Fighting for the Future, page 18
Now, passing through these dying small towns, wearing his dumb and thick clothes, he saw the future composting the past all around him, and just as the composter had to be regularly purged of things that refused to break down—stray bits of metal, the odd bone, coated materials that needed higher temperatures or special solvents to return to soil—San Fernando valley had an unexpectedly stubborn collection of insoluble, terrible objects that were too badly made to love, but too overbuilt to fall apart gracefully.
Friday came so fast, and yet it felt like so much more than five days had gone by. Everything felt routine: the early morning bus, the morning walk through the Huerta, waving to the other model classroom kids and the Huerta's employees like old friends, the sound-effects from the school hallways, the giant, old-fashioned Chromebooks, the school groups gawping at them.
"I want to congratulate you all on an outstanding week," Mirzoyan said, just before morning nutrition break. "I've been so proud and delighted to see you all working with such diligence to make this week a very special one. I always knew you were a special collection of smart and dedicated young people, but this week was the perfect capstone to your middle-school careers and I hope you will remember this time. I know I will." She applauded them, so corny, but also, it killed Artemio. That clapping, the speech, this weird classroom: they weren't just finishing up their week at the Huerta, they were finishing up middle school, next stop, high school, puberty, dating, responsibility, growing up, moving on.
"Come on, give yourselves a hand," Mirzoyan said, and the moment was such that they did, clapping together until the bell rang, and then they stopped, but the sound of the clapping didn't. At first, Artemio thought that the Huerta had added an applause track to the hallway sound effects, but then he realized it was raining outside, really raining, that bad rain that came every couple years, triggering mudslides and floods.
He realized that his pocket was buzzing and when he shook out his phone he saw that everyone else was also checking theirs and as he smoothed it out, he saw the flash-flood/shelter-in-place alert. Mirzoyan looked up from her glasses and her face was tight and tense: "Come on people, this is not a drill."
The rains battered the school, and they could see the fast-moving streams outside, overflowing the drainage channels and filled with bobbing detritus, those permanent, insoluble objects of the Huerta, swept up in the rains.
At first it was boring, despite Mirzoyan's efforts to get them to use the floods as a "learning opportunity" about the problems of forecasting in a chaotic climate, about ground water and runoff, about high-altitude atmospheric rivers carrying vast quantities of water vapor from one place to another. It didn't help that the Chromebooks went down after the first hour, followed shortly by main power, leaving just LED light that was hardly better than a storm-lantern in the darkened classroom.
Then, as the rains kept up, it got scary: there were crashes from outside, then, some time later, someone at the window pointed out that one of the horse-drawn carts was sailing down a flood-channel, tipped on its side. The rain intensified and the girls' toilets stopped working, and the cafeteria was locked down and they were getting hungry.
Artemio played Uno with a group of kids he'd been close to in elementary school but had drifted away from in middle school, then he tried to read a book from the class bookshelf but couldn't concentrate on it. The air conditioning had gone out with the lights and the building had been getting more humid and then colder as the rains continued, and then someone came back from the bathroom to say that the hallway ceiling had sprung a bunch of leaks.
Some of the kids wanted to walk to the bus-depot for the Huerta, arguing that the rains were letting up and obviously desperate to get home, and Mizoyan talked them down sternly, and then the rains did start to let up, a little at first, and then a lot, and then there was blue sky and sun, and the ground steamed and the humidity spiked.
Then their phones came back and Mizoyan was able to talk with the Huerta's infrastructure people and give them a report on the school. Bad as it was, some of the other Twenty First Town buildings had done a lot worse: the strip mall was fully flooded, and the Apple Store's big plate-glass windows had swollen out of their frames and shattered.
Everyone groaned when Mizoyan announced that they were going to have to stay put in the sweltering school until the Huerta sent an all-terrain transport for them, which might be a while. There were injuries, downed power-lines, and other hazards and priorities for the Huerta to overcome. Even the news that the Huerta would remote-unlock the cafeteria so they could get some basic snacks didn't help. But still, they sat tight, even after a fight broke out between two girls who'd been besties since kindergarten, even after Mike McKinley threw up, even as the sun set and clouds of thronging mosquitoes rose up out of the mud and began to find their way into the school through the windows that had been thrown open to catch any gasps of wind that were to be had.
When the ATVs came for them, floodlights piercing the night and arcing through the classroom windows, they were too tired even for cheers. They filed up onto the vehicles in silence, squelching in the dark mud, slapping at the mosquitoes, and then they rode through the ruins of the Huerta.
The floods had been bad, exacerbated by a surge from a reservoir upstream that burst its banks, taking out the whole railyard and part of the visitor center, leaving behind a jumble of trees and rocks and stinking mud in its wake. Out here in the deep valley, the flood controls were a lot more primitive than in the built-up cities: it was a matter of priorities. The work it would take to protect this sprawl could be used to defend a city with a hundred times more people in it.
