Solar Flare, page 19
Stunned, she sat with her mouth gape. No capitalism. What in the Gene Roddenberry was this?
“I will distract your guard. You run, full out. It’s the black moped parked closest to the lot.” Pablo stood up. “Wait for my signal.”
“Don’t I need a key?”
He laughed again. “No. Once you put your hands on the handlebars, it will turn on. Press the flashing green button, and off you go.”
“How do you stop people from stealing it?” Mimi stood up, too. It signaled the guard to walk over to them.
“It doesn’t. But if people want to borrow it, they can. I have another.” Pablo shrugged. “There are community mopeds and bikes, bullet trains and busses. It’s never been a problem. Remember, we share.”
“Mimi Washington,” the guard said once she reached table 12. “Let’s go back to the room.”
Mimi glanced at Pablo, who stood closest to the guard. “Okay.”
The guard waited for her to walk first, and she fell in directly behind her. Pablo took up the rear and the three of them made their way out of the cafeteria/visitor room area. They reached the fork where Pablo was supposed to go toward the front exit and Mimi and the guard back past the processing room and on to the holding cells.
“Guard, I have left something. I need to go back,” Pablo said.
Mimi took her shot. She swept her leg out hard against the guard's ankles. The surprised guard thudded to the floor. Mimi ran as fast as she could toward the door. Pablo started behind her.
The guard, stunned, shouted, “Stop her! Prisoner attempting escape!”
Mimi reached the doors, but they didn’t open. They wouldn’t for anyone not cleared to leave the building. Pablo arrived a breath after her and the doors opened for him. Mimi nodded a fast thank you and raced outside. She could hear commotion behind her, but she didn’t dare look back.
Her blood roared in her ears and her heart hammered like a freight train. She’d never done anything like this in her entire life. She found the black moped with ease. All the others were in some shade of blue. With her mouth dry, and her hands trembling, she climbed on board, grabbed the handles as Pablo had instructed and it started up.
True to his word, Pablo had loaded in the GPS directions to Fénix Cloud. Mimi pressed the green button and shot off into her new future.
HEMINGWAY VERSUS THE STORM
by Christopher R. Muscato
Hemingway licked his thumb, a sure sign that there was trouble ahead.
“I don’t see anything,” Thomas said as he scanned the weather maps, eyebrows furrowed in recognition of his companion’s insight. He turned in his seat.
“Hemingway thinks there’s going to be weather,” Thomas stated, matter of fact. Thomas’ father glanced out the window, looking up at the sky.
“Let’s hope he’s wrong.”
Admittedly, Hemingway was rarely wrong. But it did happen. And today would be a good day for such an error in judgement to occur. After all, it was a market day.
“Can’t tell us anything more?” Thomas implored Hemingway. The cat responded by stretching out his toes, tips of claws extending through the furry mittens, and yawning. He licked his nose and sneezed. Thomas didn’t know exactly what that meant, but it didn’t seem to be an omen of doom. In a near-perfect imitation of Adrian, his father, Thomas squared his jaw and tilted his head forward to scan the troposphere. It was a beautiful day. He sat back and nodded, satisfied that the skies posed no clear threat, caught up enough in his own meteorological assessment that the soft, affectionate chuckle from his father went unnoticed.
Hemingway, however, did notice and flicked his bushy tail in an act of comradery.
The view remained unimpeded by cloud or storm as they sped along, blue skies stretching as endlessly as the sea, carrying them forward. And before long, their destination was in sight. Thomas pressed himself against the window, eyes wide. There were many things he enjoyed about his life as a farmer. The quiet time spent among the stalks and leaves of their crops, feeling his hands in the soil, savoring the bounty that came with their labor. But even among those delights, there was something special about the feeling of watching townspeople celebrate their approach. Out the window, although still a ways away, Thomas could see the gathering crowds, sense the swelling energy. Hemingway seemed attuned to it as well, rubbing against the window in anticipation. It seemed that this entire community had congregated for the occasion. There was something about a farmers’ market that always brought folks together.
