"Whassup, Jedi?"
"I can't see it, but I know it's out there. I can feel it watching."
"The raven?"
Jax nodded.
Dizzy pointed her chin towards the res-unit. "Let's get inside, Jax. I know what's wrong with your s-cycle, worked it out meself, I did."
They went inside, and Jax adjusted the ceiling glass from solar to starlight capture.
Dizzy frowned. "Why doesn't it do that on its own?" she said.
"I have it set to manual."
"That don't make any sense, Jedi. The micro-programming works out the optimum moment for switching."
"A human can do it more effectively," said Jax.
"That's out of synch, Jedi. No one can do that." She watched Jax walk to the food cooler, her shoulders hunched, tense. "Right, except someone who can beat anyone at Deathstar."
"What's the fix with the slicker?" asked Jax. She crossed the room and sat in the reclaimer next to Dizzy, turning to face her.
"It's not the bio-interface; it's the trans-capacitor. When the rain stopped, there should've been energy stored. We should take a look at it."
Jax nodded and smiled. "That makes sense. Funny, sometimes I miss the obvious."
"Yeah," said Dizzy. "That's you, Jedi. Do the impossible but miss the obvious."
Dizzy pulled her palm interface out of a pocket and pressed it onto her hand. "Wanna see who's around in the VR room?"
Jax answered by getting her own palm interface out. They leaned back in their reclaimers and touched their screens. The familiarity of the physical contact allowed a seamless slip into the relaxed mental state needed for full connection with cyberspace and their avatars.
Jax's uncurled and opened her wings. Dizzy's jumped into the virtual room.
"Hey, Jedi," said Dizzy.
"Hey, Ban-sidhe," said Jax. The room was full of avatars that stood, sat, bounced, perched, or hung, whatever best suited their form. Most were talking or just sitting and watching.
The Room Op was a blue-bodied elf with dragonfly wings. "Good evening, avatars," she said. A shadow flitted across the room, and all heads turned.
"What was that?" said the Room Op, but everyone shook their head-parts. She turned back to Jedi and Ban-sidhe.
"Enjoy the fray," she said.
But they didn't. The talk was all of the cabal who wanted to resume the old ways and Dizzy, as her Ban-sidhe avatar, spent the evening explaining how the new ways had helped them to stabilise the climate, but they were far from reversal.
Later, when they'd returned to real space, Jax pushed the doorpad of the res unit to let Dizzy out. A flapping of black wings against the darkness startled them both.
"Flaming Nora," said Dizzy. "That's set the old ticker racing." Dizzy stepped out into the night. Jax stood in the open doorway, staring into the trees. She was convinced that the trees were staring back.
After Dizzy had gone, Jax sat on the roof cross-legged and looked towards the mountains. She must have fallen asleep. In her dream, a bird came down and lifted off her raincatcher. She could see the beard of feathers at its throat.
"So, Raven, what are you doing down here?" she asked. She could hear it croaking and clicking, and she could smell the wet earth. She awakened and realised that she was cold. She swung down from the roof, went inside, and showered, still haunted by her dream.
She lay on the sleeping platform and watched the sky through the glass panel above it. She could see the clouds, dark against darker, being pushed by a wind that would be restoring her energy reserves. She could see the stars through a clear patch, and a dark shadow, like a wing, the feathers glistening. Now she could smell the sea. She could smell it all around her, a chalky, salty tang. She was in a giant seashell, and it was closing quietly and slowly. She couldn't escape. As her view of the outside narrowed to a thin strip of starry sky, she saw a single, black, gleaming eye, perfectly round, looking at her, and then gone, as the shell snapped shut.
She awoke once more and lay there, sweating. The sky was beginning to lighten. She got up and went outside. There was no sign of the raven, but she heard the distant haunting 'woo-woo, woo-woo' of an owl. She walked out of the side street and onto the Drive. A pair of skunks ambled down the centre of the road. Jax kept well back.
There was a refreshment lobby just ahead. She had trunies for coffee now—she'd never been successful at growing enough of it in the gardenarium. She knew it was possible, though. She'd watched numerous vidstreams about it. She went in and held her palm to a coffee machine, then moved round to get a pastry. She wandered out onto the street and watched a watery sun come up as she ate her Danish and swilled the coffee.