Artmeio's class were the last ones to be rescued, and as they rumbled and squashed their way through the Huerta toward the parking lot, the headlights illuminated slices of wreckage, places that had been lovingly restored and preserved that morning, now filthy ruins.
The buses were waiting for them, the drivers hollow-eyed and solemn. The drive home took forever, but at least the AC was working.
Artemio's father and mother met him at the school and took him home. A big chunk of the local rideshare fleet had gone offline and what remained of it was busied out, so they had to walk, Artemio's clothes sweaty and stinky and clinging and chafing, and when they got home, the cool, dehumidified air made them stick to him all over and he couldn't strip out of them fast enough, not even bothering to put on his pajamas before he got the bed out and folded down and tucked away the other furniture.
The next day, he let the shower clean him all over, holding his hands up while the jets located and worked away the grime and sweat, a full 63 seconds' worth of water, more than the toilet's greywater tank would hold, so that some of it actually went down the drain. He pulled on one of his breathing hoodies and went down to breakfast. Dad and Mom were engrossed in their feeds about the damage from the day before, both of them checking in with their affinity groups about where volunteers were needed.
"You want to come?" Mom asked, as they settled on working in Stough Canyon to clear debris, guiding the machines when they had problems they couldn't solve on their own.
He found he did. A whole day of sitting uselessly while waiting for someone else to fix things had given him an appetite for actually making a difference.
Some of his school friends were there, and by lunchtime it was obvious that there wasn't going to be that much to do—the retention infrastructure in the Burbank hills had held up well. They decided to walk down to the shops for froyo and general mischief and his parents greenlit the plan.
The Stough Canyon bathrooms had a little clothing printer for hikers who got really filthy and he stripped off his sweaty, gross hoody and ran it under the tap and used it to wipe himself down and then he logged into his cloud on the printer's screen. He was about to order up another hoody when he saw that old Skullky design him mom had made him save.
On impulse, he darted his finger over to its picture and a few minutes later, he pulled it over his head. He checked himself out in the park bathroom's scratched and fogged mirror and he grinned. It really was an awesome shirt.
The Scent of Green
Ana Sun
The problem was apparent even before Chloë could see the photobioreactors of Bluefirth—the distinct smell punched through the dappled daylight, a seashore’s worth of dead creatures left for too long under a hot afternoon sun.
Next to her, one hand on the wheel, Doug grinned at the face she made. “Quite something, isn’t it?” He took a swig from a metal canteen, which Chloë hoped contained water and nothing else. “I usually have to make this the last stop on my rounds, else I get complaints from the other settlements on the way.”
Doug’s laden utility vehicle had made the early journey relatively smooth, but the rough road that cut through the wild woodland was pitted with holes, the mud tossed into miniature sculptures by the sheer force of rain. The cycle of storms and droughts was the norm. Up north in these parts, the climate remained wetter, even if it averaged just several degrees higher compared to thirty years ago.
Chloë had a newfound admiration for how Doug coped with these road conditions on a weekly basis without complaint. There must be other settlements that were at least as difficult to get to, journeys often made complicated by the erratic weather.
The woods ebbed away as the vehicle emerged into an open meadow, so wide that Chloë couldn’t see the edges. She gasped. At the heart of the meadow, surrounded by wildflowers, a monumental structure of glass and steel materialised into view. Bluefirth was an immense, sprawling series of hemispheres, glistening in the mid-morning sun. Photobioreactors had been built into the lower half of the walls, luminous green bricks holding up the steel frames and the glass panes.
“You didn’t warn me,” she chided Doug. “It’s marvellous.”
“Wanted you to see it for yourself.” He chuckled. “Microalgae and photovoltaic glass. Genius combination.”
Chloë was still reeling from awe when they pulled up to the main entrance. She hopped out and gathered her belongings from the back seat. The small satchel she grabbed and slung across her body, the large pack she swung onto her shoulders with practised ease.
“See you in a week,” Doug called as she waved.
The solar panels on the top of his vehicle glinted as he drove around the corner to drop off medical supplies.
Another week, another new assignment. Another opportunity to show goodwill to a remote community. This one won’t be easy. Taking a deep breath, Chloë went up to the doors. They slid open without fuss, as if anticipating her arrival.
Stands of palm trees stretched up into the height of the entrance dome. Without a full tropical forest canopy, they dominated, their leaflets combing the roofs, slicing the rays of sun into slivers. Metroxylon sagu, Chloë called the palms by their true name. She whistled under her breath. The people of Bluefirth were definitely clever with their resources; there weren’t that many places where you could grow plants like these in this climate and enjoy its harvests.
Chloë sniffed; the microalgae smell had grown tamer here, but it lingered, never entirely gone. The unmistakable scent lurked in the background of her olfactory senses, a persistent ostinato in the undertow. Perhaps the buildings had some form of air filtration?
No one else appeared to be in the dome. Chloë hoped her Bluefirth contact remembered she was coming today. Well, she could wait. There were a number of interesting plants to study in the undergrowth.
A cheerful, booming voice rang out. “Ms. Qing! Welcome!”
