Aerovoyant

by P L Tavormina

  In disbelief, she stared, the power of her trait dawning.

  Ephraim turned to Ardelle. “Patience. There are more than a dozen duplicated muscle groups, and we can’t risk taxing any of them. But we’ll get there. We walk, then run.”

  “It’s too slow,” Ardelle insisted. “You’ve never even taken her out of the office. You’ve never once so much as opened the curtains. How far can she see? Eight feet? If the discerners show up, that won’t help.”

  * * *

  Later, in her room, Ardelle’s words played in Myrta’s thoughts and she altered her vision again, thrilling at doing so on her own. Her breath was deep and rich, cobalt, like velvet. It diffused in a plume, steamy blue breath-fog. Everything in the room was a tapestry of swirling and magical chemistry.

  How far can she see? Eight feet? Ardelle’s words rang in her thoughts, and Myrta turned to look out the window and, dismayed, she sank to the floor. The air outside was not shades of reds and greens, but an ugly brown that became thicker and more disgusting the further out she focused. She tried to pull the colors apart, see each one, but it was no good past a few feet. Ardelle was right—she’d taken one step, no more.

  Myrta began flipping her vision back and forth as often as it occurred to her to do so. She gauged how far she could tell red from green, how far she could see her breath, five feet or ten. Some nights she fell asleep with her lensing altered and woke the next day to find it still locked in place, with a burning sensation in the middle of each eyeball and a dull ache around her sockets. Occasionally her trait shut down while she used it.

  More weeks passed, but she didn’t progress, and Ephraim grew impatient. Working with his gases in the office was one thing, but the briefest look out the window and the air muddied. “No one could make sense of it, Papa. There are too many gases.”

  “Not true. It’s a matter of focus.”

  One morning he took her to the orchard, saying a change of scenery might help. “These trees make oxygen. Try to see that.”

  Brown. Everything was brown, except her breath.

  “Try harder.” Tension wove through Ephraim’s words. “We’re in full suns-light, right next to the trees. They’re making oxygen—”

  “Red is faint. I see your breath. It’s blue.”

  He exhaled loudly and turned away. “Yes.”

  They stood like that, the wall of his back to her, the expanse of his shirt blaming her, the linen whiteness of it like something she could scrawl her failure onto.

  “Trees are supposed to be easy. They’re stationary and they make oxygen. Look at the leaves.”

  “Red is faint.” The backs of her eyes pulsed in painful waves that wrapped around to the front of each. She didn’t want to be here, not like this. Anything would be better, milking a goat would be better. Planting crops would be better.

  After a moment he turned back, his eyes wet. That wasn’t fair. She was trying, and he ought to see it. He ought not cry. And the fact that he made no acknowledgment of her effort didn’t help either.

  “Focus in and out.”

  The carbon near his mouth was blue, sort of. She focused away from him slowly. But she couldn’t see anything but brown past five or six feet. Without a doubt she was weaker. Her lower lip began to tremble.

  “Sweetheart,” Ephraim said quietly. “Turn it off. Rest your eyes. You have an amazing ability. I don’t have it. Your mother doesn’t. Very few people can do what you do.”

  I know.

  He sat under one of the trees and patted the dirt next to himself. She brushed the ground and joined him, mumbling, “I don’t know why mechanation’s so bad anyway.”

  “It isn’t.” He picked up a stick, rubbed the bark off, and began scratching the dirt. “It’s the fuel.”

  He drew a circle and pointed at its top. “Imagine if we relied on nothing but trees for energy. Over our lifetimes we might harvest a forest and use the wood for warmth, for building things, and for power.”

  He moved his stick around to the bottom of the circle. “The trees would be gone, but we’d replant them, and the forest would grow back. In a sense, they’d grow back in synch with our own lives. They’d grow and they’d pull the carbon back out of the air, and our children would have a new forest to harvest. That’s a complete cycle.” He was pointing at the top of the circle again. “Are you with me so far?”

