Sunvault: Stories of Solarpunk and Eco-Speculation

by Phoebe Wagner

  “Of course,” Jamie replies, maintaining a plastic smile. Two stern-faced men flank Fernanda as they enter the research station.

  Walking through the narrow labyrinthine corridors, Jamie skips ahead in her script. “During the solarsaur project we developed new technologies and techniques for the splicing of genes and the integration of photosynthetic symbionts with large land animals. However, Dr. Melissa Laird, who unfortunately passed away due to breast cancer three years ago, had a vision that stretched beyond coping with the current hot and toxic state of our planet to one which redefines the position of humans in our biosphere. Ultimately, her work culminated in this.”

  The small group enters a large clear dome filled with fruit trees, a small fish pond, and a variety of edible crops ranging from the tender shoots of seedlings to tall tangles of pole beans. Jamie glances around and then exchanges a few quiet words with a woman digging in the dirt as the visitors scan the area with small frowns. The gardener stands up and hollers, “Ella! Where you hidin’, child? Auntie Jamie’s back, and she’s got guests for you to meet.”

  The top of an apple tree comes alive. Branches sway, leaves rustle, and then thump, a small dark-skinned girl emerges and runs so hard that her momentum almost knocks Jamie over as thin arms encircle her legs in a hug. Jamie gives a burst of laughter from the impact. “I wasn’t gone that long! But I missed you too.” Her voice softens as she runs a hand over the girl’s smooth bald head. “Come on, Ella. Say hello to our visitors. This is Ms. Fernanda Harrison and . . . um her two friends, Mr. Smyth and Mr. Kay.”

  Fernanda’s body has gone stiff, and her eyes fix on the child like a raptor. With slow movements, as if trying to avoid startling a sparrow, she lifts her sunglasses and props them in her hair.

  With a little nudging, Ella peeks around Jamie’s legs. Large brown eyes stare out from an earth tone face freckled with bits of forest green.

  “She’s beautiful,” Fernanda whispers.

  The girl hides again and giggles into the back of Jamie’s knees. “Ella is the first photosapien. The project was modeled after the relationship between corals and sea anemones with photosynthetic zooxanthellae. The host animal, photosapiens or solarsaurs, for example, provide shelter, transportation, and protection, for their photosynthesizing partner. In return, the little green cells gift a bit of glucose, food essentially, straight into the bloodstream of their host. Ella still needs to eat, but not as much as normal humans. Of course, she also needs to spend plenty of time in sunshine. She dislikes wearing clothes, but we aren’t sure if this is because it covers her symbionts or is just normal kid behavior. So we compromise, a spaghetti strap dress, but no shoes. Hey Ella,” Jamie coaxes, “let’s show Ms. Harrison your curtsey. Remember how we’ve been practicing like the princesses in your favorite movie.”

  Ella tightens her grip on Jamie’s pants for a second before jumping out. Then with theatrical poise, the little girl pinches the edges of her white dress blazed with sunflowers and tips a curtsy. Her toes grind into the rich garden dirt as she says, “Pleasure to meet you, Miss!”

  Fernanda sweeps the hem of an imaginary skirt and bends like a ballet dancer. “The pleasure is all mine, Princess Ella.” The CEO’s warmth and playfulness with Ella surprise Jamie.

  The little girl giggles and then repeats her curtsy to each of the bodyguards. The men return startled half-bows. Jamie smiles, relieved that her ploy to entice Ella worked. Having spent her whole life with the less than eighty people who lived and worked on the research station, the young photosapien was unused to meeting strangers. Jamie and her peers feel that the less people who know about Ella and the project the better. The Revelationers and much of the general public consider genetically modified humans taboo, especially ones so visibly different.

  “She’s bald?” Fernanda asks, squatting down to Ella’s level and beckoning the girl over.

  “The top of the head and shoulders get the most sun exposure on a human body, so we eliminated hair to increase photosynthetic surface area. The high melanin content of her skin reduces the impact of UV radiation.”

  “How old are you?” Fernanda’s tone softens.

  Ella counts on her fingers. “Four an’a half!”

