Protected: 06 Bonus Day: Looking for Love in all of the Wrong Places
16 Patient Flowers
Patient Flowers
[Intake – The awareness of possibilities (versus the awareness of endings in Three Tokens)]
Ska’s long dyed dread locks are knotted together like so many bundles of rust and purple tumble-weeds. Her crazy hair reflects her vibrancy. She’s singing “Work” by Bob Marley and grazing in the bulk food area at Healthy Pleasures.
“Hey I know you. From my class.” She leans over and kisses me – patchouli scented air wafts from her onto me.
“Peter, right?”
“Patrick.”
“Hola.” She doesn’t care that she got my name wrong.
As she says this she smiles and slowly takes her hand out of a bin of walnuts. Then she just strikes a pose, not an attitude pose, but straight and loose, slightly swaying. She looks like something thrown together by the wind.
“What are you up to?”
“Just getting some lunch. Then going home to the east village. ”
“I’m going that way too.”
“Wanna hang out at the park and eat?”
“Sure.” We go to Tompkins Square Park. Some IKON dancers are singing Hare Krishna – very melodically – and assorted freaks and drunks lie around us. The days when this park was owned by junkies and crack ho’s are long gone.
Ska comfortably sits down on the bench in a position that would snap my spine should I attempt it.
“You’re not from here. Can’t quite place your accent.”
“Canada. Toronto.”
“Yeah. I’ve been there. I’m from Arizona.”
One of the groovy parts of Arizona, no doubt. “Sedona?”
“Close. Jerome.”
“It’s way up on that mountain.”
“Yeah.”
“It’s beautiful. Family still there?”
“My mom has a Bed & Breakfast there, right beside the old mine, but everyone else has moved…. So what do you do?”
“I work for an investment bank. Computers.”
“What do you think of working on Wall St.? Does capitalism look better from the inside?” Her chill manner belies the weight of her question. I realize that she’s interviewing me.
“On bonus day. Just kidding.” I hastily add. The joke fell flat. I continue, “I never thought I’d wind up here. It is really interesting work. Before I came here I didn’t understand how the world works politically, economically and now I have a much better idea.”
“Its all about money, isn’t it? Don’t you think it’s really creepy when a bunch of traders get together and trash an entire country’s currency. I remember traveling in Thailand in September 1998, and over the course of a week I could buy twice as much stuff with one dollar. Twice as much and everyone was out of work. Crazy.”
“Yes, it makes me feel weird.” Shrug. I remember how crazy it was at work when the Thai baht crashed. “I’m in IT so its doubly unreal, because we’re so far removed.”
“You do your bit to make the whole system work.”
“I do.” Ouch.
“So what are you going to do when your boss throws you away like a broken doll? Or when you get so sick of your job that you have to leave?”
“Depends on whether that happens when I’m 40, when I’m 60 or when I’m dead.”
“Say it happens tomorrow. Say your boss realizes that your job is on the wrong side of the bottom line and fires you.”
“I dunno. Probably grow my hair down to my ass and bum around Asia.”
“Any plans to grow up?”
“Maybe.”
“Have kids?”
“Maybe. With the right person.”
She catches me with her eyes as I look at her. We just look at each other. I smile at her and it works – she smiles back.
“Where do you live?
“Downtown. Beside the World Trade Center.”
“Really. It’s a bit dead down there at nights.”
“Yeah, but I don’t mind it. I walk to work. Where do you live?”
“I live right there.” She points to an apartment at the intersection of Avenue B and 6th St. “Why don’t you come up for tea?”
I’ve been here before so I know where these next steps can lead. After the terrible ending of my last relationship I’d been thinking what it would be like to come around to this place again; I wondered whether I’d hesitate; or even if I’d ever cross the line again. But decisions are tricky things because they don’t happen in theory, they become real only when they change our actions. In the event my decision requires no more effort than to go to where I want to go. I nod assent to Ska’s invitation and smile.
“Let me escort you then.” She slips her left arm through my right and guides us across Avenue B to her home.
It’s late afternoon by the time we arrive. She begins to light candles [, flames from which illuminate the evening gloom]. I look around and don’t see any electric lights. Her apartment is painted in bright earth tones; even though it is early spring, it is warm and sunny; the air is moist and flowers are blooming everywhere.
“Nice flowers. Its amazing to see so many blooms at one time.”