  “Yes.” Of course. Growing and harvesting and starting over was like anything else—like a good night’s sleep or winter before spring.

  “Here’s the problem. The combustion industry doesn’t use trees to power its devices. It digs into the planet for a different fuel, a different source of carbon. Archaic carbon. The carbon in coal and oil hasn’t been in the air for a very long time. It’s been in the ground for hundreds of millions of years. When that fuel is burned, the carbon goes into the air and overwhelms the natural carbon cycle. The trees can’t absorb it. They can’t cycle it all back. It takes far too long. And as a result, the carbon in the air increases. That puts the entire global climate at risk.”

  Ephraim stared at the circle and drew a decisive ‘X’ through it. “But archaic carbon is fantastic energy. You, sweetheart, you see carbon in the air, you can see it increase year over year, and in a nutshell that’s why Renico finds you problematic.”

  “Because I see carbon.”

  He squeezed her hand. “Because that threatens profits.”

  This thing she could do—it should be useful to Renico. They ought to be able to work together somehow, find pollution and clean it before it became a problem. Something.

  He stood and helped her up. “I have a meeting in Beamais. Rest. Rest your eyes.”

  Mulling over it, Myrta went around to the front porch, broke a sprig of jasmine from one of the bushes, and sat, twirling the flowers between her fingers. The industry had its own ideas about her; in a way, like everyone else had, her entire life. Myrta rolled the stem back and forth. Her life should be hers to decide.

  The perfume from the jasmine, the scent from the blossoms, it was strong enough that she could see it with her trait. The scent was a gas, and it jiggled, like a shimmer, around each little white bloom. It definitely had carbon in it, but the carbon in breath didn’t jiggle like that. Puzzled, she squinted closer at the carbon oils wafting off the jasmine. Definitely jiggly.

  The carriage pulled around. Ephraim waved as he drove out. He did a double take and reined in the horses. “What are you doing?”

  She flicked her trait off.

  “Myrta? I asked you a question.” Ephraim climbed out of the carriage.

  “Nothing.”

  He strode over, his expression intensifying. “How much practicing have you done outside of our lessons?” He stood in front of her now, glancing from one of her eyes to the other. “Go to the office. Now.”

  She went inside, and Ephraim stormed in a moment later. He grabbed his case and slammed it on the table. “I told you to rest.”

  “Mama said—”

  “Ardelle does not have this trait.”

  “Neither do you.”

  He opened his mouth, then closed it and yanked out his scope. “Look at me. I said, look at me.”

  The command in his voice terrified her, like Melville di Vaun saying, We’ll take you with us. She did as she was told.

  He grabbed the side of her head, easily wrapping three fingers around the top and jamming her left eye open with his thumb and forefinger. He pushed her head backward and examined one eye, then the other. His breathing grew louder and his hands rougher with every passing second. She choked up, shaking against his hand, trying to breathe.

  Finally, he pulled away from her with a roar. He hurled the scope across the room. It crashed against the wall and the eyepiece broke from the handle. He went to the desk and pulled out the whiskey.

  Ardelle rushed in. “What’s g
oing on?”

  “You,” he yelled. “She overworked her muscles.”

  Ardelle blanched.

  He filled the shot and downed the drink. He pounded the glass onto the table saying, “Congratulations, Myrta, you’ve lost ground.”

  Myrta looked at them in stunned disbelief. “This is not my fault. You don’t explain anything.”

  Ephraim laughed bitterly. “This is why you’ve stalled. You’ve overworked the ciliaries. Do not use your trait. Do not turn it on. Do not so much as think about it.” He left.

  Myrta ran out of the office and up to her room, pulling the door hard. Right behind her, Ardelle knocked.

  “No,” Myrta yelled, grabbing a pillow and falling to the bed with it. She beat at it two-fisted, her thumps pummeling into her chest, her anger dissolving into frustration and confusion. She sobbed until nothing was left but a stinging, swollen wetness. With a shuddering breath, Myrta pushed her hair back and sat.

