Glass Sky

by Niko Perren

  Tania tried to recall what she’d heard on the various clips she’d seen over the years. I’m having dinner with Tetabo Molari! “You were born on one of those islands in the South Pacific,” she said. “It had to be evacuated because of rising sea levels. Kili…”

  “Kiribati. We were one of the earliest climate victims, though after the Antarctic collapse, we’re just a footnote now.” He leaned back in the booth, eyes fixed beyond his companions. “All through my youth I watched the sea rise, centimeter by centimeter as the world’s leaders – so called leaders,” he added with bitterness – “signed one environmental treaty after another.” He stabbed a beet slice. “We had to evacuate Kiribati when I was eighteen. I spent two years behind barbedwire in Australia while those same… leaders… bickered over who should take us.”

  Molari attacked his steak. “Fortunately, I scored high on China’s Skilled Refugee tests. I got a university scholarship in Beijing, moved to China, and started Molari Industries. I vowed to dedicate part of my profits to geoengineering research. Our leaders are clearly incapable of foresight. Somebody has to build the safety net.”

  Tania forked another piece of tofu, but it crumbled off the tines. She reached for a spoon. “I was afraid you were in it for money or power, like everyone else in that room.”

  “The money will be excellent,” said Molari, mopping the sauce off his plate with a dinner roll. “But it’s a happy side effect. I know what a sea level rise looks like. I’ve been there. I’ve seen the face of famine.” He patted his ample stomach. “Not recently, mind you.”

  Outside, a crane lowered another kaleidoscopic compressed garbage block onto the levee.

  “Your disk array plan is brilliant,” said Tania. “But without a longterm vision and a commitment to protecting the UNBio preserves – it’s just a wealth transfer tool. I’ve talked to my team. We can’t fund it from the preserve budget. We just can’t. And we don’t have five years to build it either.”

  Molari nodded. “We agree, Tania. Tetabo and I miscalculated. We’d hoped that the catastrophe last summer had given us a window for actual cooperation. That’s why we proposed this variation of our sunlight control technology to the Climate Council. It’s got the lowest technical risk, and there’s enough pork in the form of new launch facilities that it creates a balance of political power. Which means there’s a good chance of it getting through the UN General Assembly. Wong’s suggestion that we could use the UNBio preserve funds to pay for it caught us by surprise.”

  Tania felt a flicker of hope. “This variation of your sunlight control technology? You’re implying there are other options beside the disk array.”

  “I’m not promising anything,” said Tengri. “The famine last summer forced our delivery date years ahead of our research. The disk array is the simplest. We understand the materials. Each disk is independent, so we can tolerate failures. We know how to do it today.” He half nodded. “But yes, there are Plan B designs that are theoretically faster or cheaper. The danger is that there are massive technological gaps. We could end up with nothing.”

  The construction barge, empty now, eddied into the river. The lights of Queens stretched into the distance. “So, in a perfect world, we’d stick with the disk array,” said Tanya. “But we’d pay for it properly instead of raiding the preserve budget. And we’d stockpile food, because we’ll need sulfuring to tide us over, which could cause another famine.”

  “That was our plan,” said Tengri.

  She nodded. “Any chance, Mr. Politician?”

  “None,” he said. “You saw how that that meeting went.” He pushed his empty soup bowl aside and wiped the corner of his mouth.

  “Then we have no choice but to look at your plan B,” Tania told Molari. “At least let me run some simulations to compare the alternatives.”

  Tengri nodded. “What are you going to tell our friends in the Climate Council tomorrow, Tania? News is leaking already. They’re eager to get the disk array past the General Assembly so that they can start handing out construction contracts.”

  “I’ll tell the Climate Council that I support sunlight control in principle,” said Tania. “But I’m not going to use UNBio funds to pay for a specific geoengineering project until I know more details.” She turned to Tengri. “Can I do that? The UNBio preserve budget is under my control, right? I don’t even know.”

  “Yes, you control that money,” said Tengri. “UNBio is funded for preserves and basic science out of the general UN budget. Other UNBio project funding happens as needed.”

  “Good,” said Tania. “So I’ve got at least some power. I’ll ask for a two week delay to do a scientific assessment. Tetabo, does that give you enough time to get me some details around your Plan B?”

