Solarpunk: Ecological and Fantastical Stories in a Sustainable World

by Fabio Fernandes

  Apparently, he would have to arm himself with more resources than initially thought necessary. Borrow some items from the Ebony’s special arsenal. The worst is that he can’t use the power of his touch of domination over there. Intended to safeguard the secrecy of the night-sons, Palmares’ most secretive organization learned to make its agents immune to touch. Fortunately, the arsenal keeper is a good friend. Djogo will certainly understand the dilemma. Anyway, it will be another favor to charge.

  * * *

  Of all the events, passages and details lived during almost six hundred years of existence, Long Teeth remembers everything that is worth remembering. His birth in the Imperial Cuzco of Pachacuti Yupanqui, in full Final Dawn, the Time of the Fall of the True People. His childhood in the Ancestral Caves, after the flight to the west. The teachings given by the Ancient of the Caves, at a time when there was no longer any hope of redemption for the South American lineage of the sons of the night. The massacre undertaken by the armies of Prince Tupac Yupanqui and his desperate flight up the mountain range, and plunging into the warm gloom of the Amazon rainforest for almost two centuries, a time when he remained as a solitary predator around the villages of the short-lived Jê and Tupi tribes.

  He was probably born around 1450. If this date is to be relied upon, then the massacre in the caves occurred around 1480. He was captured by the Palmarines in the Dambrabanga Mocambo in 1672. Hence the conclusion, much later, at a time when he had already come to care about the short-lived time count, that it took him nearly two centuries to cross South America from west to east, from the Pacific coast to a few tens of leagues from the Atlantic.

  Nowadays, for the most part, he believes that his life actually began when he received the pardon of King Ganga-Zumba and began the long-lasting partnership with the Palmares intelligence services. For, if intimate and deep knowledge of the habits and mores of their prey forms an integral part of the existence of an experienced hunter, he must admit that he acquired little knowledge in two centuries as a nomadic predator in the Amazon. Only his coexistence with the Palmarine civilization—more sophisticated in its own way than that of the Inca Empire at its height—enabled him to become, himself, a civilized predator, a consummate master in the art of surviving and prospering in the great urban centers erected by short-lives who have settled in the Americas, coming from Europe and Africa.

  Throughout more than three centuries of association with the political, military, and scientific elite of Palmares, he was protected so that he could perform several tasks relevant to the survival of the First Republic. He was a spy, secret agent, murderer, robber, naval commander, astronomer, engineer, diplomatic attaché, explorer, mountaineer and more.

  When his old friend Andalaquituche returned from London in 1718 to take over the crown that had belonged to his half-brother, Zumbi the Great, a few months earlier, he decided to create the Ebony Circle to help the sons of the night in their missions and keep the secret of their existence safe.

  It was an agent of this secret organization who, in the mid-nineteenth century, on an expedition to the former Transylvania in search of the shadow of truth beneath the shroud of medieval vampire myths, encountered two Thirsty Ones, females of the True People. Although buried almost four hundred years ago, Tenderdark and Blackmoon were still in a state of latent life.

  When he listened to the report of their adventures, Long Teeth exulted like a cub from the caves on their first drinking night. Equally enthusiastic, the soba of the Ebony Circle issued a prior license for the protégé to go to Wallachia. After confirming the presence of the Thirsty Ones, he should arrange their immediate transfer to Palmares. However, an urgent mission delayed their departure and then came the message that they had already been shipped.

  Impatient as a short-life, he barely endured the months of waiting, from the news of the discovery until the arrival of the cruiser Negrume to the naval arsenal of Ipojuca, with its precious cargo in the hold.

  It did not matter that they were Thirsty Ones of European race. They were of the True People. And, more to the point, females with whom he could talk in the language of the spirit and procreate to produce new hunters.