“They are beautiful aren’t they?” She lays out a bowl of fruits and nuts, which she hands to me as I sit down on her futon bed, which is in a couch position. This afternoon’s interrogation has exhausted me. She continues to stand, watering and doting over her plants. “Just before I left for California they were ready to bloom and I asked them to wait just one more week for me because I really had to go visit my family.” As she says this she leans over and kisses the blue petals of an iris. “Even though I think that my plants really like me, and I take good care of them, I was certain that they would have bloomed by the time I returned.” I watch her closely as she speaks, charmed by the complete absence of guile in her manner. “But they didn’t! They still hadn’t bloomed when I returned! I was so tired from my trip that – even though I arrived home at noon from Cali – I immediately had a nap.”
“BUT! When I awoke there were flowers everywhere!”
It’s impossible not to smile at the image. “Not only are your plants are very patient, they have a sense of fun.”
“They are wonderful. I love them.” I imagine I hear them reply, as they rustle in the breeze created by her desktop fan.
Ska plops down beside me on her futon and puts her right arm around me as if that were the most natural thing in the world. Perhaps it is. “What would you like to do? Let’s watch a movie.”
We watch a DVD of Casablanca on her laptop computer and slowly get drunk on wine. Then we sleep with each other. In fact we make love and it is beautiful. In the morning I awaken before her and watch her breath animate the curves of her body, her face a picture of serenity in the muted tones of the early morning light. How could her flowers not have waited to bloom?
22 I Won’t Wait
I Won’t Wait For You
“Patrick, have you ever slept with anyone else while going out with me?”
“No. I will only be gone a few months. Will you visit me?”
“Of course.”
“I’ll be back. I’ll get another job. Will you wait for me?”
“No.” She squeezes my hands tightly. “I don’t wait for anyone.” She catches herself. “Patrick, that sounds wrong. Let me explain.” Big inhalation. “I believe in karma. Things happen. Things happen for a reason. My place is here. Right now your place is in Toronto. I really hope you can return. I think we’re close to making things happen, y’know, like long term. You really might be the one. But let’s see. I think that the universe is sending us on paths that will make us both happier.”
I frown, not at all convinced.
“Things can work out in unexpected ways. Maybe now that you’re going back to Canada you can change jobs; drop the finance bull-shit and become an artist. Maybe you’ll come back here in triumph. Maybe I’ll love you more then.”
“Ska, I want this to work out now.”
“If it’s the right thing, it will happen.” She starts to cry and holds me tightly. “Patrick, there are things about you that I try not to hate, but they’re small and most of the time I think that you’re amazing. I’m devastated that you’re going. But you have to, and I won’t wait for you.”
Letting Go
Leaving per se is not such a big deal: every day that I’ve been here I’ve thought about going back. My negative emotions are caused by being forced to leave.
Despite these emotions, I suspect that returning home won’t be so different after all. I can find as much wealth and poverty and diversity and style in Toronto as in New York. The difference is simply scale, my friend and enemy. Maybe its time to begin operating on a more human scale.
Dating is totally impossible. One night stands just serve to draw a line under my impending departure. With no interest in internet dating I turn on the television. Iraq is a mess. 3 soldiers dead in Nasaraja (sp) 2 more in Fallulah. It’s so easy to forget that we won the war last spring.
I go into my room, close the door, turn off the lights and sit on a meditation pillow. Though I am alone I live in a world of distractions. My room is dark grey, as it is just after dusk. Across the street a pile driver blasts into the night, my fan whirs, all the details big and small distract me and keep my mind busy. Both my cell phone and my land line start to ring. The tendrils of my social life reach out for me. I have no more time for “I’ll miss you” conversations I’ve already had a lifetime’s worth and who has time for pain?
Then I filter out the noise and start to think. Or rather I am more lucid in my awareness of my thoughts. “I’m leaving tomorrow. What is the difference between leaving and being alone? For me now, nothing.
19 Paintball With the Indians
The e-vite comes from evillama@cousins.com. The evil lama in question is Edwardo Villamurga, a manager in Desktop Engineering.
To: Desktop Engineering, Software Engineering, Commodities Technology, Derivatives Technology and Futures Technology
Subject: Paintball this Saturday
Be there and be square!
If Debbie in Human Resources had known she would have been mortified. Consider the legal implications: men playing paintball with women; managers playing with their direct reports; and most dangerously of all Americans competing with Indian consultants who were taking their jobs.
