Solarpunk: Ecological and Fantastical Stories in a Sustainable World

by Fabio Fernandes

  “Did you have any questions at all, Orson? My organization gives a hundred percent guarantee on the services offered to the contractors. We said that you would at the same time achieve the experience you wanted with humans and all the publicity needed to launch the new product.”

  The answering voice comes muffled from the air-conditioned cellar.

  “Sometimes your efficiency scares me, my dear Mr. Neves.”

  Amazed by so many options in the mp3 files, the white-haired man ends up programming the shuffle mode on the jazz channel. Then Keith Jarrett’s music begins to spread from the towering black boxes all over the room, sending piano chords around the place. Satisfied with the result, the guest drops the remote, pulls a cigarette box and lighter out of his pockets and, while lighting his cigarette, speaks louder to his host.

  “What of it? The new weapon is all that your investigators have been announcing.”

  “Blessed was the day that I read that Royal Society paper about the possible impacts of an obscure protozoan on society’s behavior.” He sticks his head out of the door and points with his chin to a bookcase next to the stereo. “There’s a hardcopy there, I was reading it again this morning. The London scientists gave me the idea of using Toxoplasma gondii, the cause of toxoplasmosis, as raw material for the hate gas.”

  Still sitting on the couch, Neves stretches his arm to the appointed spot and picks up a white folder with the TransCiência logo: the letters TC in blue surrounded by two gray bands simulating the DNA helix. On the same cover, the title of the six-page article appears in the English translation and in the Brazilian Portuguese translation: “Can Toxoplasma gondii, common brain parasite, influence human society?”

  “Oh, so that was the original source of your insight.”

  “That’s right. The UK Academy of Sciences was worried by the evidence that this simple parasite could affect people’s brains and induce new behaviors in them. The protozoan has been shown to be able to traverse the membrane of our self-defense cells, invade the nucleus and simply fool all the immune barriers of the human brain. An authentic phenomenon of nature, it acted like a hacker who invades a computer, changes the software, and forces the hardware to function as it pleases.”

  Unseen by his interlocutor, Neves looks up at the ceiling as if instinctively reacting to a particularly boring lecture at a scientific seminar.

  “A second paper, presented during an annual meeting of the International Society for Behavioral Neuroscience, stated that the microorganism had unveiled ‘the vocabulary of neurotransmitters and hormones’.”

  “All in all, we’re talking about a clever little bug.” The guest flips through the paper without paying much attention. After all, the technical language in those few lines is indecipherable to laypeople like him.

  The real expert on the subject finally returns to the room displaying a bottle of Romanée-Conti as a trophy.

  “Really… Look, I’m going to open this precious thing as soon as I can find the corkscrew. The list of behavioral changes that our small biohacker is able to bring varies according to gender. It makes women more affectionate and men more conformist. It seemed capable of making people more sensitive to guilt. On the one hand, they become more predisposed to engage in dangerous situations, on the other, they become averse to change.”

  “A huge change in the brain chemistry, for sure.” The expression on Neves’s face while still leafing through the document doesn’t display such certainty. “I’d buy a whole lot of this parasite if it could make my last mother-in-law, may the devil have her, a more affectionate woman… But I don’t think that all the… Toxoplasma gondii of the world would be capable of such a feat, and I also believe the poor thing would fail if it tried to create in me such a sense of guilt.”

  “True, my friend, but you are a lost case of any kind of manifestation of the superego, as guilty or self-critical, as we well know.” Orson Wellmann laughs at his own tirade as he opens and closes drawers in search of the corkscrew. Between one and the other he goes back to talking enthusiastically. “The point is that, worldwide, there are billions of people infected with toxoplasmosis. Billions of them. One detail that caught my attention is that the most affected country would be Brazil, with almost seventy percent of the population serving as a carrier to our friend. As a result, of course, of the indigent sanitary services in this country, which facilitate the contagion of the parasite. Isn’t it ironic? Brazil may even have some of the best genetic engineers on the planet, as I told that bloody reporter, but it can’t get plumbing to reach all the houses or end rodent infestations. Speaking of rodents, what really interested me was another Oxford experiment. This experiment proved that Toxoplasma gondii was responsible for an even more radical change in the behavior of rodents. The parasite simply induced these animals to suicide, can you imagine that?! In a maze, scientists marked a few corners with the smell of cat urine. Healthy people fled from there as if the devil chased them. But for the contaminated specimens, that odor had the same attraction as the smell of food. It is as if the animals, controlled by microorganisms in their brains, begged to be devoured!”

