Solar Flare, page 22
“Useful, isn’t it?”
Thorn jumped and spun to see the youngest member of the council standing beside her. He gave her a crooked grin. “Some unknown benefactor sent it to us.” His gaze drifted to the artisans sitting behind it. “It’s not enough, though.”
The spark died once more. “The relocation offer is still on the table,” she felt compelled to point out.
“They won’t take it.” He turned to face her fully. “This is the only home most of these folk have known. They can trace their ancestors back for generations in the church graveyard, and most of those ancestors lived in the exact same house they do. To give that up…”
“If it means you get a chance to survive?” She arched an eyebrow. “Is that why you came to meet me out here? To tell me not to bother with the meeting?”
His lips pinched together and he looked away. “It’s not the life I want for my children, ma’am. But the rest of the council doesn’t agree.”
“Then leave them. The relocation offer is on a per-person basis—you don’t need to bring the whole neighborhood with you.”
“And abandon my children’s grandparents?” His tone was shocked. “Could you do that, ma’am?”
She did her best not to snort. “My parents kicked me out when I came out as trans, and my grandparents haven’t spoken to me in twenty years. So, yeah, I could.” She winced at the way he shifted in discomfort. She hadn’t intended to sound quite so cynical. “I can understand why you won’t, though,” she added.
He studied her for a moment, then sighed. “They’re scared, I think, though they’d rather die than admit it. They don’t want to leave what they know, and they don’t want to go begging to Uncle Sam either.”
“So tell me what might convince them.”
She wasn’t sure why she asked—if they were already failing, then the publicity Ethel was so worried about would never come to pass. All she had to do was report that and she’d never have to walk through these streets again.
A flash of color caught her eye, and she turned to see a group of children chasing a soccer ball through the market. Shouted warnings to beware the pottery followed in their wake, but the yells were tempered by indulgent smiles and the children themselves grinned as though they didn’t have a care in the world. How was it fair to tear them away from the only home they knew?
Then again, the world wasn’t fair, was it? And the thought of what would face these kids as the water slowly ran out didn’t sit well with Thorn.
She swiped a trickle of sweat off of her forehead and turned back to the council member. “Please. Help me convince them that they can build a new life—a better life—somewhere else.”
The man sighed. “Well…you might try this.” And, point by point, he laid out all the fears and hopes and dreams that the council cradled close, along with all the ways relocation shattered those dreams.
* * *
Five hours later, Thorn walked away from the Sacred Heart of Mary church with a polite, firm no and a barrel of ideas for how to change that no to a yes. They simmered in her mind the whole bus ride back to Washington, buoying her up as she made her report to Ethel. “I think,” she concluded, “I can convince them.”
“No.”
Thorn blinked. “What about the PR disaster?”
Ethel set her papers aside and gave Thorn the small, sweet smile she probably gave to grandchildren who had just proposed something like dessert for dinner. “You said that they’re already struggling, right? They can hardly become a PR disaster if they’re failing, dear. But they will make an ideal object lesson for other recalcitrant communities. Weren’t you saying that both Los Alamos Two and Moab Four were trying to bargain for an increased relocation stipend? This ought to convince them both to take the package while it’s still available.”
The response wasn’t a surprise, but it still set a fire simmering inside of Thorn. Her back ached from too long on a hard bus seat, her feet were throbbing, and she was in no mood to be conciliatory. “Doesn’t their welfare also matter? Or have we stopped caring about that entirely? After all, one happy neighborhood isn’t much good for publicity.” She spat the last word like a curse.
Ethel shot her a sharp look. “Why don’t you take the rest of the afternoon off, dear? Get some rest. Then you can start on your next cases with a clear head—you do have quite a lot of them, after all.”
Thorn considered and discarded a dozen responses before finally settling on, “Yes, ma’am,” under the assumption that anything else would get her fired. Then she ducked her head in pseudo-submission and turned to go.
Ethel cleared her throat as Thorn’s hand landed on the doorknob. “Oh, and, dear? No more extracurricular actions, understand?”
Heat—rage or shame, Thorn couldn’t tell—washed over her as she left the building. The muggy summer air that smacked her in the face as she stepped onto the sidewalk did nothing to cool her temper. Extracurricular actions. Seriously?
Alright, she shouldn’t have sent the Whisson prototype to Santa Fe Seven. But was it so bad to hope that someone, somewhere, could eke out a semblance of normalcy even as the world shattered around them?
Maybe it’d been foolish. The relocation bill had been struck down by four separate Congresses before the situation became dire enough that even the most pigheaded politicians couldn’t ignore it. And it had required a whole other set of political battles to convince the Bureau suits to change their mission: no longer would they turn the desert into a paradise—instead, they had to move all the people who’d settled in that desert on the strength of the Bureau’s promises.
So now their engineers were unwinding all the miracles of the 20th century, while folk like her were stuck trying to convince people to leave their beloved homes for a pittance and a prefab house somewhere damp and foreign. Was it any wonder Santa Fe Seven refused?
