by Wendy Devore
“I should have expected this from a book called Renewable,” Andrew muttered.
“What did you find?”
Andrew began to read.
“‘During the 1980s, the explosion in machine learning and quantum computing, which had first been discovered in the late fifties, allowed climate scientists to more accurately model and more fully appreciate the effect that rising levels of carbon dioxide would have on the planet. World leaders took the dire warnings of the climatologists seriously, and a plan was put in place to completely ban the burning of fossil fuels worldwide within twenty years.’”
“Oh, wow—they kicked oil almost twenty years ago.” It was dizzying to consider. I couldn’t quite fathom the tectonic shift in social and political forces that would make this possible.
Andrew’s eyes continued to graze the page. “Going renewable meant advancements in fuel cells, solar paint, and electric cars. They even extract significant energy from wave action.”
He closed the book and reached for another.
“Oh,” I drew out the syllable as the lightbulb flashed over my head. “The pretty paint on all these cars? That must be solar, too.” I tapped the car’s console screen until I found a graph that showed energy consumption. Even though we’d been on the road for over an hour, the battery gauge still read full. Amazing.
“It’s like we’ve stumbled onto an ecological nirvana,” I marveled.
With renewed admiration for this imminently responsible society, I returned to the history book. As I read the first words of the new chapter, my eyes grew wide. I flipped the next page, then a second, and a third.
“You are going to want to hear this,” I said. “‘In March of 1945, a soldier injured during the successful campaign to retake the Philippine island of Luzon from Japan was transferred to the John Dibble General Hospital in Menlo Park, California. Major Theodore Wilkinson, US Sixth Army, sustained injuries that required the specialized services of reconstructive plastic surgery. Soon after his arrival, Maj. Wilkinson developed symptoms of influenza. Forty-eight hours after he was admitted to Dibble General Hospital, Major Theodore Wilkinson succumbed to progressive respiratory failure.
“‘Twenty-four hours later, the first civilian patients were admitted to Palo Alto Hospital with symptoms of flu that had quickly progressed to acute pneumonia. The ‘Luzon Flu’ epidemic had begun.’”
Andrew rubbed his chin and stared for a moment. “We didn’t have a major flu epidemic after World War II.”
“Well, they did here. But there’s more.
“‘A review of the major’s history indicated that he belonged to a unit that had encountered a massive die-off of wild ducks as they trudged through a wetlands swamp.
“‘Medical professionals now believe that the Luzon Flu strain was a deadly variant of avian influenza that had undergone genetic mutation to become extremely easily transmissible among humans, a process known as antigenic drift. The virus strain was identified as the H5N1 flu virus. Subsequent study of the virus confirmed that its high mortality arises from the hyperproduction of proinflammatory cytokine, also known as ‘cytokine storm.’”
Andrew’s voice was grim. “They had an outbreak of human-transmissible bird flu.”
I skimmed the text. “The outbreak was devastating. Sixty percent of those infected died. By the time the pandemic had extinguished itself in the summer of 1946, over a billion had perished worldwide.”
“Well, that explains it,” he said. “What if there was no postwar baby boom? No surge of enrollment at Stanford because the soldiers didn’t come home—they just died. What if there was no Cold War? No arms race? And a global community of scientists working together instead of hundreds of nations competing? Just look at the technological progress they’ve made. It’s madness. It’s brilliant!”
“Here, Kathryn, set up this tent!” Andrew tossed a bulky silver bag from the cargo area of the car toward me. It landed at my feet in a puff of dust.
I sighed and gave the bag a halfhearted kick, surprised at how light it was. I ignored the pack and instead placed my hands on my hips and took in the view. Andrew had chosen well; the little campground was in the middle of nowhere. On a Tuesday night in September, the place was a ghost town, and we’d had our pick of the campsites. Andrew had selected a spot right along the cliff with panoramic views.
