Winds of Change: Short Stories about Our Climate

by Robert Sassor

  Belinda wondered if going back would ever be an option for humans. It had not been an option for Jim. She flashed on his death, as she so often did, his leg caught in the tangle of lines, the frightening change from air to water, him twirling in the green gloom, the panic as he tried to reach for the knife in his belt, then the horrific awareness that it was too late. The vastness of the ocean was nothing compared to the finality of death. She hoped he experienced a moment of beauty before it all went dark, that he felt embraced by the water, swimming in love, as if he were coming home at last.

  "Life is a struggle against death, my friend," she said to the seal. The light was dimming. The rescue team had better hurry, what with the days getting shorter. She looked at the marsh, and the water seemed high enough for the boat to enter the channel. "Soon," she said to the seal. "Very soon." Her mind became silent as she stared at him, admiring the perfect arched line of his body, the puppy-dog eyes. He was truly a beautiful being of the sea. When he turned his head away from her, she did what they told her not to do. She shuffled closer to him on her butt, then reached over and touched him.

  Who knew such a large animal could move so fast? She felt the bite in slow-motion, the slice through her muscles, teeth against bone, veins and arteries opening wide to the world, coloring it red. The pain was so vivid it did not even register. When she got free, she hugged her arm to her body and would not look at it. The seal was more alert than he'd been all day, arching back like a snake. She felt warmth soak through her shirt and spread across her stomach, and she lay down on her side.

  Fear deadened her voice. She could not cry out for help, but she could hear everything with a clarity she hadn't even know existed. Off in the distant harbor, the sound of the sea was a breathing thing. She heard the peals of church bells in town, the brass sound reverberating softer and softer until it was just a whisper. Then she realized that it was not a church bell, but her phone, lying in the weedy grass, vibrating and flashing red. She envisioned her mother in the ER with Rowan, but could not pick it up. She would meet them soon enough. She heard the mechanical hum of the boat as it hydroplaned over the marsh, and the great marsh birds flapping away at its coming. She could almost smell its exhaust. She imagined the blades of the boat's propeller cutting through the water towards her, and the spray rising up to the sky in front of the prow, the vessel leaving a splendid hollow in its wake. "We're saved," she whispered to the seal, even though she didn't believe a word of it. "Saved."

  She closed her eyes, and in the darkness the animal heaved itself just that much closer and made a noise that pierced her soul. Her dry mouth formed the question "Why?" as if she did not already know.

  Mourning Moon, Janis Hindman

  They call it a mourning moon. If you see Vancouver in the fall, you'll know why. Vancouver's a rainy city, always was, but not like this. This was a hard rain, rain that bounced off the pavement then fell again, splashing into an ever-widening stream that coursed to the lowest point, intense rain, rain that meant business.

  Jax was heading towards the mountains, the rain had stopped—paused. She crested the hill and looked down towards the North Shore. She smiled. She'd seen this view almost every day of her life, but it still made her toes tingle.

  "Bio-interface disconnecting," said the calm, soft voice of the S-cycle, and her smile turned to a scowl.

  "Freaking, trucking load of shit!" said Jax, banging the side of the slicker. It whispered to a halt. "You're supposed to warn me when that's about to happen," she said. "And why do you have to wait until the rain's on a break?" She glimpsed something out of the corner of her eye, pushed herself up, and swung her legs out.

  "Rats," said Jax. She nudged the small body with the toe of her boot.

  "Rats are all around you, underneath your feet, in your roof, in your walls. It doesn't mean anything. They hasten decay, the rats—the rats and the rain," said a voice behind her. Jax didn't turn round. She knew that voice—Bagger, short fem, covered in zits, nose-picker.

  "What does that even mean?" asked Jax. "Don't answer, whatever."

  "You need rain," said Bagger. "Energy from the rain'll make your slicker work again."

  This time Jax turned and glared at her. "I KNOW THAT!"

  "Don't be like that, not nice that is, just making convo." Bagger was standing in the road, rocking from heel to ball of one foot. A blader slammed into her then sped off.