It belonged to a well-built man, his deep taupe skin radiating health under neat black hair speckled with grey. Eyes bright, he rushed up to greet Chloë, shaking her hand with enthusiasm.
“Chloë. Pleased to meet you.”
“İlkay.” His grin was infectious. Chloë found herself smiling back. “I trust you had a good journey?”
İlkay gestured that he should take her pack. Chloë raised her hand to decline his kindness. “It’s fine, thank you.”
“Shall we get you settled first?”
The far end of the dome diverged into two passages. İlkay led her down the right tunnel which opened into another gigantic glass hemisphere.
“Bluefirth was intended to be an eco-resort.” He didn’t wait for her question; he must have caught her sense of wonder.
“Was that a long time ago? What changed?”
“Like all things at the time, the business couldn’t survive, so they shut it down.” İlkay didn’t seem to be too disappointed by that.
Chloë took in the majesty of a birch tree they walked past. Native species of flora filled the dome. Perhaps this part of Bluefirth had been made to replicate the outside world? Or how it used to be. There would be plants here that no longer existed out in the wild.
She took a closer look at İlkay. He appeared older than her, but even he would have been born after the collapse of the last coastal city in the country.
“You’ve been here a long time?” she asked.
“A little more than twenty years,” said İlkay. “I used to be from the Newport settlement in the west. When I came to Bluefirth, they had nearly completed the installations of the photovoltaic glass, but I brought the microalgae farming technology with me.”
“It’s impressive,” said Chloë. It was an honest assessment.
“Not much wind around here, given how sheltered we are. So, sun and photosynthesis it had to be.”
Several homely cabins perched within small groves, all different in their design and colour, each awaiting their own fairy tale.
“These were for visitors?”
“They still are.” İlkay smiled. “Residents have assigned housing on the other side of the main hall.”
They arrived at a log cabin tucked away from main thoroughfare, flanked by some young oak trees. The rosemary bush under the front window was pleasantly fragrant.
“Here you go, this is yours for the week,” İlkay said. “Make yourself at home.”
Then he motioned to their right, where another glass tunnel led around the corner. “See you at the main hall for lunch? Head through that way, you can’t miss it.”
How grand it would be to partake in a communal meal here every day, under a large glass dome, surrounded by greenery—all edible. Chloë marvelled at the fig trees, kale and radishes, grown next to assortments of herbs and leaves in rows of raised beds. Smaller, free-standing planters acted as dividers between rustic wooden tables where Bluefirth residents were busy enjoying the day’s lunch offering. Cosy round tables dotted the edge of the dome for those who wished for a little more privacy.
Her eyes found İlkay waving frantically from the middle of the hall, stuck between merry clusters of diners tucking into their lunch. It took an awkward moment, but she eventually understood that he was indicating they should meet over at the kiosks where food was being served.
“I hope you don’t mind,” he began to say, after they had filled their trays. “I asked Lovorka to join us.”
He guided her towards a table in a corner, at which a pale and athletic woman had already seated, her violet hair loosely pulled into a topknot. Chloë reached out to shake Lovorka’s hand, but there was no warmth in her greeting. Her smile seemed restrained. Up close, she looked tired.
Chloë slipped her satchel over the back of her chair, looking around to make sure she wouldn’t be in the way of passers-by behind her. İlkay settled into his seat with a contented sigh.
“I thought it’d be best to introduce you early. Lovorka is our lead horticultural engineer. Obviously, you’ll have free run of the place, but should you need anything, she’d be happy to help you—”
“Wait.” Lovorka raised an eyebrow. “I thought you’re here to help us. What would you need help with?”
Chloë stiffened. Doug had warned her that not everyone would be so welcoming. Best de-escalate it quickly. She mustered a smile. “I’m afraid I just got here, I haven’t yet seen—”
“Oh, you will,” İlkay cut in. His eyes twinkled with enthusiasm, though Chloë was sure she caught a quizzical glance thrown at his colleague. “Lovorka is best placed to show you around. I’m sure she would agree.”
He looked to Lovorka for affirmation. She said nothing and resumed picking at her salad with a fork. If İlkay was frustrated, he showed no sign.
“She knows this place inside out,” he continued. “Afterwards, I could show you our harvesting hub—which might as well be a harvesting hut.”
When Chloë merely smiled and Lovorka remained sullen, İlkay appeared to give up, switching to a more serious tone.
“So, how about I describe our true dilemma here." He waved one hand around them, showing off their surroundings. “You can see we are obviously thriving. Pardon the pun, but we’re growing to the extent that we need more people to keep it running. Problem is, Bluefirth has a reputation. A certain ... how shall we say—”
“The stink from the photobioreactors puts people off,” Lovorka interjected, drawing a little circle in the air with her fork to punctuate her point. “Even though it’s not that bad once you get used to it.”
“I see …” Chloë started to say. A glimpse at İlkay told her that he didn’t seem bothered by Lovorka’s brusqueness. Good. At least they agreed on what the problem was.