  Outside, Odile was hanging laundry. Piece by piece in a tidy row, neatly, like she did everything. Odile never messed up. Sniffling and wiping her nose, Myrta went down and outside.

  Odile’s eyes widened. “What happened to you?”

  Abashed, she said, “I strained something. In my eyes.”

  “Oh. Wow.” Odile stood there, fiddling with a clothespin, like she was caught and might rather just be dealing with laundry. But after a moment she took Myrta into an awkward hug. “Do you want to talk?”

  “Yes.”

  They went through the orchard. The trees were reddening and declining into autumn. Once at the bench, Odile blurted out, “I’m leaving.”

  “What? Where are you going?”

  She sat. “Narona. I’m going to work there, get inside Renico. Change things.”

  “What? You can’t. Do Mama and Papa know?”

  Odile pulled her skirt up between her fingers. In and out, one hand then the other. “They said to ask Celeste. I did when you first came, but she said no.”

  “And you’re going anyway?”

  “You ask a lot of questions.”

  This needed questions. “Everything you’ve said is that they’re dangerous. You’ve pounded it into me.”

  “I want their records.”

  “Their records?” The breeze kicked up, swirling leaves around the bench. Myrta pulled her hair away from her face and tied it behind her head. “You’re not making sense. You have to tell Mama and Papa. Talk to them. You can’t just run off to Narona.”

  Although it happened. Steaders went to the city for work. She’d even had the thought herself. With a start she realized Odile was plenty old enough.

  “I don’t feel any obligation.” Odile stood, went behind the bench, and stripped a handful of splotchy leaves from a branch. She ripped them apart and threw the bits down.

  “They love you.”

  “Renico pollutes. Proving it is literally all I care about. I’d die to prove it.”

  Incredulous, Myrta said, “Die?”

  “It’s why there’s a drought. It’s why the stead needs irrigation. You can pretend their pollution doesn’t matter, but it does. And if me going makes you think about your situation any harder, that’s good too.” She slumped forward, onto the back of the bench. “Anyway, that’s why I’m telling you. The problem’s bigger than you, and you should think about more than yourself. When the handlers come at Caravan, I’m leaving. Keep this between us, Myrta.”

  Standing and going around the bench, Myrta took Odile in a hug. A real and true hug, caring and warm and soft. Odile had always been the other girl, her cousin, the one who made sense in a way brothers never did. “You can’t leave. I won’t keep it secret.”

  Odile hugged back, harder than Myrta expected. “You have to. If you can’t, it justifies everything they did. It justifies their choice to not trust us with secrets. If you tell them, they’ll know they were right to keep our real birth parents hidden from us.”

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Buzzing and hooting filled the forest. Apes lumbered by. Other primates swung in the trees. Alphonse and Stavo walked further in to a clearing where gorillas sat and groomed.

  “How long ago?”

  “Three million years. Sink into it, Alphonse.”

  He was the silverback. The females were his—they relied on him and bore his offspring. His purpose was to protect them.

  Another male entered the glade, enraging him. He stood and roared, baring his fangs and pounding his chest. The intruder howled back, posturing and thumping.

  Alphonse rushed him. His arms were longer than the other’s and he used them like bludgeons. Howling in fury, he pummeled away. They wrestled and roared, Alphonse protecting his group as the other male swung and loped and growled. Then, in confused amazement, Alphonse saw the other lift a branch, giving it the greater reach. The ape clubbed him, and he sank.

  “The dawn of tools. The intruder thought beyond himself to control his environment. It is a way of thinking we have inherited.”

  * * *

  The days grew warmer and drier, and Alphonse, Fred, Manny, and Reuben logged early and milled during the heat of the day. Reuben eyed his withering stands and muttered about wildfire. “It’s pests. A healthy tree can fight ’em, but these’re sick. Pests brood twice a year now. Too many of ’em.”

  His words hung like a death shroud. The trees failed because of the pests, the pests were brooding because of the warmth, and the warmth was because of the changing climate. Odile said that was because of combustion.

