waved their half of their shared hummus sandwich, dropping crumbs all over the truck cab.
Emilia had never hired a plumber or even seen one do their job. Living in various squats or couch-surfing meant you didn't really get a feel for those kinds of things. But each treetop that flicked by meant she was one tree farther from Regina. She could fake being interested in anything to gain that. "Uh, a good plumber is hard to come by."
"We could use a carpenter too. I don't suppose you have any skills?" The raised gray eyebrow matched the hair, fuzzy and untamed.
"Don't even know which end of a hammer to hold," Emilia said, washing down the other half of Dardee's sandwich with a swig of her own water.
As she tucked her canteen into the saddlebags between her feet, her mirrorshades gleamed up at her from a side pocket, a reminder of who she was and where her talents lay.
The thing was, though, Vancouver seemed more and more like a silly-ass destination—crooked politicians and gang alliances swarmed like flies there, too. Every city in Canada held danger. She eyed Dardee and sucked on her lip. "I'm not good at any of those things. But if you need someone with IT skills, I can code with the best of them." She didn't add how she could deep-dive into any system, pretty much, with the exceptions of vehicle registrations and municipal backroom deals.
"IT skills? Like, you could keep track of our seed bank and our crop rotation? Fix the farmbots? Monitor the solar array? That sort of thing?" The truck swerved just a fraction as Dardee's voice rose in excitement. "Hey, if you're willing to put a few hours in at the kitchen hall or the garden as well, that'd be an infiniwin for the win!" They held up a hummus-smeared hand for a high five.
Emilia returned it with a cheerful slap. That expression had been cheesy a decade ago. Chorohaven might not be cool but any port in a storm, right? She'd just have to hide her sarcasm from these naïve solarbabies. But it wouldn't be for long. Just until the heat died down and she could figure out how to hack the bike. Then she'd be on her way, leaving nothing behind but a sardonic cloud of dust.
"Mom? You okay?" Kore was bending over her in concern.
"Just lost in my thoughts." She smiled up at Kore. "Go along, go eat with your friends at the hall. I'm good here."
Kore kissed the top of her head and flashed the same indulgent smile she used with her students. "Sure, Mom." And Emilia watched as Kore's relief was replaced by anticipation as she scooted out the door.
Emilia ran her hands down her hemp shorts and over her faded striped tank top. Where had all her cool gone? Rotted away like her jacket, repurposed like her e-bike, leaving nothing but rusty rivets. She'd lost her badassness somewhere, worn it down. She'd known that for years now.
In fact, she could almost pinpoint the day.
Five years after coming here—not long after Dardee's peaceful death from old age—she'd finally decided to do something about the stress and tension that hovered in every single member, a constant presence, a black cloud overhead. Climate change was hard on every person alive, sure, but it had taken Emilia time and contemplation to see that it was hardest on those who lived close to nature, those who felt connected, who experienced pain every time the spring wildflowers were fewer and smaller, every time the returning migratory flocks of birds shrunk.
That night, at the Spring Solstice bonfire, she'd made all the farmbots do a square dance, to wild applause. It had given the members a short-lived release from their worries, made their faces crinkle in laughter in the flickering firelight. The stunt had earned her the title of Robot Whisperer, a name so uncool it made her laugh even now.
Her protectiveness for the community had grown since then. She glanced at the faded photo—no, she wasn't that secretive furtive person anymore. Chlorohaven, with its healing circles and forest bathing, had cleansed her.
But she still had her secrets.
Ohhh yes, she sure did.
She scrubbed her face, callused palm rasping.
The calendar still blinked at her.
Dinner had congealed in the bowl, and she wasn't hungry anyhow. Might as well satisfy the silly thing so it'd stop nagging her. She grabbed a headlamp and hobbled into the back room, past the small workstation, a simple yet robust Bartleby-Q rig, enough to easily handle all the collective's e-needs. Under the wheeled box of old inverters and gauges, the trapdoor hinges gleamed, oiled for quietness. Even a year ago, she could have raised the hatch with one arm. Today, she fetched a handybot and let its pinchers wrench it open.
She climbed awkwardly down the steep wooden ladder, knees complaining. Her headlamp shone on the equipment in the corner, flickering with lights and false purpose. The battered chair sent up clouds of dust and her eyes watered. How many years? How many hours of writing code down here late at night, of staying one step ahead. The intensity of triple screens of endlessly scrolling, the rapid-fire keyboarding, crowing with victory when she squashed an opponent.
Kore and the others would be alarmed and anxious if they knew this setup existed. But telling them how she'd sheltered them, not just from ransomware attackers who tried time and again to breach the collective's systems, and ID thieves almost as talented as Emilia, but also hackers who thought Chlorohaven would be an easy and fun target just for the fuck of it—telling the community about all that would have increased their angst and anger at the outside world. At first, she resented the lack of a thank you or a pat on the back, but she'd finally learned to let her ego go, let it float away like a dandelion seed puff, and continued to secretly protect the people she loved.