I took in the sweeping panorama of the wild coast from the top of the bluff where the campsite lay; nothing was visible for miles except more rocky cliffs meeting breaking waves and then endless, cerulean blue. I found a large, flat boulder and carefully sat, back straight, wind gently caressing my hair. Not a hint of smog marred the horizon. For a long time, I watched the undulating surface of the ocean rise and fall, each swell marking a rhythm, a beautiful visual representation of how meditation made me feel. I closed my eyes and focused my breath, taking pleasure in the cool sea air. With every minute that passed, I could feel the strain draining away; the disorienting stress of multiple far-slice travels began to fade. The retrograde anxiety caused by my newfound petty larceny hobby slowly unwound. The baffling rush of emotion I felt every time Andrew was near floated far from my consciousness. I brought my attention to the sounds, the sea birds and rough waves, and the unbroken whisper of the wind. I was fiercely drawn to this place.
My tranquil nirvana was rudely interrupted.
“Kathryn, can you please set up the tent?” Andrew called, still digging around in the trunk of the little vehicle.
I opened my eyes, rose slowly from my perch, and returned to the task. I shot a completely wasted withering glance toward Andrew’s back and began foisting out folds of silvery fabric from the bag at my feet.
“I’ve never pitched a tent in my life,” I grumbled. Because you don’t really go camping when you awaken every soul around with panicked screams because you’ve had another nightmare.
As I spread the rustling silver mass, I realized that it was constructed with an intricate pattern of interlocking fabric triangles, and in the center of each was a flexible green insert that resembled a solar panel.
I stretched the tent out along the stubby grass of the campsite into a big, flat circle and shook out the bag. Five metal stakes and a compact, smooth black canister tumbled out, but no other parts or instructions were available.
“Um…” I shouted into the wind. “How do I make it go up?”
“You are a PhD student,” Andrew retorted. “Figure it out.”
I picked up the canister and examined it. It was the size and shape of an elongated soup can, with no writing of any kind. On the end of the device, I found a short, black, round coupler and a little square indentation. I walked carefully around the tent until I found a nearly hidden flexible plastic hose with a black electrical cable protruding from the back. I attached the hose to the canister, and the electric cable’s square black clip fit exactly. Immediately the device began vibrating, and the tent began to rise.
“It’s a pump!” I shouted excitedly.
The solar panels on the tent powered the pump, which inflated the entire structure in under a minute. When the pump automatically switched itself off, I was standing next to a fully inflated, seven-foot diameter silver geodesic dome covered in flexible triangular solar panels. The structure swayed a bit in the sea breeze, and I gave it a gentle shove, sure it would blow off across the campground like a giant futuristic tumbleweed, but it stayed put. Just to be completely certain we wouldn’t be blown over the cliff in the middle of the night, I attached the stakes, stomping each into the ground.
I surveyed my work with a sense of satisfaction until I was unceremoniously hit square in the back by the flying sleeping bag that Andrew had launched from across the campsite. I turned around to object and just barely caught the second bag.
“The campground host mentioned there’s a general store a couple of miles down the road,” Andrew called from the back of the car.
Beside him stood an enormous pile of camping gear; I had no idea how he’d
managed to fit it all in the little auto.
“Set up or stow the rest, and I’ll see if I can find something palatable for dinner. If you see anything that has solar panels on it, make sure to set it out in the sun. And don’t go anywhere.” Andrew eyed me warily. “I chose the most isolated site possible, so I don’t think you’ll have any visitors, but be extremely careful until I get back.”
Andrew climbed into the car, and it glided silently away down the dirt road. I surveyed the giant pile of gear; with a shrug and a sigh, I began shifting boxes and duffels toward the picnic table.
Chapter 22
Kate
September 28
Andrew had returned, bearing groceries. I unfolded from a half-lotus position and stretched, rising slowly and reincorporating myself gingerly back into the world after emerging from deep, tranquil meditation.
“Nine hours,” I said, gazing at the sun as it slowly sank toward the horizon where sea met sky. “That’s how long we’ve been gone. I wonder if Ophelia has dissipated yet?”
“We occupied the slice that spawned the storm for well over two days,” Andrew replied. “If we want to effect change at home, we should stay as long as possible.”