The event is held in a deep, dark corner of New Jersey, which – once the noose of highways surrounding Manhattan is traversed – proves to be a beautiful. And rich. We pass towns like Maplewood and Summit that are larger than Canada’s richest neighborhood, Rosedale, and have nicer houses. We take a pit stop at the Short Hills Mall, in the lot of which are parked 500 of the nicest cars I’ve ever seen. This is a great revelation to me that explains so much of America – surrounding every city in the country, including the most decrepit, like Detroit, are these swaths of rich, white suburbs.
Without prompting we divided into 5 teams. 2 teams are American: the engineers form one team, the business support groups the other. Three teams are Indian: the Hindu team, the Moslem team, and a miscellaneous group of Untouchables, Christians, Parsis and Jains.
The players are of an incredible variety ranging from the rabbinical, to guys named Lance, to gurus, to babes. But all are of a type: we are nerds. There was an orthodox Jew Raz who was scholarly and tremendous at evaluating logical expressions; and a reform Jew Paul with whom I get along famously because he is as liberal as I am and much funnier; serious Mohammad from Malaysia and dashing Aziz from Morocco via Paris and Rome, and no doubt some mojo finishing school in between. That team was rounded out by Peace Sign Lance, who was one of those people you see on Star Trek who can fix a warp conduit using bubble-gum, hair-pins and a Game Boy; a perfectly groomed Puerto Rican woman named Deanna and her Chinese equivalent Opia who had long, straight black hair and dark eyes. Lynn was there as well, looking like she had tagged along, like she always does, yet somehow always being in the middle of things, both on the production and support side. Deanne, Opia and Lynn: they were the best of the next generation, who, with their ability and beauty and glowing health were proof positive of evolution or at least progress. Somewhat disquieting if you represent the model that has been improved upon.
My team featured two smart, confident Russian American women Alla and Anna (in my mind I completed the sequence and wondered where Appa was). New Jersey was well represented by Scott, a beefy, neckless man with linebacker, and the evil lama himself, Edwardo ‘Evil Lama’ Villamurga, who is small, lank, and economical with his movements.
We are all somewhat surprised by how much our Indian opponents meet us on our own terms. Some attempts do not work, for example Rajababu’s Yankee’s uniform. Nagaraj’s khakis, however, are virtually indistinguishable from Lances’ (and look better on his slim physique), and Sachin, who grew up in Garden City Long Island and came armed with a rifle and a pistol. But the clothes competition, or perhaps I should say cultural affinity, runs deeper, for from their pedantic manner to their unstylish clothes, weird physiques and odd shoes the Indian consultants are every bit as present and into the game as we are. They look like us, and like us they are here to play and to win.
The game operates on several levels. In theory the idea is to capture flags but in practice a successful ambush, a quick dodge or a sharp shot counts as social points scored. Bragging rights.
The teams gather around their flags, which are placed at corners of an octagonal field surrounded by landscaped, small hills, into which shrubs have been used to create a maze of paths; it is not that large, but is full of hiding places. A shallow man-made stream bisects the space.
Edwardo not surprisingly takes charge of our team, in the sense of calling a huddle. “Did you hear the story of Rajababu, that guy in the Yankees uniform?”
“Nice uniform”, Alla notes.
“It must have cost a lot of money”, Anna adds.
“That uniform is bullshit.” Scott interjects.
Alla raises one skeptical eyebrow and places her hands on her slightly tilted hips. Scott crumbles. “Yeah its nice. But it’s not authentic. He’s from Chennai for God sake, not Queen’s.”
“I’m from Petersburg and I love the Giants.”
Scott suddenly looks at her in a new light. “What kind of car do you drive?”
“BMW M5 series.” Smile. “Its red.”
Scott’s flirting brings out Eddie’s evil lama side. “Guys, c’mon. As I was saying, that guy Rajababu in the Yankee’s uniform. He took Davidson’s job. And you know what? They pay Tata more for him even though he only has 1 year’s experience and Davidson had 5. Davidson was let go 3 months before his wife gave birth.”
To my relief Jamal says, “Let’s leave grudges out of this and focus on winning.”
The one thing all of us are is self-organized, so it takes but a minute for everyone to take on a role. Eddie and Achilles play forward, Lance plays middle with me, and the girls play defense.
Once this is done, Lance smiles and tells us he has a surprise. Looking like an arms dealer from ‘Toon Town he opens two attaché cases made of brightly colored plastic and withdraws an assortment of weird guns, from Buck Rogers lazers to Six Shooters, which he solemnly hands to his team mates with brief instructions about each toy’s features.