Now, miracle of miracles, the outside world had turned a corner. They'd actually learned how to govern themselves in good—well, pretty good—ways, with the help of sophisticated AI that filled the role of Chlorohaven's Tuesday night group discussions. Calgary, Vancouver, and even Regina had actually managed to implement renewable energy sources, encourage mass transit, house every single person, embed food forests in every downtown core, and generally pull back from the brink. She'd be proud of the Reginans if she still felt even a tenuous connection to a living soul there. But their definition of a local carrying capacity, how many people an area could sustainably maintain, was very different than hers. The very thought of crowded sidewalks and thousands of auras all residing a few square kilometers had grown foreign and even disturbing to contemplate nestled here in the pine and spruce and freely flowing mountain air.
She lay down on the narrow bunk, the mattress molded to her body by countless nights. She was as useless as the firewall embedded in the CPU gathering dust against the wall, as useless as software that ran on obsolete O/Ss. It had been ten years since the last attack of any kind on the collective's network. She'd diarized the calendar entry then. Now it was time to shut it all down. If a new threat came along, it'd be so sophisticated she doubted she could make up for a decade of letting her abilities and knowledge lapse. The equipment with its flickering lights was now as useless as she was. It could sit here until it clogged with dust.
"Auntie Emilia? Are you therrre?" A pounding on the workshop's front door. Emilia leaned over and clicked on Camera One, and there was little Audie on screen or maybe it was little Terra, one of Dardee's grandkids anyhow, face mashed against the workshop window, peering in, clutching a broken toy of some kind. The light in their eyes was worshipful, incredulous, full of wonder at the magic they believed lived within. Even with no idea of her mad skills. Her former mad skills.
One hand pressing firmly down on the side table helped her stand, wrist on fire, hips protesting. She limped over to the rig. The chair squealed as she methodically shut down it all down, one system at a time, fingers feathering across the familiar keyboard. Telltales winked out like dying fireflies until the dim lamp was the only illumination, a sorrowful moon for a sorrowful day.
She unplugged the powerbar cord for good measure. Thorough is as thorough does, she thought to herself, then realized that had been one of Dardee's phrases.
Audie, or whoever it was, was still yelling. She plucked a rusted rivet off a cracked ceramic plate full of screws and transistors. Maybe the rad factor she'd always craved wasn't about being slick AF. Maybe it was the glow in a child's eyes. She couldn't fix the heavy stuff on the solar array anymore, couldn't even fix that magnifier, but maybe she could pin a broken puppet back together or glue a wheel back on a wooden toy garden cart.
Something in the clutter next to the plate caught the light. She pushed off a yellowed paperback and pair of needlenose pliers and used the hem of her shirt to rub the dust off her old mirrorshades.
They slid on, smooth and slick against her face, the ultimate of cool.
A glance at her reflection in a dead screen showed a slender, surprisingly elegant ponytailed woman with faded tats down her arms and an ironic twist to her mouth.
Yeah, she still had it.
She grinned, waggled her forefinger and pinky finger at the image, then, shades in place, headed for the ladder.
The Strength of the Willow
Commando Jugendstil and Tales from the EV Studio
The wind makes the broken door to the allotment squeak on its busted hinges. It sounds a bit like a wounded bird.
Viola raises her eyes to the sky. Blue-gray clouds gather overhead, and the air smells like ozone and petrichor. A small, lopsided smile makes its way onto her face.
A thunderstorm is on its way, and she doesn't even have an umbrella, not that it would help, from the looks of it. It feels almost like a set-up for a dramatic scene in a movie.
The allotment in ruins around her, the storm overhead, and she’s crying bitter tears in the rain.
It feels extremely tempting to let it play like this. The heavens know she needs a bit of catharsis in her life.
She closes her eyes and spreads her arms wide, settling down to wait for the rain.
It feels almost peaceful, almost all right.
They tried to set up a teaching allotment for local schoolchildren and a small urban farm to feed local families during the cost of living crisis, and for a while it worked. And now it's all gone, overnight.
The fence, broken. The tools, stolen. Even the produce has been ripped from the ground and trampled.
There is nothing left.
All her work from the last years is gone, so yeah, for once she can allow herself to be a bit dramatic, to have a cry in the rain, and have a warm shower and a hot tea at home before she starts looking for a new job.
Because sure as hell, the borough is not going to renew their lease on the land and their funding when the allotment can no longer provide the deliverables.
Given how the nearby companies are raring for the chance to show their green credentials by privatizing and "beautifying" a public space, Viola gives it six months maximum before the (former) allotment becomes a wellbeing green space, or something like that, and the eighteenth century Cascina next to it some kind of event space or hip co-work.
Viola feels a tide of anger rise inside her. She wants to march to their offices and trash them. She wants to break things and yell until she has no voice left, but she can't.
Hunches and gut feelings are no proof, and cui prodest can only get one so far.
There is nothing she can do. Nothing except stand in the ruined allotment, pretending to be a lily of the fields, kissed by the wind and peed on by Dobermans, and curse her naivety.