  “Wow, such a big girl! I like your dress.”

  “I don’t like it, ‘cept I can do this!” The young photosapien twirls on her toes, and the sundress flairs out like the petals of a flower. Then she collapses in a heap of giggles. Even the square-jawed bodyguards smile.

  “Wanna see my baby brothers?” Ella asks, sitting up. “I got to help innocutate them.”

  “Inoculate,” Jamie automatically corrects, pronouncing the word slowly.

  “I-no-cu-late,” repeats Ella.

  “Good,” says Jamie, but Ella has already started skipping ahead.

  “This way,” the little girl calls, co-opting the role of tour leader.

  “She means she passed on some of her photosynthetic cells to the two boys born six months ago,” explains Jamie as she and the other adults follow. “Normally when a baby is born it is inundated with microbes from the birth canal and also through a mother’s caress and kisses. This contact helps to build the newborn’s immune system.” Fernanda frowns, and her posture stiffens, but Jamie continues. “Young ruminants, like deer or sheep, ingest a bit of their mother’s fecal matter to populate the flora of their four-chambered stomachs so they can properly digest plant material. The concept is the same for photosapiens. In addition to immune-boosting bacteria, a mother photosapien will pass on some of her photosynthetic symbionts through her sweat. The cells can only survive in moist environments. We have lab cultures of course, but we wanted to test the theory.”

  They stop in front of a glass-walled nursery and look in. A young man sits in a corner reading a book as his two charges sleep curled together in a large crib situated in a sunbeam. “As you can see, the trial was successful.”

  Ella raises her hands, and Jamie dutifully lifts her up to peer at her siblings. Ella is getting too big to be carried, but Jamie does not complain, not wanting to think about the little girl outgrowing this closeness. “The symbionts reside in modified pores in the skin which grow and spread over time. Nutrients are passed through a thin membrane—”

  “Are they twins?” Fernanda interrupts.

  “That’s Duo. And that’s Tristian,” Ella says, smudging the glass with fingerprints.

  Jamie swallows her frustration at the inattentive audience and adds, “We use a synthetic womb system, so they are twins only in that they were born a few hours apart. Genetically, they are distinct, as we want as much variety as possible in this early population.”

  Ella squirms, so Jamie sets her down. “I’m gonna go back to the garden and Matilda.”

  “Okay,” Jamie says, and the little girl skips down the corridor humming a made-up tune. She recalls the triumph she and her fellow researchers felt when Ella was born and how tiny and tenuous she had seemed, like the first leaves of a pea sprout. With Revelationers scouring the land and sea, Jamie feared the world would reject Ella and her brothers. But Jamie clutched to the words of her mentor: “The human race does not need revolution. We have tried that so many times, and here we are. No, what we need is a new way of living with ourselves. A way to adapt to the world we have created. We need to evolve. And evolution takes love.” She and her fellow researchers knew that Dr. Laird meant that to dedicate one’s life to this project would take more than an ideal, it would take passion for the project and love for its subjects. Jamie never expected to feel as strongly attached to Ella as she does, but now she could not imagine the world without her.

  Fernanda continues to watch the babies. One of them yawns, then flexes his pudgy, green-specked fingers.

  Just as Jamie begins to grow uncomfortable in the sustained silence, Fernanda quietly asks, “Do you know why I was attracted to your project?”

  “No.” Jamie shakes her head.

  “In my early thirties, my husband and I tried to
start a family. Even with all the medical expertise money could buy, I suffered three miscarriages. One so far along I counted fingers and toes as the bloody fetus grew cold in my cupped palms.” Fernanda closes her eyes and tightens her jaw with suppressed pain. For the first time, Jamie notices fine lines creasing the woman’s face. “Finally, I carried a baby to term. My son lived two months before his lungs collapsed.” Fernanda’s hazel hawk eyes bore into Jamie’s. “I want a child, Dr. Brown. A child who can live in this world. I want Ella.”

  Internally, sirens scream and lights flash down tilted corridors. Jamie’s chest constricts and her heart pounds overtime. She folds her arms, takes a deep breath, and hisses, “She is not for sale.”