The subway stank of sweat and old cigarette smoke, with an underlying hint of urine, but she barely noticed as she climbed into the air-conditioned car. How long had it been since she’d taken a vacation? She had to have a few days saved up. And Ethel couldn’t complain about something Thorn did on her days off…
* * *
“And, if you like it, I can take three of you to see it tomorrow.” Thorn scanned the flat faces staring at her as the lights came back up. “What do you think?”
She bit the inside of her cheek as the council members continued to stare. On the projection screen behind her, the mockup of the relocated neighborhood circled slowly through the various views. Thorn was quite proud of them—she’d spent far too many hours calculating the cheapest ways to recreate a New Mexico flavor in the town in eastern Washington.
“Doesn’t look like much,” one of the women muttered.
“You can decorate it however you want,” Thorn replied. “I’m not much of an artist, I’m afraid, but your community has plenty.”
“How much will this cost us? We won’t take charity.”
Thorn flipped back to the slide of costs that she’d prepared. “The relocation stipend will cover the down payment on the buildings themselves, and you’ll have a bit left over to start renovations. If you budget carefully, as per here, you shouldn’t be spending more than $5,000 per family.” In the first year, at least.
The oldest man on the council raised a white eyebrow. “So cheap? We’ve heard that the stipend rarely covers more than half the down payment.”
“Well…” Thorn tried to smile. “Most people don’t want to live in the middle of another desert. You won’t be close to major population centers. But I understood that that’s actually a good thing. It should feel similar to here, climate-wise, except you’ll actually have enough water. And you’ll all be together. And…” She flipped to a new slide. “The History Keepers Association has volunteered to move the graves of your ancestors so they can come with you. If you want.” She hadn’t been able to figure out if that would be considered sacrilege by the various faiths—primarily Catholic, but Santa Fe Seven also had a number of folk from the Apache and Navajo peoples. But it had been a major sticking point for them, so she hoped the offer wouldn’t offend them.
The council exchanged looks. Thorn bit her cheek once more. If this didn’t work, well… she was out of ideas, and out of vacation days as well. She’d called in sick just to make the trip down here. Please, she begged silently. At least consider it.
After the silence had transitioned from awkward to agonizing, the eldest council member leaned forward. “Very well, Ms. Thorn. We will visit your proposed neighborhood.”
“And you’ll consider relocating there?”
More glances bounced between the council. “Yes, we will,” the youngest member said firmly. “No, grandmother, I understand you don’t want to leave. But we must at least consider this—we won’t get another offer like it. Would you rather see us split apart, one family drifting off at a time as the lack of water gets to be too much or their savings run out?” He looked around the table. “How many tourists do you think we will get, in the coming years? Where will we find work when the hospitals and stores and restaurants close, when the fields wither from lack of irrigation? No. If we wish to live, we must consider—consider!—change.”
This time, before the silence could stretch too long, laughter filled the room. “Very well, Sani. You, and I, and… Maria? Will you accompany us?”
One of the women heaved a sigh. “I suppose I must.” She eyed Thorn with something akin to suspicion. “Why did you decide to do this?”
Thorn resisted looking at Sani. “A little bird gave me a few tips. And, truly?” She shrugged. “It’s my job.”
“Then we’re decided.” Sani stood up. “Tomorrow, you said?” When Thorn nodded, he grinned. “Then I suspect we should pack. It is a long set of bus rides to Washington State, no?”
LUMEN
by Gail Z. Martin & Larry N. Martin
1898—West Virginia
“The wagon should have been here by now,” Galen Willaby said. Old Mr. Hendricks shook his head.
“Sorry, Galen,” Hendricks said. “Tell you what—if it hasn’t arrived by end of day, I’ll send a telegram. That’s the best I can do.”
“It’s too early to panic.” Hendricks chuckled at Galen’s deflated expression. “What’s in the shipment, anyhow?”
“Mostly plates for the big dinner at the end of the conference.” Galen brushed an errant curl of red hair out of his eyes. “Nice enough to look respectable for those newspaper people and investors.”
“If they’re coming in from the city to hear Taron Hibbard talk about solar energy, I don’t think they’ll expect us to be feral.”
“We also had some replacement parts for the solar equipment made. I want to make sure we can put our best foot forward.”
“Do you ever sleep? I know the conference is a big deal, but you look like you’re running on coffee and nerves.”
Galen gave a chagrinned smile. “I sleep a little. But we’ve got major investors coming in from New York, Boston, and Chicago, and the inventors who create that technology. After everyone’s hard work for ten years, this could be the big break for Taron’s theories and solar power. We could prove all the naysayers wrong. It has to go well.”
“I sure hope Professor Algernon gives you a big raise when this is all done. And a week to catch up on your sleep,” Hendricks said. “Now scoot. When the wagon shows up, I’ll send for you.”
Galen thanked him and headed outside. He pinched the bridge of his nose, staving off a headache.
“Mr. Willaby!” a dark-haired woman called out and rushed toward him. “I have a few questions for you.”
Galen didn’t recognize her. “Can I help you, Miss?”
“Sara Jackson. Call me Sara—they say Lumen folks don’t stand on ceremony.” She gave a wide smile and a firm handshake. Her hair was caught back in a thick braid, and her blue eyes sparkled with curiosity. “I’m with the Charleston Weekly Star.”