  Sensing that the conversation might turn out to be a speech after all, Neves puts the British paper away as if he received an electric shock, straightens his jacket, stands up and goes in the direction of the owner of the apartment, searching for a shortcut to any subject that might be more in his domain:

  “That’s what I always say, if a thing like that can’t be used as a biological weapon, what else could?”

  “That’s exactly what I thought. We just needed to figure out a way to take advantage of the skill of this lovely protozoan. In the TransCiência labs we detected, isolated, and enhanced the potential of the genes responsible for the production of the substances that induce behavioral changes in mammals. The next step was inserting this genetic code into some laboratory-modified plants so they could release a new toxin in the air along with their normal oxygen production. And then we have our hate gas. Where did my servant put that corkscrew, goddamnit?”

  Before even reaching the counter where the bulky bottle of red wine is resting, Neves sees the opener waiting to be used in its proper place: the wall bracket.

  “So many times all we need is an outside perspective, my dear scientist.” With the same hand that holds his cigarette, he points to the opener as he speaks. “I suppose you have enough gas in stock to start industrial production.”

  “Merci, Monsieur Neves. Of course, of course, we now control the whole process and we can already synthesize the gas on a large scale, manipulating chemicals the way my beloved plants did with sunlight in the greenhouse. It was only a matter of doing the, say, reverse bioengineering of the toxin they released into the air. That’s why the laboratory became expendable and we could destroy it from here, from the comfort of my apartment, triggering the explosives hidden in its structure. The hyperoxygenated environment and the amount of flammable substances helped spread the fire and put an end to all the clues that would compromise us. The fire will consume any traces of the gas and burn all the plants and human guinea pigs. Concentrated energy cells were charged with blowing up any clues that might remain of our experiments there, leaving a crater in its place.”

  Once the seal is cut, the scientist drills the thick cork of the bottle as he speaks, almost in the same rhythm as the music he continues to play.

  “The precautions are not so much for fear of the police investigation, the idea was only to avoid industrial espionage. After all, the research of our private competitors is much more efficient than that of state agents. Now it’s just trigger the insurance, put the blame on the landless, and recover the money invested. But that greenhouse served us as a field of evidence in the last necessary experience: the aerial application of the neurotoxin to humans in a real situation. To that end, those rabid workers that their organization manipulated to attack our solar laboratory of Telêmaco Borba were a bit useful.”

  Unmaking the knot of his
tie, Neves dismisses the other’s compliments with a gesture.

  “That was the easy part of the plan. The technical expertise of your team of scientists wasn’t even required. My organization specializes in finding creative solutions to the kind of problem you have presented us. It’s not as if we lacked for manpower here. So, creating such a social movement in Brazil is as easy as opening an NGO or founding a new church. I speak of this from experience, believe me.” While walking down to him, Neves picks up two glasses as he watches the other’s effort to open the precious bottle. “Parasitizing the state and the parastatal structure of this country to make it work just the way we want is far more simple work than that of your protozoan changing behaviors of kamikaze rats. And the best thing is that, with all the dramatic advertising this episode will reach in the next few days, we will have the ideal advertisement to present the product to the several groups that have shown an interest in acquiring hate gas. The ETA and the IRA are no longer in business, but our network has already contacted Hamas and Hezbollah, along with the Farc…”

  A dry noise interrupts him when the cork is finally removed from the bottle neck.