“Thomas, prep the landing sequence,” Adrian instructed, flipping switches on the control panel as several lights began to blink, each punched in succession. Thomas set to his chores, typing commands into various systems. Hemingway did not assist in these chores, having learned through repetitious scolding that the stepping on of buttons was not part of his expected duties. So, instead he stretched across the top of the console, ears flicking at the buzzing of systems and machines responding to the commands of the central console as the airship began its descent towards the village below.
* * *
From the perspective of those on the ground, few spectacles were quite as exciting as the arrival of the airships for the farmers’ market. The villagers watched in glee as they descended, each appearing from a different direction. One emerged dramatically from a cloud, another materialized from the infinite blue overhead as it slowly, deliberately fell to the earth. Others mingled among the dirigible wind turbines surrounding the village, weaving in and out with rhythmic precision.
As each anchored, securing a place within the growing circle of airships, doors and windows burst outwards, and suddenly the prairie was flooded with the crisp smells and bright hues of fresh produce. The market was open.
Within moments, Thomas’ world became a blur of colors and sounds. He helped his father tether the airship, relishing in the warm air, unseasonable for this late in autumn, a light breeze skirting over the plains. Around him, people laughed and sang and haggled and debated and conversed. There was music and dancing, pointing and gesturing. Goods and services were exchanged for fresh produce. An offer was made, a counteroffer, an agreement sealed with a handshake. Thomas zipped back and forth between the storefront and the storage units, snatching special orders or refreshing popular items, occasionally climbing up into the greenhouse to procure a specific vegetable or mushroom or fruit that someone wanted to inspect before purchasing in bulk.
As was customary for such events, many townspeople wanted to tour the farm and during these times Thomas was left in charge of the storefront while his father guided the interested parties through the storage units and cellars on the lower decks, up through the levels of greenhouses that were stacked vertically within the airship. He showed off the AI units and drones that did most of the physical labor, highlighting the innovations and programming he had personally made, but was also sure to demonstrate his own skill as a farmer, inspecting leaves for mites and checking hydroponic tanks under the enthusiastic gaze of spectators. People wanted to see where their food came from, they wanted to see the farm in action.
And they wanted to meet Hemingway.
“Midwest Coon? Polydactyl?” one townsperson asked, nodding to the bundle of fluff occupying the largest patch of sunlight filtering through the canopy over the storefront. Hemingway flicked his thick, bushy tail with the characteristic orange tuff at the end.
“Naturally,” Adrian replied with a grin, handing the man a bundle of mustard greens. Thomas retrieved Hemingway, who did not protest but also decided it was not worth the effort to maintain a rigid form and thus draped in Thomas’ arms like one of Dalí’s clocks. Thomas lightly squeezed on Hemingway’s thickly padded paws and the cat stretched his digits, expanding his claws so that the visitor could count them. Seven toes on one paw. Eight on the other. A pronounced thumb-like digit on each. Midwest Coons were preferred by many airship farmers, bred specifically for their polydactylism, which improved balance and agility, as well as their highly sensitive whiskers and other senses that made them seem almost supernaturally attuned to the gardens. No airship farm was complete without a resident ship’s cat, and few people would trust a farm that failed to display its cat proudly on a market day. This was a sure sign that the farm’s operations were in good order.
* * *
By the time the market closed that evening and the sun dipped behind the purple mountains looming in the distance to the west, the storerooms of Thomas’ family airship had nearly been emptied. It was a good day, a productive day.
From the lawn chairs set in the cool grass outside their airship, Adrian gave his son a gentle nudge. Thomas looked up from Hemingway as his father nodded subtly to the crowd, then winked as a little girl with black braids smiled and waved. Thomas blushed and buried his chin in his chest, focusing even harder on the cat purring in his lap. Adrian chuckled.
“Adrian! Thomas! Good to see you!”
“Hernán! Pull up a chair, brother!”
Thomas smiled as his father’s friend snapped open a lawn chair next to theirs, stretching out his limbs and sighing.