The game begins with all of us gathered in the middle. A real gun, shooting a blank is used to start the game. When it’s fired we all turn and run for the hills.
For a moment it is all mixed up as people run in every direction. A crush and a blur and all mixed up: in that moment we are a nice dynamic metaphor for our world. I’m glad its happening here.
…
I had wondered why Lance had gone for middle and not forward position. As I watch him morph into the quarterback for our team I understand.
…
The Brahmin team, called the Eagles, is sandwiched between us and the other American team, the Long Islanders who go by the moniker Jets. We’re the Jersey team, so we’re the Giants. The Dalit team is to our right, they’re the Tigers. The Moslems are the Patriots.
Strategically, our problem is that the Indians outnumber us in a game where – despite the fetishes about weapons – bodies count. If we can somehow split the Indians – or at very least keep the Tigers away from our right flank – we may be able to buy enough time to work with the Jets team to take out the Eagles.
I am the sole guardian of our right flank, which faces Tiger territory. I try to send the message that if they leave us alone we’ll leave them alone. The Tigers hang back around their flag so it is unclear what they think.
I have always found the Untouchables difficult to read. Most of the Indian consultants are Brahmins, and therefore patricians and in that sense of a type I know. For example they are comfortable with authority, particularly when they have it. The Dalits – the untouchables – though now in charge of vast poor places like Bihar, still have the odds against them in India; Dalit schools are still burned in vicious rural caste wars, for example and Moslems, and even Christians, are sometimes massacred in provocative attempts to get fundamentalist votes. This kind of history makes you play your cards closer to your chest. Hence the inscrutability.
Positionally, the Jets are in far worse shape than us because they share a border with all of the Indian teams, two of which, the Eagles and the Patriots, appear to be ganging up on them. The Jets have arranged themselves like Musketeers with cartoon blunderbusses, into two semi circles of equal size, each facing one hostile border. Their captain, Oleg, is in the center of one circle calibrating some form of paintball cannon.
The Eagles and Patriots attack first – focused on the Jets. The moment they began to move the Jets Captain fires his cannon and an array of paintballs fly into the air. A cluster slams into Dilibabu’s chest One! Two! Three! “You’re dead!” The game’s first casualty. We are playing with easy rules: you only die after three hits. Everyone is on a schedule.
As Dilibabu dies a slender Indian woman who I recognize from Transaction Management rushes to his side, removes his firearm and rushes away. She is wearing football tights and a Jets t-shirt and looks great.
The Jet’s have no time to savor their first kill, because events are moving very quickly. Lance grabs a plastic blunderbuss and moves into the line. Like a group of Dutch defending Mastricht against Louis Quattorze, they count, raise their guns and fire. Beautiful smoke rings emit from each gun and through these rings their volleys are fired. The first volley takes their opponents by surprise.
3 more players are taken down.
The Indians fall down but are far from out. Quickly adapting, they start crawling into good tactical places like the lees of hills and behind tree stumps. Gradually their strategy becomes clear – they have taken the high ground around the Jet’s flag. Taking pot shots from heights, they begin to pick off the Jets.
[Final rush – In the ensuing we all blend together, difficult to see who is who.]
…
…
Our undoing, in the end is Rajababu, who with his pristine Yankee uniform and job history proves to be too tempting a target for Scott.
As fate would have it Rajababu is the lynchpin in the undermanned Eagles defense that faces us. His pinstripes are like a bulls-eye. With no discipline at all we rush him like moths to a flame. Much to our surprise we are out gunned. Rajababu has a gatling paint ball gun and he quickly takes out Scott and gets two hits on Edwardo and Carol.
We pull back in disarray. Eddie decides to gamble.
“We’ve got to take out Rajababu.”
“He’s got a fucking machine gun.”
Edwardo has no time for defeatism. “Patrick. I want you to give me covering fire on the right, and then when I break circle around their flank, towards the center of the field to distract them and pull fire. Alla, Anna give me covering fire on the left.”
“But he’ll shoot you.” Alla smiles sweetly, consciously sounding melodramatic, a little reminder that she is beautiful and talented enough to become a movie star in the event that she gets bored of Derivatives technology.
“Someone always dies taking out a machine gun. I’ve got two hits already. I’ll take as many hits as I can going down. Lance can make the final kill. ”
…
The Tigers are hiding in the shrubs behind Rajababu.