  “Voila, and it’s open! Yes, the experiment was proof that the toxin, when applied among a population predisposed to violence and with the necessary conditions to carry it out, can cause a remote control carnage.” The chief scientist of TransCiência pours the drink for his guest, being careful with each drop. “And thanks to the diversity of the sample of peasants you gave us, we proved that the gas works in both sexes, in any age group and with different ethnicities. Couldn’t be more perfect if we had asked for it! I almost cried out laughing as I remembered that even Darwin was not interested in parasites, did you know that? He said the creeping little creatures were just a deviation in the natural course of species evolution.”

  Wellmann hands the glass to Neves, who pulls a last drag on his cigarette and waits for the guest to finish pouring for himself.

  “So old Charles had his day of—what’s the name of that Russian you mentioned in the interview? Lysenko? Thank you, Orson. A good wine is always fine with these cold nights you have here in Curitiba.”

  The scientist is pleased with a third of his glass filled and lifts it in front of the visitor.

  “Even geniuses are not immune to a few stumbles, my friend. But let’s have a toast: to the Toxoplasma gondii, to my scientists and their human guinea pigs.”

  Having got rid of the cigarette already, Neves returns the gesture, which makes the crystal resonate when the glasses touch.

  “They did their part well, of rats in the maze. To the future, that belongs to us. Cheers!”

  Neves turns red, makes a face and declares:

  “Very heavy. It’s best to put it in the decanter for a while to rest.”

  * * *

  Romeu Martins is a journalist, specializing in scientific dissemination, and an author of fantastic literature. He began writing fiction in 2008 for his own blog, Terroristas da Conspiração (Terrorists of the Conspiracy), where he also published a few dozen other writers. Today, he has work in books by three national publishers, and an excerpt from his short story has been selected and translated into English for the Steampunk Bible by Americans Jeff VanderMeer and S. J. Chambers. With Editora Draco, he debuted as a short storyteller in Sherlock Holmes — Aventuras Secretas (2012).

  Once Upon a Time in a World

  Antonio Luiz M. C. Costa

  “Patrícia Galvão, for the ‘Abaporu’, the Anthropophagy. Captain Luis Carlos Prestes and microbiologist Olga Benário announced they will tie the knot and live in Brazil next year, upon returning from Mars. In the following pictures, the couple thanks the well-wishes of the First Commissioner of the Union of Nations, Rosa Luxemburg, the German President Clara Zetkin and the Secretary General of Neogeia and President of Brazil, João Cândido.”

  The audience of the most popular program of Piratininga Jereré or Piratininga Network, if not of the whole Porandutepé or Brazilian Infohighway, reached a historical record. The young anchorwoman knew it instantly, for the data flowed through her visor in the form of three-dimensional charts that she opened and closed with the blink of an eye as she displayed a good-humored edition of the messages of cosmonauts and politicians. Almost a billion hits.

  She recoiled, though she practically didn’t allow fame to get into her head anymore. Abaporu was the most popular show at Poranduba Mytanga or Young News, which began the year before, almost as a joke. Journalism sophomores were hired for a year to create a news channel tailor-made by young people for young people, light and entertaining. It was the sensation of the year: agile and honest, talking about important things in a smart, simple way.

  In the second year, the audience exploded, leaving behind the dour Aporanduba, World News, flagship network. Much of the secret was there, behind the attractive face of bristly hair and the gaudy, state-of-the-art display. The relevant, bold questions were asked there. Another part rested upon the scientific knowledge and the impeccable techniques of the partner, less known to the public eye but equally important: Avajoguyroá Apapocuva, the Guira.

  The edited virtuality was already over; the live interview would begin in moments. The display warned that the guest was ready to be interviewed, or devoured, as she preferred. She tested the connection and maneuvered the microcameras in the environment to frame it and the holo alternately or simultaneously and turn the scene into a virtual experience that allowed the cybernaut to put himself in his or her place, or as a neutral observer. She crossed her legs, turned on the projectors, and the man in the white safari costume appeared with his chair.