  “One point five million,” Fernanda says.

  “No.”

  “Think about it,” Fernanda says, leaning forward. “What could this research station do with that much money?”

  The practical part of Jamie’s mind runs the numbers. More than enough to fix the damage from the last Revelationer’s attack, they could even install defensive turrets, maybe guard ships, and still have funds left over. With that they could hire more research personnel, upgrade technology, and expand the photosapien project beyond its literal and figurative baby steps. But those cherished baby steps. . . .

  Jamie never wanted kids. Never felt the womb tug of her biological clock. Never cooed over chubby infants. She did not think twice when mining her own ovaries for the photosapien project when funds ran low. She did not know how many, if any, of her own genes twined in the body of the little green girl. Jamie knew that even if there was a blood tie, Ella did not belong to her. The Photobio Research Station held custody. Dr. Melissa Laird had her registered when born, filling out all the necessary paperwork to be a documented citizen of this world. Dr. Laird was insistent that even though she was a research subject, Ella and any subsequent photosapiens were not property. They were humans.

  Jamie takes a deep breath, releases it slowly, and then says as evenly as possible, “Certainly, we could use those funds, but she is not chattel. Ella is a human being, and she cannot be bought or sold.”

  “Of course I am not suggesting any such thing,” says Fernanda, looking offended. “Think of it like an adoption. People pay adoption fees all the time. How about five million?” Jamie shakes her head, but Fernanda continues to press. “Think of the life I could give her. A life beyond these gray halls and enclosed domes. She is a growing girl, you cannot keep her confined to a research station her whole life, she will wither.”

  “Even if she were ready for the outside world, the world is not ready for her. The Revelationers—”

  Fernanda barks with laughter. “As if she is safe here! The Revelationers posted a video of their last attack. The bombs, the smoke. If the UN Coast Patrol had not arrived Ella would already be dead. You are a limping target.” Jamie swallows hard to suppress the cold sweat of remembered screeching sirens, blinking emergency lights, and her desperate search for Ella. Fernanda gestures to her bodyguards. “But with me she’s safe. I have my own state of the art security team, plus no fanatics stalk me, they would not even know to look my direction. No one will know until the world is ready for her, as you say.”

  Jamie seethes at the accusation that she cannot protect Ella, but the underlying truth to Fernanda’s words pierce through her anger. Would it really be better for Ella to let Fernanda raise her? Safer, yes, but would Ella really be happier? Was she being selfish trying to keep Ella here with her? But again, Ella was not hers.

  “As the first photosapien, continuous monitoring of Ella is necessary to see how she develops. If she runs into any health complications, we are uniquely equipped to deal with them.” With more passion Jamie adds, “Plus, she is just a little girl. I can’t rip her away from everyone and everything she knows and loves and send her off with some stranger. She’d be scared. Why do you want Ella so badly anyway? I know you want a kid, but you can’t have her.” Jamie meets Fernanda’s sharp eyes.

  “Then how about one of them,” Fernanda says, gesturing to the two babies still asleep in their sunbeam. “You can keep one for your scientific monitoring, and I can keep one safe from the Revelationers. I can provide whatever he needs, a specialized diet, a private doctor, custom living facilities. Plus, the five million still stands.”

  “I . . . I would have to discuss it with the board of directors,” Jamie replies. Relief that Fernanda has turned her sights away from Ella floods Jamie’s veins like warm water and, with that, a needling of guilt. She knows her personal feelings for Ella swayed her judgement.

  “Deal.” Fernanda firmly extends a hand. Reluctantly, Jamie shakes it. She studies the business woman and wonders if perhaps one of the twins was her goal all along. Of course she would know to start a bargain high. Jamie feels played, but she can’t deny the logic of the arrangement. She will let the rest of the directors decide the trajectory of their lives.