  Molari scowled. “I’ll try.” He glanced at his omni. “My jet’s ready. I leave for China in an hour. I’ll message my team as soon as I’m in the air.”

  He stood up, his napkin wafting to the floor. “Tengri my man.” They knuckled fists. He turned to Tania. “Let’s hope this works.” She raised her fist to bump his, but he clasped it between his palms instead, his grip startlingly firm. “Be careful,” he said, leaning forward and lowering his voice. “This is a dangerous game. People get hurt.”

  Chapter 4

  Author’s note:

  Angle quotes indicate dialog spoken in Chinese.

  THE TUNNEL’S ROUGH-hewn walls glistened in the orange flame of Jie’s torch. The elf padded ahead, silent as mist on the cold stone floor. Not that Jie could tell over the clanking groans of his armor. A warrior shouldn’t sneak around. It’s undignified.

  They reached the corner. Jie wedged his torch into a jumble of stones that spilled out of the crumbling wall.

  Snorrghh. Snorrghh.

  Slurping sounds of phlegm bubbling through sinksized nostrils came from the dank chamber beyond. Jie inched forward, wincing at the metallic grinding of his gear. A crack in the ceiling let in a single shaft of sunlight, and there, in its glow, sat the golden cup, gleaming as though it had been forged yesterday. Behind, resting its terrible head on razor-sharp claws, slept the beast.

  ‹Great graphics,› whispered Jie. ‹They even rendered dust particles. Can you imagine the computing power?›

  The elf hissed. ‹Stop geeking, Dad. You’ll wake it up.›

  ‹Sorry, sorry. Cheng, why don’t you go ahead? I’ll stand guard. You’re quieter.›

  The elf nodded, and inched forward. Jie gripped his sword, watching, waiting. A scaled eyelid flickered. A stutter of breath. Don’t move. Jie tightened his fingers around his weapon. That thing must be 10 meters long. If it woke, he’d be lucky to dent a scale before it devoured him.

  A ringing omni pierced the silence. Jie looked around in confusion. Another ring.

  Dog testicles. ‹Why can’t they leave me alone?› The ponytailed warrior froze on the screen, and Jie stepped off the game pad, smoothing his receding hair where the virtual reality headset had pressed it flat.

  ‹Sorry Cheng. Have to deal with this.› It had to be pretty important for a voice call to get past Jie’s “do not disturb.” Please, don’t be a creditor.

  Jie left his son on the other pad and stepped into his living room. Towering buildings stretched to the horizon like fountains of neon, painting the bare walls with light. The Beijing night. He’d bought the apartment because of this view, but now, with the furniture impounded, the shifting colors just made the room seem emptier.

  “Wèi?”

  A black man with a shaved head looked back at him, his neck swelling slightly over a monochrome collar and tie. “Am I speaking to Tian Jie?”

  The words sounded like gibberish for a second, until Jie switched mental gears. English. Like many foreigners, the man pronounced Jie’s name as Gee. Which was fine. Jie’d long since given up on the “it’s pronounced Jee-Yeuh” conversations, and accepted that he had a ready-made Western name and an impossible-to-pronounce Chinese one.

  “How can I help you?” as
ked Jie. The English felt strange on his rusty tongue. Like most Chinese he was fluent, but it had been several years.

  “I’m Tetabo Molari,” said the man. “Of Molari Industries.” Molari Industries? This might be good! “We need your expertise for a project we’re working on at Xinjiang Space Center. You’ve no doubt heard of the sunlight disk array the UN is evaluating?”

  Space Center? Sunlight disk array? Jie’s brief burst of optimism crumbled. “I’m sorry, you have wrong Tian Jie,” said Jie. “I run a nanotechnology startup; I don’t do aerospace.”

  Molari shook his head emphatically. “Nanoglass right? Believe me, you’re the right Tian Jie. The lawyers won’t let me discuss details without thumb-printed nondisclosures. But I’ll pay a very generous consulting fee to talk to you in meat space. I hope my calling you personally underlines the importance of your coming. I’m sending the contract now. And I’ve booked a first class ticket for you on the 21:15 bullet train to Urumchi.” He paused to emphasize his next point. “This is a great opportunity, Mr. Tian. It would be foolish to ignore it.”