  Eighty thousand blocks away, in a parliamentary office in the capital of the Union of Nations, the hologram of the young woman appeared simultaneously, in all its splendor, one step ahead of the interviewee. She was savage, smart and conceited, woe to those who underestimated her! And soft eyes, eyes that could hurt. Her slender body, umbilical and soft, possessed of a certain je ne sais quois… How can I refuse to answer it? How could I be angry with her?

  She straightened up. She had to distract from her transparent blouse, the red shorts and everything they revealed and suggested. She glanced at the vast office window and looked at another equally magnificent but less disturbing landscape: the Council of the Union palace, the large artificial lake, the restored savannah in the heart of the Sahara, the flamingos flocking around…

  “From Cosmopolis, Raul Bopp, chairman of the Commission of Science and Culture of the Council of the Union. Ready to go to the moquém and be devoured by our netizens, Deputy?”

  “Certainly, my pleasure! I hope I’m tasty!” He smiled, trying to appear at ease.

  “Well, the case of Olga and Luis Carlos has made the hearing of the monitoring of the Mission Ares an unheard-of success. It overcame the launch, arrival, landing, and discovery of living bacteroids in Hellas. In these two years, the public eye has been less interested in scientific developments than in the personal life of cosmonauts. I ask you: has the Union of Nations spent five billion credits just to create the most expensive romantic telenovela in history?”

  The question was unexpected, but it wasn’t aggressive, it was the provocative tone of one who really seeks compelling answers. It would be good if she could have them.

  “Huh, Pagu, huh! I suppose the question is rhetorical, I don’t believe you really think this.” He looked as if he was going to stall, but suddenly he changed his mind. “Look, to put it another way, the mission costs a credit to every inhabitant of the planet, a day of minimum wage. As far as it concerns me, I give my part with pleasure, and I don’t see the interest in their coexistence as a waste of time, not at all!” He gestured enthusiastically.

  “Why, Raul? What good is it to observe and discuss what is happening every day and every moment with seven real people cloistered together, waking up, fighting, working, having lunch, dating? If they were in a house in, I don’t know, Jacarepaguá, it would be a bit of dull, morbid fun,
wouldn’t it? Why it should be any different on a ship or on a Martian base?”

  “Look, it’s not any seven random people. They are people of remarkable courage, intelligence and competence, doing something extraordinary. Also, they are a metonymy, a synecdoche of humankind. The Martian base is a miniature of the Union of Nations, in which the public sees its future and its challenges, the problems and conflicts of the Earth and the power of fellowship to solve them so that all of them, all of us, can win. These people were also chosen to represent the seven confederations and their ability to cooperate…”

  Pagu saw a breach to enter. “Infograph this, Guira,” she subvocalized through the viewer to her associate, who made a map of the world associating the regions with photos and biographies to link to her page: Prestes and Neogeia, Benário and Eurasia, Zhou and Eastasia, Sartika and Oceania…interested people could consult this info on the network after the interview.

  “But aren’t there already a lot of joint projects, plus cultural and educational programs to promote peace and friendship between peoples? Did we need this one in particular?” She tilted her head, looking genuinely interested in the answer.

  “It’s something else. It’s not a work of engineering, it’s not a fiction, it is a spectacle of reality, a live adventure, true in all its risks and surprises. The involvement of people is much greater when the imponderable is at stake. We are human and this is how we get excited, with people with whom we share the perils of life and learn to identify ourselves with, even if they seem so different from us!”

  “So the main benefit is political, Raul? That’s not what you usually hear!”

  “I think it’s essential. I didn’t live that, and you’re even younger than me. But there are many people still living who fought in the Great War or suffered with it, and who didn’t forget the post-war grudges and passed them on to their children. For example, I remember when I saw Santos-Dumont and Sinchi Yupanqui landing on the Moon. In the naïveté of my eight years of age, I felt so proud of my country: at last, the world bows to Brazil…”