  §

  Three days later, after papers are signed and money transferred, Fernanda stands on the deck of her yacht, a small photosapien in her arms. As if sensing a kinship in their shared sun-metabolizing attributes, several of the solarsaurs circle over the departing vessel. They burble an ethereal chorus that Jamie instinctively wants to interpret as a journey blessing for Tristian. Along with the solarsaurs’ song, Tristian departs in the company of a specialized pediatrician who will keep in regular contact with the station about his development. The bitter taste in Jamie’s mouth about the whole transaction dissipates as she watches the way Fernanda snuggles the swaddled green baby to her chest. The sharp woman’s features soften with a glowing smile as she looks at her ward.

  Watching the scene, Ella squeezes Jamie’s hand. The little girl’s lower lip pouts out, but at least she’s stopped crying over her brother’s departure. Jamie squeezes Ella’s hand back.

  §

  Later that night, Jamie slips quietly into Ella’s bedroom. The spots on the sleeping girl’s skin glow faintly with bioluminescence like a reflection of the stars twinkling through the skylight. Another unexpected result from the genetic manipulations, like the solarsaurs’ foraging behavior. Just as unexpected as how much she loves the girl. Perhaps who we are does not come from what we are, but from what we do.

  No matter her fears about sending a photosapien into the world, Jamie accepts the need for more people like Fernanda, willing to love a baby as a baby despite genetic differences. Willing to stand up to ridicule and defend against threats. She thinks about the shift in Fernanda’s countenance and then her own.

  Jamie kisses Ella’s jade-dappled forehead. “It’s true,” she whispers. “Our evolution takes love.”

  Through the Glass

  Leigh Wallace

  recursive

  Bethany Powell

  he had wanted to be an astronaut

  but works in an aircraft scrapyard

  now, carefully dismantling, resorting

  his love making him different from scrappers,

  who loot the extinction of another age

  he finds, with a scientist’s precision,

  new bodies for the marvels of his own time

  a catharsis, in saving these old giants—

  shuttle, airplane, satellite, jet

  —to birth new bodies of sunplant, windwing,

  radio to the universe.

  The Colors of Money

  Nisi Shawl

  Though the sun grinned fiercely down, September’s steadily blowing kaskazi kept Rosalie cool enough as she walked out from under the shadow of the recently arrived aircanoe. Moored to the new mast built atop the Old Fort wall in 1918, Tippu Tib bobbed ever so slightly as the last dozen of its passengers disembarked. Beside her, Laurie Jr., Rosalie’s formerly estranged brother, blinked in the brilliant afternoon light. “Kind of you to meet me here,” he said. That was the sort of automatic politeness she’d come to expect of him during her year in Britain. The sort of surface-borne emotions he seemed to feel for her. Nothing
deep. Nothing that would justify his visit now, mere months after her return to Africa.

  What did he want? What did he really want? She watched his eyes rove nervously over the heat-thinned crowds of the fruit market. On her first trips to Zanzibar at the age of 18, soon after Leopold’s defeat, the inhabitants of Stone Town had seemed strange, their billowing, quasi-Arab robes so different from Everfair’s mix of nudity and tropic-adapted European styles.

  “Is it far to where we’re to stay?”

  “No.” They reached the intersection. She turned. “This is Hurumzi Street. That means ‘free man’ in Kee-Swah-Hee-Lee. That building up there—we’ll soon pass it—that’s Zanzibar’s old Office of Manumission.” She had learned while in England that Laurie liked being told such things. “From there Emerson House is only a few yards on.

  “How was your trip?” She should probably have asked sooner, but he seemed gratified nonetheless.

  “A bit of fuss over my transfer to Tibbu from the cruiser. Customs officials talked some rot about detaining me in Alexandria since I wasn’t boarding the train to Cairo. But I had arranged this little detour with the company’s full knowledge. It all worked out with a touch of lubricant.” He rubbed his thumb and fingers together in a gesture she easily understood.

  Laurie’s “little detour” here had taken him as many miles from Alexandria as his original itinerary had taken him from London. Rosalie supposed that once he’d left “civilization” behind the rest of the world was a featureless blur to pass through as quickly as possible. All the rest of the world except their mother’s home, where he refused to go. He refused as well to call her their mother—but then he’d been raised by Ellen, who bore them both.