“So, we’re just camping out?”
“Yes, we are. And even people who are camping out to save the world need to eat.” He rolled up his sleeves. “A little known but important rule of a successful camping trip is to serve at least one truly spectacular dinner,” he pronounced.
Andrew extracted a paper-wrapped package, a small block of butter, and a cardboard container of mushrooms. A neon orange silicone tube on the picnic table cleverly unrolled into a two-foot-wide mat topped with a flexible metal disc. The whole contraption was attached to a small box topped with a solar panel.
“What is that thing?” I asked.
“With any luck, it’s the camp stove of the future.”
Andrew placed a fry pan on the burner and dropped a chunk of butter inside. It began to melt, then sizzle.
He unwrapped the contents of the white paper package and placed two plump, seasoned strip steaks on the griddle. In went the mushrooms and a handful of fresh thyme.
While he cooked, I tossed a bundle of baby arugula and some cherry tomatoes with pine nuts, balsamic vinegar, and olive oil. Andrew transferred the steaks and mushrooms to a pair of blue enamel plates and deglazed the pan with red wine. He drizzled the resulting sauce over the beef, which steamed in the rapidly cooling night air.
I sat at the table in the waning daylight and attacked the meal with the eagerness of a rabid carnivore. The first bite of steak melted in my mouth. The mushrooms were full of earthy flavor, and the sauce was divine. I let out an involuntary groan and quickly scarfed another bite.
“Calm down there,” Andrew said, laughing.
“Who knew steak could taste like this?” I mumbled through a mouthful, forgetting all my manners. Did this slice produce the most delicious beef in the known universe? Or was it simply eating outdoors after an exhausting day? In any case, my mother would be appalled with my manners. Unless she tasted this steak.
Andrew added salad to his plate and sipped wine from a tin cup. “Spectacular meal—check.”
The meal was finished and the dishes washed; the long, arduous day was growing to a close. As the last vestige of twilight slipped from view, a warm yellow light automatically illuminated the tent, turning it into a cozy beacon. Andrew yawned, and I immediately followed suit. The adrenaline that had powered me through lack of sleep and multiple far-slices had long since drained away, and I was exhausted.
“Tomorrow we’ll do more research, but for now, I suggest we get some rest,” he said, unfastening the tent’s flap and motioning for me to join him inside. After a moment of hesitation, I climbed in and secured the opening behind me.
I surveyed the interior of the tent, which suddenly seemed very small—and intimate. “And our sleeping arrangements are?”
“The sleeping bags are a matching pair, so take your pick.”
He unfastened a clasp on the first bag and shook it out, then reached for the second bag and efficiently expanded it as well. The gray fabric crinkled, and the mummy-shaped bags seemed to puff up to an impossibly high loft.
“So we’re both going to sleep in here?” I asked. My palms felt inexplicably clammy.
“Unless you’re planning on sleeping under the stars.”
He sat down on the far sleeping bag and pulled off his shoes and socks. I calculated how uncomfortable I’d be if I tried to sleep sitting upright in the autonomous car.
Andrew unbuttoned his shirt and pulled it off, folding it carefully.
“Um, should I step out, or…?” I asked, pointedly examining the underside of the solar panels on the tent’s far walls.
“That’s not necessary,” Andrew replied as he stood up and unzipped his trousers.
“Oh, maybe it is!” I replied uneasily. I fumbled with the zipper of the tent’s flap and darted outside.
“Kathryn, come back inside the tent. You’re being ridiculous.”
“I just need to know, are you completely naked?” I asked apprehensively, my back to the tent.
His exasperated sigh was followed by the sound of a long zip, a pause, and another zip. I was still considering my options when something flapped past my left shoulder. Something birdlike. Then I remembered that birds don’t fly at night.
I gritted my teeth. “Oh, it’s a bat, I really hate bats…” I complained as I fumbled with the tent flap. A second creature hurtled through the air above my head. I glanced nervously over my shoulder as I ducked back inside the tent.