Jax felt someone watching her, and she looked back over her shoulder. She thought she caught a movement. She scanned the three walled sides of the lobby but could see nothing untoward. She looked back out onto the street and was startled at the flutter of wings, as a large, black bird appeared from behind her, brushing her cheek as it flew out of the open frontage.
"Scared you, did it?" said a voice to her left. Zandra. She looked a bit like a crow herself. She always dressed in black and shared the bird's ungainly walk. In VR, she was delicate and light—her avatar elf-like.
"Yeah, a bit." Jax sipped her coffee. "Got any news?"
"Yeah, a bit." Zandra smiled. "Heard you got the attention of Fire-angel."
"Huh. Yeah. So, was that the news, or something else?"
"Else."
A few drops of rain fell on the road in front of them.
Zandra looked at the rain and pursed her lips. "There's been talk of resuming. Full resuming."
Jax shook her head. "Dizzy and I were in a room yesterday," she said. "There was talk. Dizzy says it's way too early. She says resuming can't start until technology's three generations more advanced."
"There's reports of VR rooms going down and worse."
"Worse?" asked Jax.
Zandra looked back at her, "Avatars being trapped inside and their realities not able to detach."
"Frack, that's not possible, is it?"
"Sure it is. You have a psych uplink with your avatar; you'd experience what the avatar did without being able to bail."
"Last night, in the room…."
"What?"
"Dunno, a shadow, just something that was there and not there."
They looked at each other, then out at the rain.
Jax touched her palm fabric with her fourth finger several times, but there was no response. "I can't get hold of Dizzy," she said.
A uni-gender came up the street and jumped into the foyer. "Frack, frack, frack," said the newcomer. "It never stops, just goes on and on, eh?"
"Hi, Kimo," said Jax,
"What you fems chatting about then?" said Kimo. "Anything I should know about?"
"For once, yes," said Zandra. "There's more talk about resuming the old ways—governance instead of discussion rooms, more industrialisation and even some talk of bringing back non-bio-interface vehicles. And there's some weird shit going down in some of the VR rooms."
"I've been hearing about this," said Kimo. "Most distressing, most distressing. So, going old-school, mmmm, old-school. Listen, either of you fems noticed the crows—hey, noticed the crows, have you?"
"Yes, as a matter of fact, I have," said Jax. "Even dreamt about one…except they're ravens."
Zandra looked up at her sharply. "Ravens, you say?"
"Ravens, eh?" said Kimo. "Ravens. Hmmm," and then laughed, a sound that rattled the throat and led to a burst of coughing.
"You alright, Kimo?" asked Jax,
"Sure, sure, just, you know, leftovers from me Crasher days, took far too much of it, messes with your voicebox it does, and your brain, hmmm, shouldn't feed the bad wolf, you know."
"The bad wolf?" asked Jax,
"Yeah, First Nations story. Hmmm, the good wolf, peace and love kinda thing and the bad wolf, fear, anger, the usual suspects—fighting inside the old man, and the grandkiddie, she says, 'Which one will win, Gra
ndpaw? which is good, cos usually they has a tendency to say, 'What big eyes you got,' and so forth. And the grandad do say, 'the one you feed of course.'"
"Huh," said Jax and turned back to rain-watching. She drank the last mouthful of coffee and aimed the cup at the auto-composter.
"Good shot," said Kimo. "You can ask Dizzy about the rumours after."
"After what?" asked Jax.
"She's there, there she is."
Jax held both hands out and shrugged in a quizzical gesture. Kimo started coughing again. "Can't stop myself, mmm, can't stop sometimes. Dizzy, yes, Dizzy. Fem has this theory about the bio-interface tech. Pivotal she said, pivotal. It was developed just at the moment when climate was in the balance. In the balance, I say. Technology was all there for cutting whatdyoumacallit—emissions. Bad stuff. But not enough people were doing it. Bio-interface changed all that." The coughing took over.
"Yes, yes, but we know all this," said Jax. "Bio-interface, according to Dizzy, because it uses a human's own energy directly, allowed everyone to eat as much as they wanted while sitting in the vehicles powered by the calories they'd consumed. But it doesn't explain why people suddenly bought into everything else, cut down on consumption, started growing their own food and paying community share in the VR think tanks."