…
The women sigh then Anna makes a joke in Russian and Alla smiles.
I walk out to our flank which is very far removed from action and take in the view. The Dalit team has left Mariya behind to guard me. She is another lithe, smart, beautiful young woman of the type God seems to be creating so many of these days. She actually isn’t a Dalit at all. Like a couple of other players on her team she’s a Catholic, named after the Virgin Mary herself. Without knowing her history I could easily place her in a number of places, Kerala, London, New York. She’s wearing embroidered bell bottom jeans, her nose has a diamond stud and when she reaches up I can see the glint of a navel ring. She catches my eye and shoots me using her fingers as pretend pistols.
Suddenly Mariya runs right at me, dodges to her right and then literally runs around me in a circle. This is a distraction: the Tigers have broken the game wide open by bolting towards the Eagle flag. They have a few athletic players who lead their pack but mostly they are of the same mawkish physical type as the Americans so they amble forward slowly and unsteadily and we all blend together.
Edwardo takes advantage of this surprise attack and bolts towards Rajababu. He nearly makes it, too: Rajababu is completely distracted by the Dalit rush and fumbles his initial shots. As a result, the Evil Lama doesn’t die in a hail of paintballs. Just one volley hits him, but that’s all it takes. As Eddie is promoted to glory, he plugs Rajababu and therefore his plan works brilliantly: Alla rushes Rajababu from his left, Anna from his right and then he is one dead, pinstriped Jackson Pollack painting.
Meanwhile, the startled Patriots over-react to the Tiger assault and pulls back entirely from Lance’s flank. Lance has Deanna and Opia harry the retreating Patriots and sends everyone else against the Eagles. Alla, Anna and Carol seize the opportunity and close in on the two remaining Eagles players, the women in the Yankees uniform and Mary in the Giants uniform. We loose Carol. Across the field Lance himself is taken down by an ambush expertly coordinated by Sachin, who is turn is ambushed by Alla and Anna.
We’re in the end game.
I survey the field. To my left Alla and Anna are the near side of the Eagle’s flag, the Indian woman dressed in a Yankees uniform, and her friend in the Giants uniform are on the far side. Just beyond them Sachin is fighting for his life with Mohammed, the last remaining Patriot. In my immediate vicinity, in fact far closer to me than I realized, are Deanna, Opia and Mariya, the only surviving members of the Jets, have surrounded Jamal but have not yet managed to kill him.
The moment Sachin kills Mohammed, I try to catch Deanna’s eye to suggest we make a move against Mariya. Both Mariya and Deanna, however are looking at Opia who bursts out laughing and shouts “Girls against Guys!” Just like that I’m dead as each of the women plugs me once. Mariya then backs off while Opia falls to the ground laughing and Deanna mocks me in Harlem Spanish. The indian girls take out Sachin, and the Chinese girls take out Jamal.
I bury my humiliated head in my hands so I don’t know whether it is Opia or Deanna who plugs me one last time in the butt. Not that it matters given how hard both are laughing and how I am already dead.
Alla and Anna finish their victory dance and then start swaggering towards the middle of the field while joking with each other in Russian. Deanna and Opia chat in Spanish and dance with their arms over their heads. Mariya is quiet and hangs back, circling slightly to her right inching towards Opia’s flag. She too is smiling modestly as her team loudly cheers her on. The two Indian girls, x and y, have joined the party and are laughing uproariously.
Then they join their hands and dance around in a circle. “Girls five. Guys zero!”
Protected: 19 Schadenfreude XMas
10. Maps
Maps
The following maps illustrate Mr. Market, the Battle of Tar Island and Spinning Wheels. They’re downsampled to fit on a kindle. If you want them in full resolution contact me at brianmacmillan.com.
09 Spinning Wheels
The bodies were laid out on the tarpaulin in exactly the same way they had been found in the mine. The men, whose corpses had been struck by the shell that had exposed them, were in fragments. Two women, whose corpses were further away from the point of impact, were mostly intact, though ossified by tar. Tanya stooped to examine one of the females: the woman was roughly her own age, in her early thirties, but was shaped differently. Whereas Tanya was long and thin, the dead woman tapered from extremely broad shoulders to delicate wrists and ankles. Her jeans had mostly flaked away, but her top was made of a durable synthetic fiber, which, though stained black, was intact. She had two rusted metal buttons on her collar. On the first was written: “CO2 Kills Gaea”. A second, equally rusty button, featured a stylized dove footprint. The bullet that killed her had entered through the base of her skull.