  "Did you see that? Did you see that?" screamed Bagger.

  Jax didn't need this, didn't need this at all. She slipped the scooper from the side of the slicker and scraped the rat off the street. She deposited it in the cropper. She looked around. Surely there must be some dog crap in one of the gutter pits. Yes, there was. That went in too.

  "Wanna hang out, Jax?" said Bagger,

  "You still there?" said Jax without turning round. She slid back into the slicker.

  "Home," she said, and the S-cycle moved silently down Commercial Drive and turned onto a side street. It stopped at a low building, partly hidden by cedars. Jax steered between two trees then up a short ramp that led to a half-green roof. She eased the slicker forward until it nosed against a soft pad that fronted an instrument array. She got out and the rain catcher slid over the vehicle, covering it and closing with a soft tick.

  Jax padded across the glass half of the roof until she could see the gardenarium below. She squatted to check the vents. Good, the fix she'd made had worked. Jax grasped the rails at the edge and swung herself down to the front door. She put her hand against the keypad, and the door sighed open. She got inside just as the rain was starting. Again.

  She looked in the food cooler: a handful of yesterday's vegetables, some fish protein chunks, and a bit of bread. She threw the vegetables, fish protein, and some de-energised water into a bowl in the cooker for a few seconds with some dried herbs and spices. When she took it out, it was hot and smelt good. She reached into the cleaning unit for a spoon, picked up the bread, and started eating, still standing.

  The rain was thumping down now, but Jax realised that the noise wasn't just the rain—someone was hammering on the door. She looked at the security screen. All she could see were boots, but ones she recognised. She was avoiding those boots—Dizzy.

  "Open up, Jedi, I know yer in there. I seen the cam blink." Jedi. Huh. Dizzy wanted something.

  Jax opened the door. A hand grabbed her round the neck and shook her.

  "Sure, and I've forgotten the trading units you owe me, never gave it a thought, you needn't have worried," said Dizzy. She lifted a leg behind her, tried to press her heel against the closer pad, but missed. She shook her head like a dog, scattering rain in a wide arc. Each drop sparkled as it hit a surface and was captured.

  "You look rough," Jax said. She picked up her food and started eating again. "Slicker's all over the place, bio-interface keeps cutting out. I don't get it."

  "I told you countless times what the problem is. Dunno why you take no notice."

  "Cos your explanation doesn't allow for any options."

  "Sure it does,"

  "Naha. Slicker, according to you, cuts without telling me because I have a high metabolism. So if we lived before the bio-interface, you'd be fat and I'd be skinny. And your 'fact' about bio-interface helping to deal with climate change is just your theory,"

  "'Tis the truth,"

  "And my options?"

  "Options for what?"

  "For fixing the slicker."

  "How do you get through life? Do you NEVER go into the science tanks?"

  "Yes, no, a bit; what are my options, Dizzy?"

  Dizzy shook her head. She slumped down onto a reclaimer and stretched out. She looked up at the daylight-glass in the ceiling and watched the rain as it hit and was refracted, each drop a transient sparkle of light. She nodded towards it. "How long since you did anything to the array?"

  "Every moon, every single moon-cycle I do the updates. I read the stream summaries, and I do the fixes."

  Dizzy unzipped
a pocket in her sleeve and took out a patch of sheer fabric. She pressed it onto her left hand. She prodded at it with the forefinger of her right hand, pointed it to the left of the glass in the ceiling, then at the two reclaimers. She looked at the display. "Not bad," she said. "Not bad at all. So what I'm wondering is, why can't you do the updates on your slicker? Your solar capture on the roof is working at full capacity, your wind turbine too; your rain velocity extractor's only one upgrade out, and that's only because they just figured out a new tweak that's not even in the stream yet. Your reclaimers are fully aligned, hair, skin cells, movement, sweat and gas, all being absorbed and properly energy extracted,"

  "And I do the upgrades on the slicker, every moon, same, but thanks for checking up on me."

  "Huh. 'K, so I'm going to give this some thought."