"People are lazy," said Zandra. "And they rationalise their laziness. With bio-interface, they felt they were doing something big, something good. They went from excusing themselves for what they weren't doing to being proud of what they were, so they took on the whole package."
Kimo had finished coughing. "Fem's there, she's there, is Dizzy, in the VR room. Telling them, she is, telling them we need higher levels of tech to minimise pollution before starting to resume. Stable it is, the climate, but reversal is what's needed."
Jax nodded, then turned to Zandra, "And the ravens, Zan, you know something about them?"
Zandra nodded. "There's a Haida story about a raven releasing the first humans from a clamshell. Found them in there, wriggling about and started pulling them out by the ankles."
Jax felt a chill creep up her body. She became still. "Dizzy, I've got to get to Dizzy. Which VR room is she in, Kimo?"
"Send you the channel I will," said Kimo. "Not moderated, not authorised."
By the time Jax got home, the rain had slowed to a drizzle. She went into the res-unit, sat in a reclaimer and unrolled her palm interface. At first, she couldn't bring her heart rate down enough to make a full connection. She tried to calm herself, listening to the rain and the rustling of the dead leaves as the wind played in them. Finally she relaxed and found herself in cyberspace.
Jedi looked around. She'd seen pictures of Vancouver when it was like this. Tall buildings, cars nose to tail, driven by oil products. Plastic on the streets, cans, bottles. People everywhere, the avatars all took human form.
A single raven flapped down and stood on the ground next to her. It was as big as her. She expected it to speak, but it just stared. Then Dizzy was there. Ban-sidhe. They looked at each other and then at the bird.
"I don't think the raven's an avatar," said Jedi. She swept an arm around, indicating the scene. "Is this what it was like…before?"
Ban-sidhe nodded. "There are still trees," said Jedi. "And the mountains look much the same, but….not as green as now that everyone's responsible for most of their own food and energy. And the cars. It's like I can smell them. Do you think this is how it was before the slickers?"
"I'm pretty sure, yes," said Ban-sidhe.
Jedi smiled. "But no Destroyer or Vel or Crasher, I guess."
"They just had different drugs," said Ban-sidhe. "Different drugs, different problems—same outcomes though."
"What are you doing in here, Ban-sidhe?"
"I have to try to persuade them, Jedi, tell them what we learnt before. We're not ready to go back to that level of consumption, to the power play of centralised government, we're just not. Maybe, with future technology, but we're only just emerging from what our species did before. They can go on playing their games in Virtual Space, but they can't bring it into the real world. Not yet."
The raven dipped its beak down and pushed both of them so that they stumbled back.
"It's right, Ban-sidhe—the raven—we have to get out of here."
"Not until I've convinced them, Jedi. I have to try. I can't just let them do this without giving it everything I've got."
"It's too late," said Jedi. The raven raised both its wings, blocking out everything else in the room. Then, with a sharp movement of its head, the bird knocked them with its beak. They felt themselves falling backwards into darkness, and as they fell, they saw the room close like a clamshell from top and bottom.
In the res-unit, out of cyberspace, a raven was sitting on the back of Jax's reclaimer.
"I wonder how long they'll all be stuck in there," said Jax.
"Until we've reversed some of the damage we've done and our technology's more advanced I should think," said Dizzy.
Dizzy turned to look at the raven, but it was no longer there.
The Midnight Moon, Clara Hume
The rowan berries came out in November this year, three months late. Last year they had ripened too early. Rowan trees, like most life forms these days, seemed to be confused, thought Pam Norman, their natural clocks going topsy-turvy. The rowans' bulbous, sharp orange shapes dotted the forest outside Pam's home office window. She was grateful for their vibrancy amidst the falling golden-brown leaves, which had begun to collect on her back deck. The deer, blackbirds, and redwings that ate the berries were finally coming around. But now it was late, and she had to write a column and collect berries for her famous rowan chutney that she made for Thanksgiving each year.