  Immediately upon landing, disappointment. The Thirsty Ones lay inert. Soba Kanjika and the agents of the Ebony sought to reassure him by stating that they knew how to act, and in fact succeeded in bringing them back to life in a matter of days after three repetitions of the amphora-and-cutlass ritual. Only they did not recover their sanity. Perhaps they had already gone mad when presumed dead by the time Vlad Tepes ravaged Transylvania. Or, perhaps, something had broken down in their spirits during Sleep. Long Teeth had never heard of anyone waking up, sane or mad, after a period of forced hibernation so prolonged.

  Nor was he able to speak to them in the language of the spirit. His Wallachian princesses were only able to convey inarticulate feelings of atrocious suffering and deprivation. There were no coherent thoughts left in their broken spirits. No song that the South American hunter sung had the power to appease them.

  The only human language they articulated was a bastardized version of the Wallachian of the XIV or XV centuries. It took almost a year before the Ebony found someone capable of understanding the few disconnected phrases stammered from time to time by Blackmoon.

  Iphigenia Camarão, the greatest Palmarine geneticist of her generation, proposed at the end of the XIX century the improvement of techniques of artificial insemination to fertilize the Thirsty Ones with his semen. Long Teeth was reluctant at first. Adept of the Way of Stealth, he had always made a point of preserving the privacy of the True People before the excessive scientific curiosity of his short-lived friends. However, all attempts at a “natural approach” failed. If, on the one hand, Blackmoon and Tenderdark accepted with salutary greed the human blood that they were fed with, on the other hand they were not dazzled by his song of seduction, perhaps because they didn’t understand his version of the language of the spirit.

  The idea of collecting his semen and handing it over to Geninha disgusted him, despite the fact that he relied entirely on her. He took years consumed by this doubt before he overcame the repulsion. In the end, when he was able to overcome the moral barriers, he discovered that his seed was incompatible with the wombs of the two princesses. The American and European strains of the True People had been too long apart. According to the geneticist, perhaps they were no longer fertile among themselves.

  Far from giving up, his friend declared that all was not lost. With the promising advances in the field of gengineering, it was assumed that, soon enough, Palmares would be able to combine his seed with the eggs of the European Thirsty Ones, manipulating them in order to generate viable embryos of hybrid children-of-night.

  That promise did not materialize until a decade and a half later. From then on, although they had never recovered their lucidity, Tenderdark had given birth to four young girls and Blackmoon to three others. In the pragmatic view of the Ebony, though insane, the Wallachian Thirsty Ones constitute “fulfilling matrices.” Therefore, although he had never had the opportunity to fertilize his Thirsty Ones in person, Long Teeth became the father of three young hunters and four beautiful Thirsty Ones. Over six hundred years old, the undisputed leader of a tiny tribe, he sometimes delights in thinking of himself as an Elder.

  However, what Elder in good conscience would have abandoned his firstborn at the mercy of the short-lived designs?

  There is no denying that times have changed. There was a time when it might be possible for the True People to shepherd flocks of short-lives without the sheep even knowing who actually drove them. However, if such a feat was once feasible, it has become a suicidal strategy since the days of Pachacuti Yupanqui. The Palmarines demonstrated to him centuries ago the precariousness of his position. Today, short-lives are not just the lords of the Mortal World. They are also the protectors of the last remaining handful of children-of-the-night.

  A handful, where a little more than a century and a half a
go we assumed there was only one specimen… Not worth deluding. We only persist because of our association with Palmares and will only remain alive as long as we are useful to the interests of the First Republic.

  On the other hand, he has just lost his firstborn. As the Palmarines themselves taught him, it is necessary to start searching for just retribution.

  7 Frontal Approaches

  According to the latest report from the Republican Information Agency, graciously transmitted, albeit involuntarily, by Escura Mbutu, the Brazilian operative codenamed “Cobalt Blue” returned to the São Paulo orbital fortress.

  Finally, the Ebony understood his purpose. However, at least so far, he has managed to stay one step ahead of the opponents.