Andrew shifted within the snug confines of his sleeping bag. “A bat,” he mumbled.
I rubbed my arms, not completely sure if the goose bumps were a product of the cold night air or my encounter with flying mammals.
I looked from the occupied sleeping bag back to the door of the tent one last time, then realized I had no other option. I slipped off my borrowed leather shoes, unzipped the second sleeping bag, and began to climb in.
“You can’t wear your clothes to bed, Kathryn.” The tone he used made me feel like an idiot. “These clothes are natural fibers. You’ll be a wrinkled mess tomorrow. You’ll look like you’re homeless.”
I was, in fact, homeless at the moment, but he was right…and the point was to blend in. I remembered my street clothes, wadded up in a ball and stuffed somewhere in the back of the car.
“I can sleep in my old clothes.” I climbed out of the bag.
“You could…”
Then I remembered the bats and hesitated.
“I don’t suppose you want to go get them for me?” I asked sheepishly.
“Not especially.”
I weighed the options, then sighed.
“Could you at least give me some privacy?”
I was certain I caught the faint tug of a smile at the corner of his eyes as he rolled over to face the tent wall.
As quickly as humanly possible, I slid out of my skirt and pulled off the blouse. I folded both and dived into the sleeping bag, which was surprisingly warm and soft. I snuggled in up to my eyeballs.
With a soft click, the lights were extinguished, and the tent was plunged into darkness. As my eyes tried to adjust, I became hyperaware of the sounds of nature on the other side of the thin fabric—the waves crashing far below, and the sound of the wind in the leaves of the scrubby trees nearby.
Andrew yawned. “Well, day one is under the hood. Forty hours left to go. Good night, Kathryn,” he said pleasantly. Did he actually consider me a worthy travel companion? Or maybe it was just blatant exhaustion.
“Good night,” I replied, cuddling even farther into the silky fabric. Forty hours left to go.
Within minutes, his breathing became rhythmic and deep.
So much for “no rest for the wicked,” I thought.
I lay as still as possible, but sleep wouldn’t come. I told myself it was the unfamiliar feel of the ground
beneath me. I told myself it was the flapping of tiny wings above the tent. Anything to avoid thinking about the disarmingly attractive man sleeping just two feet away from me. When I closed my eyes and took a deep breath, I was overcome by his scent.
I tried to clear my thoughts, focusing instead on the sensation of my breath, irritated by how uneasy his very presence left me. I had a feeling it was going to be a long, long night.
I open my eyes, and I can’t place where I am. It is late; a sliver of a crescent moon hangs high in the sky. And the sound of water. The place feels so familiar. I look around and blink again; I’m startled when I realize that I am back in the courtyard of the Kate whose dreams are a gift. It is reassuring to know I’m someplace safe. I find one of the comfortable teak benches that line her courtyard and sit. I breathe the night air, cool but not cold. I listen to the fountain burbling.
When the arched door leading out of the courtyard opens, I expect the other Kate, but instead it’s Andrew, a mug in each hand.
“This is for you,” he says as he hands a steaming beverage to me. “She says you’re fond of mint tea.”
“Thanks,” I say, accepting the mug and taking a sip. The tea is hot, barely drinkable, but the clean, fresh scent of mint calms me. It strikes me as odd that that this feels…normal. I wrap my hands around the circumference of the earthenware mug. It is also warm and comforting. He stands, awkwardly. I’ve never seen him show anything other than complete confidence and composure. This air of uncertainty—it’s new, and it’s slightly unnerving.
“She said I should come. May I sit?”
I gesture to the end of the bench.
I sip more tea. When I close my eyes, I’m enveloped by the song of crickets chirping and the breeze in the crowns of the towering palm trees. It sounds like home.
“How does she know I’m here? Why did she send you?” I am surprised that I am brave enough to ask.
“I don’t know how she knows,” he confesses. “She’s really…tuned in to the universe, I guess. Or maybe she’s just tuned into you. She seemed convinced that talking to me would help you. To be honest, I’m not exactly sure how. She thought it was important. To move you along your journey. On your path.”