“Almost makes you want to become a sed, doesn’t it?” Hernán jerked his head at the crowd as he distributed a few cobs of freshly roasted sweet glass gem corn, a specialty breed of Hernán’s floating farm. Thomas took a bite of the juicy and opulent kernels, surveying the community before them. Soft fires flickered around the edges of the gathering, drums and instruments beat out a lively dancing tune, small puffs of smoke rose from the grills where food from the market was being cooked for hungry crowds. Beyond this clearing, Thomas could see lights turning on in some of the houses in the village, small cottages speckled across the plains, steadfast abodes in a sea of swaying prairie grass. The dancing glow of the fires reflected off the occasional solar panel on a roof or slow turn of a wind turbine. The beeping of drones and bots completing final chores in the gardens melded with the rhythmic anthem of crickets pulsing through the warm, humid evening air.
“A farmer’s life is in the sky,” Adrian replied, a soft chuckle on his breath. “You know that well as I. Townsfolk like these can keep their little subsistence gardens and sedentary lives, and we’ll keep roaming that wild blue yonder to grow the rest of their food.”
The conversation went on like this for some time and the burning sunset melted into softer and softer hues before being enveloped in blue and black, glittering specks of light poking through the darkness and twinkling in a dance all their own. They talked about the weather, as farmers are often known to do, remarking on what a warm and yet wet autumn it had been, grateful that the storm they predicted earlier that week had lingered over the distant mountains rather than thundering over the plains.
The fires in the clearing grew smaller, and so did the crowds. Finally, Thomas’ father stretched out his arms with a yawn and all agreed that the evening had come to an end.
“Hernán,” Adrian said suddenly, as his fellow farmer packed his folding chair and started the leisurely meander back to his airship. Hernán turned, eyebrow raised.
“See anything unusual on the meteorological reports?”
“No,” Hernán replied, puzzled. “Why?”
“Hemingway here was licking his thumb earlier. Usually means weather.”
Hernán rested his folded chair on the ground and stroked his chin. A farmer of Hernán’s years knew enough to trust a ship’s cat. It would be horrible luck to ignore one. Farmers could be a bit superstitious in that way, and such superstition usually served them well.
“Spoke with the village elders earlier, they said their labs showed clear skies. They’ve got that early-detection and diffusion system here, helps break up the big storms to keep the village safe. There’s a console in the community center that runs the whole thing, I saw it myself earlier and it’s darn impressive. But I’ll check my own equipment again when I get back to my ship.” He waved farewell and trudged back to his docked farm. Thomas picked up Hemingway and followed his father inside their own airship, knowing full well that there were still chores to do before they could call it a night. The work of a farmer was never really done.
Through the stacked greenhouse within their airship they climbed, taking stock of corn varieties, the ripening of blueberries and apples, the growth of mushrooms, the colonies of crickets, the aquaculture tanks. Thomas’ father reprogrammed a wayward drone as Thomas uploaded a new harvesting program to the others and then refilled the fertilizer and compost bins.
“Whatcha got there?” Thomas leaned over as Hemingway started pawing at the stalk of a kale plant in the vertical hydroponic wall array. Thomas held up his tablet and tugged at the plant.
“Run scanning program,” he instructed the tablet, and on his screen tiny specks appeared. Mildew, in the earliest stages along the roots. Not even the drones had detected it yet. Unchecked, this would spread easily. Thomas spritzed the soil and the nearby tanks with an antifungal his father had perfected years ago and programmed the drones to keep spritzing every few hours. If that didn’t work, Thomas would redeploy some of the nanites in the composter to target the mildew spores directly.
“Better?” he asked, and Hemingway meowed in satisfaction.
“Hemingway find something?”
“Mildew, but I took care of it,” Thomas answered, turning to see his father descending a ladder and clapping dirt off his hands.