  Dizzy got up and went over to the bathroom. She sat on the waster with the door open. Jax put her bowl and spoon in the cleaning unit and followed Dizzy. She stood in the doorway, leaning against the frame.

  "Saw that Bagger one trailing you," said Dizzy. "She's doin' Destroyer, got all the signs, skinny as all get out, bad skin, looks like her hair's starting to fall out too,"

  Jax shrugged. "Modern life doesn't suit some—easier to buy drugs than spend time solving problems in the tanks."

  "Watch it," said Dizzy, "I'm the historian. I pay my community share that way. Don't want you going into the history tanks and outshining me." She smiled and moved her foot to a blue light in the floor to signal that she was done, then waited until the light pulsed to tell her the waste had been recycled and she was germ-free. She stood and pulled up her unders and leggings. "Right. We gotta go," she said.

  "Go where?"

  "Vintage shop on the Drive. That masc, Fire-angel, said he'd give me a hundred just to play him at Deathstar and five hundred if I win, which clearly he doesn't believe I will, only I have you, my ace-in-the-hole."

  "So you want ME to play for you. Why would I do that?"

  "Because you owe me,"

  "I thought you'd forgotten."

  "Oh, c'mon. Anyways, you only owe me a hundred, we can split the rest, fifty-fifty—keep you going for a couple of moons,"

  "And if I lose?"

  "We just get the one and yer debt's paid,"

  "Fire-angel's a dealer."

  "Yeah, well, that's his problem."

  Jax touched the small screen by the door. The sunglass in the roof darkened, changing from light emitting to energy capture.

  Outside, a large bird with glistening black feathers eyed them from a bare cherry tree.

  "Bloody huge crow," said Dizzy,

  "Raven," said Jax.

  The bird's head turned, following them as they went around to the front of the res-unit.

  When they reached the shop they went in, moving between the racks of clothing, towards a door at the back. Stairs led down to a half-landing, then further downwards until the only light came from energy recyclers set into the wall. Dizzy pushed a heavy door, inset with leather and metal studs. Behind it was a long, dark room with a bar along one wall and a row of soft screens on another.

  The woman behind the bar was dressed in vintage clothing: dress, flesh-coloured leggings, and shoes with heels. A gaunt man was standing by one of the screens, rangy, dark grey hair straggling down to his collar.

  "Fire-angel," said Dizzy, "This is Jax. She's gonna match you at Deathstar,"

  The man said nothing but slithered into a seat. Jax sat down at the screen next to his. She noticed that Dizzy didn't call her Jedi. Likely she didn't want the man to know how good she was at this.

  Jax tapped the screen and waited until Fire-angel had done the same, and then they started. He was quick at navigating the Deathstar, so quick she wondered if he'd taken Vel—he was a dealer, he could get it easily, but it didn't matter, once she was in, she knew she was unbeatable, even against a brain enhanced by a drug like Vel. She found the command room before he did, released the control panel and easily accessed the tools, ejecting and eliminating his avatar. First game over, but the first game was simple.

  She felt breath on her leg through the fabric of her leggings. She looked down into two burning eyes and jumped so that her feet were on the seat of her 'claimer.

  "What the fra…?!"

  "Just a coyote," said Dizzy, and Fire-angel laughed. She didn't know he could laugh. She did now.

  "What the frack is it doing down here in this room? How did it get in?"

  "You got in," said Fire-angel. He tasered the coyote and it fell back, dead.

  "Shit!" said Jax. "You can't do that! Coyotes are class-B mammals, you can't just kill them!" She touched it with her foot, just as she had the rat. It was skin and bones,

  "Self-defence," said Fire-angel. He turned back to the screen.

  "Chill," said Dizzy. "Just chill. You get wound up, and you'll lose level 2."

  Jax took a deep breath and tapped the screen again. But she didn't lose. She didn't break a sweat. It was like she knew the Deathstar better than herself. It spoke to her. It was the same with level 3. If Fire-angel had taken Vel, it was no use to him now. Speed was not the issue in level 3—no, you had to think like the Deathstar. You had to BE it, know when you would eat your own insides to better your opponent.