  Tightness in his chest had returned without him realizing. One evening Manny asked if he was all right, and with a start, Alphonse found himself pulling a hard breath. The same constriction he’d had at the inn and after failing on Tura. The way he’d felt after political events with his mother. “I’m fine.”

  Soon, the fuel-powered devices arrived, and everyone gathered in the shed to have a look. Reuben tested settings on the mechanated saw. He sliced a two-inch slab from a log, turned the device off, and stared in wonder at the round on the floor.

  Horrified, Georgie said, “Oh, Reuben, that’s not right. Why, Renico didn’t say anything about how dangerous the saws are. How could they sell us something like that? We can’t have those on the stead, not at all. What if little Rudy learned to turn one on? Those are death traps.” Rudy and Rosa were clinging to Georgie’s legs and crying.

  Reuben muttered, “That’s power.”

  “Reuben. They’re louder than the irrigation and much more dangerous. You know how the children get into things. I won’t have it.”

  He shook his head and tried another cut, laughing at the ease of it.

  Fred spoke up. “Ma’am, I agree. I’d be nervous if my young’uns were here.” Then he showed her the safety fastener.

  “That’s a good latch, but my children can’t be around such dangerous things. How could Renico not tell us? Why, it frightens me to be anywhere near it.” Georgie shooed Rudy back to the house and followed with Rosa.

  After learning the settings, they took the saws to the forest and felled and cleaned two trees back to back. The fieldaut pulled both trunks down together, and the mechanated miller screamed as it sliced each log to planks in a single pass.

  After a week, Reuben admired his new collection of stumps. “Holy heavens,” he chortled. “This’ll bring in cash faster’n we thought. Break early, you earned it.”

  Alphonse scratched his head, bothered by the ease with which they’d cleared the trees. As they walked down the track he asked Manuela, “What do you think about these tools?”

  She clapped him on the back. “We have the afternoon off. I think it’s great.”

  “But we cleared a big patch. We milled all of it. We could work the hillside in a season.”

  Manny laughed good-naturedly. “Yeah—and we’d sell more lumber, get b
igger paychecks, and have afternoons off. More lumber means prices come down, so I get into construction with fewer costs. You don’t think that’s good?”

  “Look. Besides the fact that we’d run out of trees, what happens in ten or twenty years? If the steads are mechanated, they’re more like cities.”

  “The problem with cities is they don’t have enough space. There’s no air to breathe.” Manny spread her arms wide. “Here, there’s space. Space and convenience? Sounds great.”

  “But the math is wrong. Eventually there’d be as many people out here as in the towns.”

  An image of the combustion industry stretching across the land flashed through Alphonse’s mind. Power lines, like arteries coursing into the foothills, creeping into the belt, a serpentine web covering the continent.

  “That’s way in the future,” Manny said. “We don’t need to worry about it.”

  Unsettled, Alphonse hiked up into the hills. He slumped against an oak and closed his eyes. The roughness and warmth of the trunk pressed through his shirt. Odile had said Renico would destroy the culture of the belt and that steaders and foothillers didn’t want any part of it, but Reuben seemed to.

  There, on the hillside above Reuben’s stead, the view shifted, or maybe time did, and he saw the belt not as rolling hills of trees and lakes but a resource. He saw it cut down and dug into. He saw rutted roads replaced by paved streets, manpower replaced by machines, and forests replaced by rows of buildings and streams of auts.

  His breath caught, and he saw a polluted city. Blinking and shaking his head, it was tree stumps again, and far below him, Reuben held Rudy on his shoulders and pointed at the hillside. Little Rudy pointed too.

  Alphonse tried to take a breath, but it turned to a sob. His choking anger became a seed, planted itself, and sprouted. Alphonse stood and hiked away from the stead. With each footfall he thought of the people his mother had placed, the laws they had passed, regulations stripped, money taken and shifted according to greed; the change to Sangal, to Beschel, Narona, Masotin. The change underway in the belt, and his mother’s march toward the capital city of Vastol and the Continental Congress for some reason he still didn’t understand.