“Nice work, both of you,” Adrian tussled his son’s hair before yawning and waving goodnight. Thomas glanced out the window. The sky was still clear. Maybe a cloud over the mountains, it was hard to tell. But the trees in the village and grasses illuminated by moonlight were trembling as the wind picked up speed.
“Dad…”
A waver in Thomas’ voice stopped his father, who turned.
“Do the village’s storm detection systems really work?”
Adrian smiled softly and knelt next to his son.
“Yes, they do.”
“But what if there is a storm? Grandpa Ted used to talk about storms that wiped out whole towns.”
“Storms happen, Thomas. I know you’ve heard the stories of horrible storms from your grandpa’s generation, God rest him. But that was a long time ago, back before they got the warming under control. Do you know why we farm in airships now?”
“The old farms took up too much land,” Thomas recited the lessons he had been taught since his earliest memories. “Killed biodiver—biodiversity. And it was either take to the skies or start farming in the cities and we wasn’t about to become urban farmers.”
Adrian laughed and slapped his knee, then wiped the corner of his eye. It was his own father, the founder of the airborne family farm, who drilled that lesson into Thomas’ head.
“That’s right, kiddo,” he chuckled. “But just because we moved away from fossil fuels and moved our farms into the sky to let the land heal, it didn’t get rid of storms. Just brought them back to what they had always been. Storms are a part of nature, totally normal. Look here.”
Noting the apprehension still written across his son’s face, Adrian pulled out his tablet and tapped open an image of the town’s schematics.
“The village’s early-detection and diffusion system,” he gestured to an array of antennae and dishes surrounding the perimeter of the township, “were designed in your grandpa’s generation. That means they were made to break up the mega-storms of the warming days. A system like this can handle a normal storm, no problem.”
“What if nobody is in the control room?” Thomas pressed. Again, his father tussled his hair.
“Fully automatic. It will turn itself on if it detects a dangerous storm system, like a tornado. Even if there’s nothing, one push of a button anywhere on that console will set the entire system into motion as a preventative failsafe. Guess this is a pretty good place for us to park for the night, huh?”
With a final tussle, he stood and jerked his head, indicating that it was time for Thomas to get to bed. Thomas nodded.
“Come on, Hemingway,” Thomas called. He turned towards the ladder that led to his habitation quarters, but then paused and looked back. Hemingway wasn’t padding along after him. Instead, the cat had leapt up to a windowsill and was staring, unmoving, at the rising moon. Finally, Hemingway looked down at Thomas and licked his thumb.
* * *
Perhaps it was the full moon flooding Thomas’ cabin with beams of glowing light, or maybe Thomas had one too many sugar beet candies at the market, but he was restless that night. Finally, he managed to drift into an uneasy sleep, one where kernels of gem glass corn fell from dark clouds like hail and ribbons of lightning leapt forth to snap at his feet.
“Wha—” Thomas woke with a start to find Hemingway chewing on his toes.
“Stop it,” Thomas grumbled, rolling over and shaking a foot at the cat. Hemingway took a small step back, then flicked his tail and pounced.
“Ouch! Hemingway, what is the matter with—” Thomas paused, the insult frozen on his lips as Hemingway hopped off the bed and trotted towards the door, pausing just long enough to cast Thomas a look that was clearly intended as an invitation to follow. No, more than an invitation. An invocation.
Slowly, Thomas pulled back his sheets, grabbed his slippers from under his bed and his robe from the wall, and followed the cat into the shadowy hallways of the airship. All was quiet, save for the occasional whir of a farm drone at work, examining stalks or spritzing the kale for mildew. Finally, they reached the cockpit of the airship where Hemingway sprang deftly onto the console and looked up at the sky. Thomas followed suit. He could still see the moon, bright and full, but dark clouds were forming around the edge of it.
“Just a little storm,” he told Hemingway. “It’s part of nature. Come on, let’s go back to bed.”
The cat did not move, but remained transfixed on the sky, still and silent as a statue with a hint of tension in his limbs, as if waiting for a mouse to race across the surface of the moon. Thomas watched the cat, bit his lip, and scanned the sky again.