  Fire-angel slammed the screen, stood up, and sent the 'claimer scudding across the floor. He pushed his face into Dizzy's,

  "You fracking done me, your fem, she cheats."

  "I'd like to know how," said Dizzy. "You tell me how you can cheat at Deathstar, well, aside from taking Vel,"

  He stared at her, but before he could do anything, someone shouted, "Destroyer!" and there was Bagger right in the middle of a ring of human coyotes. Somebody brought a reclaimer with arms, and she sat back in it, legs apart.

  The bartender came out and yelled, "No one's doing Destroyer in here; take it outside."

  But nobody moved. Everyone crowded round Bagger who was massaging her cheeks with her hands. She snapped her head back, and the room went silent. Fire-angel was standing up, his attention, like everyone else's, focused on the fem. Bagger's eyes were wide open, and her arms were flung back. A mid-gender came forward and stood behind Bagger, then, very carefully, let a drop of pure white liquid fall into Bagger's eye. She blinked and started shaking, smiling, laughing. She appeared to be swimming, then flying, all the time shouting, but the words made no sense. Finally she became still, and the room itself held its breath, until she snapped her head back once again and growled, "Hit me."

  The mid-gen repeated the eye-drop action, and this time Bagger's movements became even more exaggerated her yelling—screaming. It went on and on, and people craned forward until she stilled. And then slumped and then fell off the seat in a crumpled heap, like the dead coyote.

  Fire-angel just stood, smiling—but without humour. He turned his head toward Dizzy, a disposable cred-wafer between his first two fingers. "Here, I feel generous," he said, and he walked out of the place.

  "Frack," said Jax. "That was harsh. I never liked that snot-nosed fem, but that was…" she shook her head.

  "She knew the risk, and she took it," said Dizzy. "She wanted out. Harsh, yes, but simple too. Plus, it saved us trouble from Fire-angel. Hold up your palm-com; I'll transfer 200." As she held the wafer against Jax's hand and moved a finger across it until she reached two hundred, she hooked the coyote's carcass with a foot and pulled it towards them. Jax looked at her and frowned.

  "Waste not, want not. It'll go in the Slicker's cropper," said Dizzy.

  "You can't put anything higher classification than D into it," said Jax. "And just telling the bio-filter it was self-defence won't fool it."

  "Hmm, you may have a point," said Dizzy, and kicked the carcass away.

  The mid-gen, who was leaving at the same time as them, turned and said, "Fire-Angel brought that coyote in."

  "To distract us?" asked Dizzy.

  "Yeah, and to make a point. Dealers and others want to see an end to the n
ew ways. They have money. They don't want to have to reclaim energy and grow or collect their own food. They don't want everyone to have a say in decisions through the think-tanks. They want power, and to get it, they want to resume consumption. They think the new ways brought coyotes back in to where humans live, on account of the greening. But you're the history-fem, Dizzy, you know they were always here."

  Outside, the rain had slowed to a drizzle, a fine mist. Dizzy sniffed the air. "I smell trouble," she said. "Don't look now, but that raven from your yard, it's watching us."

  "How can you tell it's the same one?" asked Jax.

  "The way it's looking at us."

  "So why would it be watching us?"

  "We'll work it out later, Sherlock," said Dizzy. "I'll come round yours this evening. Let me in this time though."

  Jax wondered who or what Sherlock was, but she was damned if she was going to ask. She had the feeling someone was watching her, and when she looked round, there was the bird, just staring. She shivered. It was odd seeing ravens down here. That wasn't the new way, the greening of the city. This was something else.

  It was dark when the lights of Dizzy's slicker illuminated Jax standing on the edge of the sphagnum trough.

  "Whadya doin'?" Dizzy called.

  "Checking that the methane-pocket meters are working properly,"

  Dizzy shook her head. "I swear, there's no one quite like you for fine-tuning everything."

  "And yet, I still don't understand why my slicker gives up without warning." She peered over Dizzy's shoulder.