Communities don't matter. When push comes to shove, the authorities will always look out for their real constituents, the people with the money.
She should have remembered that. She should have never accepted the job of coordinating the work in the allotment and teaching the community. She should have never believed in this project, believed that it could end any other way.
The first fat drops of rain start falling on her upturned face and hands, and Viola welcomes them. It feels almost peaceful, except for one noise.
Something is scraping, digging, grunting, and panting softly.
A dog must have gotten into the allotment from the nearby public park. Again.
At this stage, Viola doesn't even care if they dig a giant hole, there is nothing really left to damage, but the noise...
"Is it too much to ask to be left in peace for, like, two minutes?!" she yells, whirling to face the intruder.
"Eh, sorry, fam, but I want to get this back where it belongs before it starts throwing it down, if you don't mind," Stabby responds, looking over their shoulder, pausing only briefly in their attempts to shovel compost back into the overturned bins with a discarded paper plate.
Viola blinks and shakes her head, but the image remains.
"Y-you know that it's not going to go bad if it gets wet, right?" she retorts, retreating to the comfortable terrain of permaculture instruction.
"Yeah, I know. The fact is that it smells, and I don't want it spreading everywhere if I have to sleep here, you know?" they reply, shrugging their shoulders.
"Sleep here?" Viola repeats.
She turns towards the patio of the Cascina. Somehow, while she had her little sulk-and-communion with nature, a whole bunch of people have snuck in behind her back.
A pair of colourful pop-up camping tents have appeared on the covered patio, while Lidia and Anna, the carpenters from the community workshop, are trying to repair at least one of the smashed wooden tables.
Other people gather the debris of what can't be fixed in neat little piles or clean the area with broken brooms and mops as well as they can.
Once the table stands, albeit a bit wobbly, people start appearing with food: a tray of bite-sized pizzas, a bowl of pasta salad, a tagine, even some very dubious vegan ham sandwiches.
"What is going on here? What are you doing?" Viola asks.
"For now, a vigil," replies Linda, one of the retired aunties who have been the backbone of the project from its inception.
"And later what we should have been doing since the beginning," another auntie says and sets her tray of lasagne on the table with enough force to make it wobble dangerously on its newly repaired legs.
"We've made the mistake of treating this as a workplace, as something that was conceded to us but didn't really belong to us, and here is the result," La Presidenta says, knocking the butt of her crutch on the ground.
The normally mild-mannered head of the local transition cooperative looks absolutely furious, gray hair frizzy and wild from the rain and anger flashing in her brown eyes. She looks even more like her child, Stabby.
"It's time to say no more," La Presidenta continues. "From today, we form a permanent picket to protect our teaching allotment and preserve the Cascina as a social space for the local community. They won't take this place from us."
"Not without a fight, at least," Stabby adds, twirling the broken handle of a broom.
The crowd of allotment volunteers and random neighbors cheers.
The aunties unwrap their trays and bowls of food, and everybody tucks in, eating from mismatched, chipped plates, bowls and even a couple of oversized mugs.
Angelo, the leader of the neighbourhood’s volunteer group, uncorks a bottle of wine, while what looks like homemade limoncello does the rounds among the crowd.
People eat and drink and tell each other stories about their best moments at the allotment—and about what else they would have wanted to do. Someone pulls out a guitar. They sing protest songs, clapping their hands, until late in the night.
Viola finds herself dragged into this haphazard commemoration even if a part of her knows that all of this is, in all likelihood, futile.
The neighbors might feel a surge of righteousness and enthusiasm now that the event is fresh, but in the long term, both will fade and people will go back to their routines. They will struggle to find people, and eventually the borough will get the space back to do what they wish.
She can't get too attached to this place and their projects. Not again.
She will do what she was contracted to do in the original project—no more, no less—and if she finds a new job that pays more, she'll take it without hesitations, she vows, even as she accepts another shot of paint-stripper-grade limoncello.
The morning sun finds her crawling out of a tent, without any memory of how she got there in the first place, and a monstrous headache.
Someone presses a glass of homemade isotonic drink into her hands. The air smells like freshly baked croissants and coffee.
Stabby and their partner Loopy are leading a group of youngsters in what looks an early morning martial arts lesson, in spite of the wet ground, while the lonely, unsteady table hosts a group of neighbours who pore intently over a pile of documents.
Angelo turns to wave at her with a sheaf of paper in his hand.
"Oh, here you are!" he exclaims, beckoning for her to join them around the table.
"We're going over the plans for replanting, but we'd like you to sanity-check them," one of the aunties adds, shuffling her chair to the side to make space for her.
"I would, but we have nothing to do the replanting with," Viola counters, ignoring the offer to sit down. The seeds that were in the storage bin have been scattered or stolen by whoever broke into it, and, as far as she knows, they have no more budget to buy any more.
And then, they don't have any tools to work the soil with. Or anywhere to store them. Or a door to ensure they comply with the regulations of the borough.