“Reporter?”
“Sure am. And I’m wondering if Lumen’s ready for the hornet’s nest this conference is likely to stir up.”
Galen’s eyebrows rose. He hadn’t expected that to be the first question if the subject came up at all. “We believe in the solar technology we’re pioneering—and proving—to light homes, heat our water and houses. With wind and water power for backup, we’ve reduced our need for coal and oil to emergency supplies only—which keeps our land, air, and rivers clean.”
He dodged the “hornet’s nest” comment because the backlash would happen soon enough after the conference results went public.
“I’m looking forward to the grand tour. But the coal and oil companies aren’t going to be happy. Lumen’s success and Dr. Hibbard’s theories pose a real threat to them. Aren’t you worried?”
“Taron saw coal miners coughing up black dust, children sick from bad water and bad air from the smoke. He wanted to create a better way—and it’s time we showed the world they have a choice.”
“One more question—”
“I will be glad to talk more later,” Galen said, “but I’ve got to take care of a few things right now. I promise you—I’m easy to find.” He tipped his hat and stepped around Sara.
“Aren’t you worried someone might cause trouble to discredit Lumen?” she called after him. Galen was, but he didn’t need those comments on the record, so he picked up his pace and pretended not to hear. When he ducked into his office building, he breathed a sigh of relief.
Elizabeth Sawyer, his assistant, was waiting for him. “Where’s the wagon?”
“Not here. For as careful as we’ve been, it just seems like stuff keeps going wrong.”
Elizabeth frowned. “It hasn’t really been that bad, has it?”
“Thank heavens we caught the problem with the band having the wrong dates. At least that got straightened out.”
“If the dishes don’t show up, we’ll borrow what we need from the townsfolk. And if the band suddenly takes sick, we’ll get Buck Henry to play the fiddle with Frank Kent on harmonica—make it a downhome Lumen evening.” Her grin let him know she was teasing.
“You’ve got a knack for looking on the bright side,” Galen said as they walked to the office they shared. “I don’t want to bungle our chance to win over the world on solar power.”
“Don’t give yourself an upset stomach over it. Oh, and Mayor Sumner is looking for you.”
Galen’s heart sank.
Elizabeth tilted her head and gave him a look like she could see right through him. “Why don’t you check on the meeting hall? Or stop by the train station and make sure the stationmaster has the guests’ arrival schedule. I’ll go back to the office and hold down the fort.”
Galen nodded gratefully and headed downtown. Lumen, West Virginia, was so different from Richmond, where Galen had grown up. He’d heard about the utopian community and its brilliant leader, Dr. Taron Hibbard, from one of Hibbard’s books. Hibbard believed that sun, water, and wind could create power equal to the coal that fouled the air and the oil that dirtied the land—and drew a philosophy of equality and peaceful self-sufficiency from that core.
The ideas captivated Galen and made him eager to leave behind the bitterness that still burned in Richmonders after the War. He’d left despite his family’s disapproval. But when he arrived in Lumen, Galen knew he had truly come home.
Galen hoped that making the rounds would clear his mind. He glanced at the rooftops, noting with pride where the solar collectors were positioned. They were strange-looking and took some getting used to. But since they meant the air didn’t hang heavy with coal smoke, Galen thought they were beautiful.
All along his route, shopkeepers were busy washing their windows and sweeping the sidewalks, preparing for the conference that would begin in a few days.
“That banner looks great.” Galen stopped to admire the bunting that read “Welcome Attendees” hanging over the dry goods store.
“It came up nice, didn’t it?” Isaac Johnson looked at his shop with pride. “Maybe some of those conference folks will want to buy some local honey or candles—or some of Mamie Zook’s preserves.”
“The conference schedule gives them time to explore the town,” Galen promised. “After all, it’s not just about proving that we can get energy from the sun. It’s showing that all this—” He swept his arm to indicate the town “—came from Taron Hibbard’s concepts.”
Johnson leaned against his broom. “You think those fancy city folk will see Lumen the way we do?”
Galen looked up the mountain, where a row of flags next to more banks of solar collectors proclaimed the town’s welcome. “Lumen is a success. They can’t help but see it—and Taron will explain how they can make his principles work for them.”
He left Johnson to his sweeping and headed for the Collegium, where the conference would be held. The educational building was the largest in town, a combination learning center and community gathering place. Galen had been proud to gain the position of coordinator.
“There you are!” Professor Algernon, a man in his middle years with white hair and a closely-trimmed beard, hurried down the steps. Algernon put a hand to his heart. “This conference might be the death of me. The eyes of the world are going to be on Lumen and Taron Hibbard, and nothing is running smoothly. One of our speakers—Dr. Grace from the university in Pennsylvania—just wired his regrets. I have to say, for being so late to withdraw, his reason seemed flimsy.”
“He’s the expert on windmills?”
Algernon nodded. “It was odd—something Dr. Grace said made me think he was almost afraid to come.”
Galen remembered Sara’s question. “Do you think Grace was pressured to drop out?”