  First, he appropriated the equipment he felt was essential to the execution of his plan. He then tricked the ground crew from the Palmarine launch base in Alcântara to climb to a low orbit aboard a cargo hauler. Then, the riskiest part of the scheme: boarding as a clandestine in the Caloji VIII, a general service ship equipped with mixed propulsion. He overpowered the three crewmembers with ease, tied them unconsciously and bound them to a small shuttle, and programmed the life-support system to wake them up twenty-four hours later.

  By that time, Djogo must have already been compelled to report the invasion of the Ebony arsenal and the removal of certain special prototypes. Therefore, halfway to São Paulo, he is not surprised when the Caloji VIII master program announces in its characteristic placid tone:

  “Encrypted transmission of Headquarters in Subupira. Priority grade: absolute black.”

  Long Teeth smiles. The Ebony’s private priority.

  “Decode and open in the holotank.”

  The miniature of a well-known Banto shows an involuntary smile on the holographic tank in the Caloji’s control cabin. André Angoma, second-degree cousin to the current zumbi and third in command in the Ebony Circle, despite the fact that he has barely entered his fifth decade of life.

  “Agent Delta Comma, you are in the illegal possession of an interplanetary vehicle of the First Republic. Return immediately to low orbit.”

  He couldn’t pretend it wasn’t about him, not anymore. Angoma has just referred to him by his code name, in force for the other secret services of Palmares.

  “Activate holotransceptor.” He decides to open the directional channel. “Keep encrypted transmission.”

  “Holochannel activated,” the master program confirms the execution of the order.

  Now, Gana Angoma can also see him with a delay less than a tenth of a second.

  “Greetings, André. I did not know that you had returned to the HQ.”

  “We know what you want, L.T.”

  “Of course! I made no great secret of my intentions.”

  “Give up while it’s time.” Angoma stares at the holocamera with a heavy look. “Come back now, and we’ll forget the whole thing.”

  “Who guarantees me that?”

  “Promise of the Soba Negumbo.”

  “And where is our soba now?” Long Teeth smiles an amused smile as he senses the probable answer.

  “He was summoned to the Mussumba Palace.”

  The confession catches him off-guard. He never supposed that in this age of ubiquitous telepresence, His Negritude, the Zumbi, summoned the Ebony soba personally to give clarification on his conduct. At least not so soon.

  “If he continues in the current course, the São Paulo garrison will take him down, not without first warning the Brazilian high command.”

  “You’re right, André. Caloji is a bit of a conspicuous vehicle.”

  “So. There is no chance of approaching the citadel without being noticed.”

  “I know. In fact, to be honest, I hope that the São Paulo garrison and command will be very concerned about my approach.”

  “That makes no sense, L.T. You risk causing an incident of serious proportions. We don’t want to start a war with Brazil.”

  “Yeah, times have changed. But you can rest easy.” he declares phleghmatically , fruit of decades of daily practice. “I only want to recover an item that Agent S.C. left behind.”

  “We will make sure that does not happen.”

  “Don’t play the fool. You know as well as I do that Palmares does not have fast vehicles in the vicinity of São Paulo.”

  “Come back or suffer the consequences. You and yours. That’s our last warning.”

  “I doubt that very much. The Homeland needs us as much as we need it.”

  “Don’t you dare…”

  “Close channel.” He shakes his big head with fatalistic determination.”

  He always knew that this fateful moment of ultimate rebellion would come. He just did not suppose it would come so soon and so far from Earth.

  * * *

  “Commander, the Palmarine vessel remains silent.”

  The grizzled officer of aristocratic profile examines the trajectory of the invading ship in the holotank of the combat operations center. Her gray eyes peer into the stream of data trying to anticipate the opponent’s intentions. Apparently, it’s a civilian general-purpose spacecraft, a Caloji. According to the database of the citadel, Palmares has seventeen units of this class in activity. They have no weaponry. Unless, of course, the enemy has refitted the vehicle.

  “Ma’am, the vessel has activated the bow searchlight.” The service communications officer in the C.O.C. turns in the armchair to face the superior officer. “It is transmitting pulses in international standard code.”