  Molari hung up, leaving Jie staring at the blank screen. He looked glumly at the impressions in the carpet where his furniture had stood. He got these offers from time to time. Consulting contracts from some tech company that wanted to pick an obscure corner of his brain. But a generous consulting fee wouldn’t sustain a staff of ten. He’d missed payroll twice already, and he’d mortgaged his apartment. They needed sales. His temple throbbed just thinking about it. I can’t ignore the investors any longer.

  Beep. The message light flashed like a fishing lure. Jie looked up to see Cheng standing at the doorway, watching him. ‹You have to work again, don’t you, Dad?› His high voice wavered, betraying his determined slouch.

  I’m done fighting this. It’s time to be a father.

  Jie ruffled Cheng’s hair. ‹Not this time,› he said, dropping the omni into his pocket. ‹Let’s go steal that cup.›

  ***

  The beast moved faster than Jie could have imagined. Its tail whipped around like a thing possessed, spearing Cheng’s elf on meterlong poisoned spikes and pulping him against the ceiling. Flesh and bone hailed down in a shower of blood. Jie had only a moment to marvel at how beautifully it was animated before the beast wheeled. Sword! Sword! He thrashed at the controller. Gleaming teeth severed one arm, then pulled the other from its socket. Razor claws unspooled Jie’s entrails, spraying gouts of red ichor. His stomach cramped in sympathy. The game faded to the sounds of tearing flesh and crunching bone.

  Cheng giggled from the other game pad. ‹That was hilarious, Dad. You bounced like a tennis ball.› Cheng played with violence dialed to cartoon. ‹Let’s play again.›

  They died again, barely setting foot in the chamber before the beast attacked. Jie took off his armor next round to try and match the elf’s silence, but that didn’t help either. The message on Jie’s omni itched like a mental mosquito bite. Molari Industries.

  ‹Why don’t you go in alone?› Jie suggested. ‹You’re sneakier. And my sword can’t scratch those scales anyway.› He waited at the end of the dark hallway until the elf had turned the corner, and then, with Cheng distracted, Jie summoned Molari’s message into the game world. An inked leather scroll dropped out of the ceiling, secured with a small silver padlock. He pressed his thumb to the padlock to accept Molari’s nondisclosure, and started reading.

  Tā māde! How much time have I wasted? He ripped off the headset. ‹Cheng. I’m sorry. I’ve got to go.›

  Cheng stiffened but continued playing, pretending he’d heard nothing.

  What am I going to do with Cheng? Leave him alone for the weekend? No. That’s insane! Cheng is nine.

  ‹Call Zhenzhen,› he told the omni. ‹Voice. Highest priority.› What if she has her omni turned off? What if she refuses? Please. Answer.

  Zhenzhen picked up on the fourth ring. ‹Jie? Is everything all right?› Her round face peered from the tiny screen. Spaghetti-legged sea creatures moved back and forth in the aquarium behind her. A restaurant?

  ‹I know it’s my weekend to take Cheng and I know I missed last weekend but…›

  ‹No.› Zhenzhen clamped her lips. ‹I have a life too. I’m on a date.›

  A date? A yin-yang of emotions: guilt at interrupting, happiness that she was out with somebody, a twinge of jealousy that she dated effortlessly while Jie seemed doomed to bachelorhood, more guilt at the jealousy. A waiter holding a steaming plate of tentacles appeared in the frame.

  ‹Zhen, I’m desperate.›

  She shook her head. ‹I told you. No!›

  ‹Please… I got a call from Molari Industries. Zhen, this could save my business.›

  Zhen’s head stopped in midshake. ‹Did you say Molari Industries? The disk array company?›

  Jie shrugged. ‹He mentioned something about a disk array.›

  Zhenzhen rolled her eyes in an award-worthy show of exasperation. ‹The disk array is the most important geoengineering project in history.› She waggled a finger at him. ‹You’re going to fail your voting exams again if you don’t start paying attention to current events.›

  Jie held back a sharp reply. Don't argue. Not now.

  Zhenzhen leaned and said something to her companion. She turned back to Jie. ‹I’m not doing this for you,› she said. ‹I’m doing this because I’m a responsible citizen. I’ll pick Cheng up at 23:00. He’ll be fine by himself for a few hours.›

  Jie stammered a quick thanks and turned to go back to the game room. Cheng stood at the door, highlighted against the dark by the flashing lights outside. Small. Watching.