She wore one of Chris's old t-shirts as she sipped coffee at the large desk that took up far too much room in her study. Surrounding her were wooden bookshelves, with their literary soldiers standing spines out and dusty: classic, reference, children's, science fiction—all of her favorites. She had collected the books since childhood, and throughout her life these staunch beauties had befriended her, becoming especially important since her husband's death last year.
Now she had to write. Coffee steamed up her reading glasses. Her boss Shelly had said that she wanted a long essay on winter, what with everyone up in arms about the late and sometimes non-existent winters each year. Shelly had said, "We have to let people escape with words and dream of snow. Whoever heard of Chicago without snow?"
Pam had been feeling cynical. "It's good though, right? No more god-awful trips to Florida during spring break. We can just stay here."
"Uh-huh," Shelly had said. "Make it a good piece. 1,000 words of snow, cold, ice, and—"
"Hockey"?
"No sports. Let's keep the franchises out. It's a dreamy piece, poetic. Make sure there's a full moon in the frigid sky. You know, that sort of thing."
"Alright."
Shelly wanted to bring winter back to Chicago through words. At least autumn was almost happening outside, thought Pam, a late fall, sure, but it was there. She thought of the rowan trees, otherwise known as mountain ash. Their berries could also be used for making vodka and wine.
Just as Pam began typing her story, her neighbor Miss Bronson rang.
"Yes?" Pam answered.
"We're doomed," the old lady said.
"Now, now, Emma," Pam said.
"The rowan berries are out so late. This is craziness for November."
"Honey, I don't like it either. But look on the bright side. You can get a tan this Christmas at Oak Street Beach."
"I don't get tans anymore. I get burn marks between my wrinkles."
"We just have to live with it," Pam reminded her friend.
"Right. Well, I deal with it by getting numb, just like in that ancient Pink Floyd song, Comfortably Numb."
"You and your oldies. Get with the times, Emma. You should learn to like the new stuff, the heat wave boogie-blues."
"Never mind that nois
e. Let's get numb tonight. You in the drinking mood?"
"Well, I did have a hot date tonight."
"If you did," Emma said sweetly, "I would tell you to go. Go have fun."
Emma had stuck by her during Chris's death and the aftermath. "I know," Pam said softly.
Because Emma loved wine so much, and sitting on back porches under the moon, getting numb, she agreed to come over later—leaving Pam free to write her column for now.
Pam got on a roll with a winter scene set in a deep, forgotten forest. She loved this anti-block, what her writer colleagues would call a good cleanse. Sometimes when Pam started writing, she remembered the most random things. In summoning the perfect snow, she thought of a madrigal choir trip she had made in high school. Wow, was that like already two decades ago? She and the other small group of students were treated to a weekend in Green Bay, Wisconsin. Hindsight made the memory appear in her memory like a bad photo filter with ultra-vivid colors. She recalled arbitrary moments: her discovery, and subsequent enjoyment, of Petrarch; a cloudless day on the banks of the cold waters of Lake Michigan; goats eating grass on a restaurant roof; and a snow-white sonata being composed in the woods outside the student cabins the second night there, as winter set on.
The memory of that peaceful scene prompted her writing now. So did the music. Led Zeppelin's "The Immigrant Song" came on her playlist, reminding her to summon lands of ice and snow and Norse mythology into her essay. That reminded her of the rowan trees—type, type, type. A legend of Thor said he had almost died in a strong-moving river but was saved by a low-hanging rowan tree branch. The tree was also said to have made the first woman. Its wood had once been used to make staves and runes—and the tree itself was considered magical. It protected wayfarers and showed lost travelers the way home. Not a bad tree. And it was still used for wine, vodka, and her famous chutney. Not a bad tree at all. And that tree had lived for centuries and centuries, coming back every year like planned. Except for the past few years, now that it was confused.
Pam flipped her mind back to snow. Bone moon. Ice stinging the night. Wind that howled with wolves. A bare tree on the edge of a fast river. An ancient forest, the kind that was so ancient and primeval it would be considered impossible now. What else? How to tie this essay together? Pam didn't stop cleansing. She even began to feel chilly from her descriptions. Her sliding office door was open. Earlier, it had been so warm, but now she felt that dreadful scratch in her throat, cueing a cold—ug! She sniffled and shut the window.
Winds of Change: Short Stories about Our Climate Page 18