  The information is superfluous. The Commander Prisca Didonet doesn’t need help to decode by herself the luminous pulses in Mbuto Code:

  “Explosion on board. Faulty transmission system. Antimatter nodes: unstable configuration. Safety measure: automatic deactivation of main propulsion.”

  “Commander, the Caloji is on a crash course. Impact against outer hull minus fourteen minutes, thirty-four seconds, max.”

  “Whose idiotic idea is this to come so close to us?” Prisca shouts through her teeth. The kicker is that they chose just the worst imaginable moment to show their faces…

  * * *

  “Activate equatorial batteries,” Prisca orders, struggling to appear more calm than she feels. Shooting salvos of plasma cannons against the Caloji is definitely not a good idea. Even if they manage to destroy the unruly ship, the wreckage will continue toward the fortress with roughly the same kinetic energy as before the shots. However, there is always the hope of being able to divert its trajectory with a warning shot. “Concentrate fire on the upper end of the target.”

  “Ma’am, the Palmarine vessel…”

  The commander looks away from the main holotank trajectory to the service cube that displays the ship’s holo in maximum magnification.

  The Caloji began to unfurl her sails. Carbon fiber rods start protruding from the main hull, unfolding over and over again, until their ends are tens of kilometers apart from each other. Then the thin films that constitute the sails unfold, fixing themselves to the neighboring rods, until the surface of thousands of square kilometers is complete.

  Good thinking! Prisca rejoices. With the São Paulo between the Sun and Earth, the pressure of solar radiation on the gigantic sails will push the ship in the opposite direction, acting in practice as a braking system. Will it have enough time?

  “Last form.” The commander closes her jaws. Anyway, it’s worth taking the risk. “Suspend preemptive strike until second order.”

  “Commander,” the detection officer says, amazed, “the target seems to have regained some of the maneuverability.”

  Indeed. In addition to losing speed, the Caloji begins to position the sails to guide, drifting little by little from the São Paulo. The main holotank blazes with the reproduction of the Palmarine civil vessel that, once the sails have been unfurled, has become much larger than the fortress.

  “Invading vessel reducing speed.” The detection officer keeps her gaze nailed to her service holocube. “Angular de
viation of two, now three degrees in relation to the original course.”

  That’s not enough. Prisca frowns. With the sails fully unfurled, the ship now displays an oversized crash section. If it does not spin faster, it will sweep the southern hemisphere of the fortress with part of the upper canopy. Although they have very small densities, the sails will clash with the external structures of the São Paulo at a speed of several kilometers per second.

  “Holy shit!” The commander’s eyelids clench, dazed.

  The blazing light explodes in the holotank, illuminating the hitherto obscure C.O.C. in a fiery glow.

  “Detection Officer!” Prisca buries her face in the crook of her elbow. “Report.”

  The subordinate lets out a piercing groan before replying:

  “Just a second, ma’am.”

  “Damage Control here.” The deep voice echoes in the C.O.C. “Pulse of ionizing radiation from the target.”

  “Preliminary interpretation.” The commander blinks without seeing.

  “Most likely hypothesis: explosive decompression of the protective wrapping of one or more antimatter node.”

  “Ma’am?”

  “Proceed, Detection Officer.” The commander tries to focus on the holotank. The Palmarine vessel seems strangely displaced from its previous course.

  “Explosion in the disperser of the primary propulsion of the invading ship.”

  Prisca shakes her head, bewildered. She contemplates the figure of the spinning space ship, slowly moving away from the fortress. At least we’re not at risk of collision anymore…

  “Damage control report.”

  “Radiation from the explosion returning to normal levels. Emission levels poses no risk to us.”

  “Understood.” Prisca let out a sigh of relief. “Boarding party, in their stations.”

  “Commander, depressurization on deck four.” The Damage Control Officer calls back in a surprised tone. “Apparently, a loose piece of the Caloji struck the side. Repair team on the way to the site.”