  ‹Sorry, Cheng,› said Jie. ‹Something very important…› The excuse petered out before his son’s disappointed face. ‹Are you OK gaming until Mom comes?›

  ‹Dad! Stop treating me like a kid. I’m nine.› Cheng stalked back into the game room, but his head hung, and he dragged his feet like an old man.

  ***

  It all felt a little surreal. An hour ago he'd been gaming with Cheng, resigned to another humiliating meeting with his investors. And now he was heading to Urumchi. Jie searched the jammed street. Why hasn’t the grid routed a van to me yet? What if I don’t make the bullet? The mad carnival called Beijing swirled around him: flashing neon, colored lights, thick traffic, endless people. The building across the road pulsed in a thousand shining patterns, and a few meters away a vendor tossed pinches of nanosparkle into the night air, dazzling the river of pedestrians with clouds of flickering stars. Jie took shallow breaths through his nostrils, trying to avoid the acrid smoke.

  A van darted out of the traffic, “Tian Jie” blinking behind the windshield’s grimy glass. Standing room only. With luck most of the passengers were heading to the train station and there wouldn’t be many stops. He shouldered his way inside and the doors squealed closed; they accelerated into traffic. The passengers ignored him, listening to music or watching movies on their omnis, as if each of them were traveling in a vehicle packed with warm mannequins. He clung onto the ceiling strap, steadying himself against the lurching.

  What do I know about Molari Industries? Will Molari reschedule if I miss the train? Maybe they’re testing my dependability.

  They traveled quickly, with few stops, and arrived at the massive bullet train terminal with ten minutes to spare. The uncorked passengers propelled Jie outside. Tonight’s crowds were even worse than usual, as if all of Beijing's 50 million people were pushing and shoving towards the bottleneck of the security gates.

  A gust of wind rolled waves of choking dust from the ruined Mongolian desert across the plaza, and the people around him transformed into faceless ghosts, mouths vanishing behind white masks, goggled eyes strange and lifeless. Shuffle forward. Wait. Shuffle forward. Jie pushed out an elbow to stop an elderly woman from worming ahead of him. She kicked him in the calf. Gāi sǐ dè lǎo tài tài. Finally, the gates. The wall clock showed two minutes to departure.

  The bullet was never late.


  Jie broke into a sprint, ignoring the protests of his long-neglected muscles. Up the stairs. To the access bridge stretching over the tracks. His heart chugged from the exertion. His lungs burned. A few exits away he could make out the last passengers boarding his train. He reached the escalator at a gallop and leaped down the steps two at a time, landing hard on his ankle. He stumbled, gasping, onto the platform. The train doors clapped shut in unison.

  On the empty platform a young Western tourist fought with a large backpack as a single door opened and shut, opened and shut, a toothless mouth chewing on her unwieldy pack. Jie staggered in behind her, knocking her backpack over, and learning some colorful new English in the process. The cabin attendants shook their heads at him.

  Jie leaned against a stranger’s back, gasping for breath. He slipped out his omni and read the consulting fee one more time.

  Chapter 5

  EXCEPT FOR THE dust-free air and the skiff of snow on the ground Jie could have been anywhere in China. Urumchi shared the manic blandness common to all large Chinese cities: gleaming highrises, flashing billboards, the same chain stores selling the same goods to people in the same clothes. The mirrored windows at street level revealed nothing of the gray stone building above, but printed on the double doors in a neat Chinese font were the words ‹Molari Industries. Authorized visitors only.› The words were repeated in English.

  Jie sipped his tea and suppressed a yawn. He'd been up most of the night, studying in his bunk as 2000 kilometers of countryside flashed by. Then, just when he’d been ready to doze, the baby in the next cabin had started crying, an undulating wail that her parents had been powerless to silence. Jie had imagined gamescapes where he lobbed the infant to a dragon, but he’d suffered similar moments with Cheng. So he’d brought the parents green tea from the dining car.

  He drained his cup. Feeling optimistic after what he’d learned, he navigated the doorway weapons scan and identity verification, and strode into a gleaming marble lobby. An animatronic head and shoulders mounted on a pedestal between the elevator banks directed him to the fifteenth floor in a sultry female voice. When he exited the elevator, a wall-display pointed him down the hall towards a doorway marked “Conference Room.” An automated snack cart hummed in behind him.