Who murdered her and why?
Tanya heard a knock on the door of the lab. She looked up. General Brightbottom had already let himself in. He had a terrible habit of treating the entire base as his personal property.
“I have something for you.” The General handed Tanya a package of micro-fiche documents that had just arrived from the University of Red Deer. The package was wrapped in a letter from the sender. Tanya wondered why the General was here. There was no need for the Base’s senior officer to hand deliver anything; there were plenty of people who were trustworthy enough to act as courier. Tanya looked up at the General; he was staring at her.
“Any theories?” he asked.
“Its all in my last report.” Tanya was self-indulgently brusque. She found it difficult not to be at this time of year. The Athabasca Day celebrations always upset her.[1] She realized that it was unfair to be rude to the General because of this. He didn’t know that her father had died in the Battle of Tar Island, fighting against Alberta.
In an effort to embrace the spirit of the holiday Tanya nodded toward the poppy on the General’s collar. She said as convivially as she could, “Did you fight in the Athabasca War?” She expected her question to elicit a rote, patriotic response. Instead the General’s face went grim. “I did. At Fort Vermilion …” he faltered. While the General collected himself Tanya decided to answer his original question. “You asked me about the bodies. My current theory is the obvious one: murder. I strongly suspect these people were killed because they opposed the tar mines, although my only evidence is a button. Unless there’s something useful in that package.”
The General said, “There is”. He appended nothing to this comment. He stood there, considering his next move, having forgotten to complete this one.
Tanya did not want to find out what the General’s next move would be. She said, “I’d better get back to work”. Her words brought the introspective General back to the present. “Of course. I’ll pick you up at five. I’m looking forward to your husband’s surprise.” He winked conspiratorially. Tanya had almost forgotten that her husband’s project was a secret, because the entire Base knew what the secret was.
“Thanks”, she replied. The General had already let himself out. Tanya watched him walk along the path toward the mess hall. She imagined him parading on a circular track, marching around and around in circles, with great dignity and pomp, never stopping because no one had ordered him to. The thought made her laugh because it seemed both absurd and possible.
A bus ticket Tanya had found on one of the dead women was dated May 15, 2027. Tanya’s plan was to look for references to the missing hikers starting from this date. She intended to begin with the Red Deer newspapers and move on to the Edmonton, Fort McMurray and Slave Lake ones if necessary. She put the microfiche into a reader.
She found her first lead on the front page of the June 21 Red Deer Gazette,
Alberta Police today called off the search for Red Deer woman Alison Schipka, daughter of former conservative MLA[2] Utal Schipka. Ms. Schipka was reported missing one month ago. She was last seen camping at Lake Gregoire, south east of Fort McMurray, with at least three members of the eco-terrorist group Earth Now! Her parents insist that Alison and her friends have been kidnapped by one of the many private security contractors working in the Athabasca region.
Anyone with information relevant to the case should contact the Red Deer Police Department.
After another hour Tanya had found nothing else: the records were in poor shape, and were frustrating to deal with. She decided to take a walk. The base was defined by two pits that were created over two centuries ago, when the rocks in the area were first mined for oil. The South Pit was still being mined, although on a scale that was dwarfed by its history. Part of the North Pit was used by the artillery, but no soldiers were there now. Tanya preferred the solitude of the North Pit, so went that way.
When she reached the rim of the North Pit, she paused to take in the view. The foreground was full of ancient machinery: hauling trucks, backhoes, rope shovels and drills. Although they were gigantic, the machines were dwarfed by their backdrop: the North Pit was over 100 metres deep and twenty kilometers long. It had a dozen terraces partially covered by scrub. Where the ground was too harsh for even the toughest plants, she could see the layers of bitumen rock – the reason why the mine was here in the first place.
Tanya began the descent along the switchback road that the loaded trucks used to take when they exited the mine, two centuries previously. Her approach startled a flock of parrots nesting on the western face of the pit. They flew into the air in a riot of noise and colour. It took several minutes for them to settle down again.
At the point where the switchback road reached the bottom of the pit Tanya encountered a hauling truck. It had once been painted mustard yellow, although most of the paint had long since peeled away. She could see an imprint where the product number T282B had once been stenciled in metre high letters. When Tanya stood on her toes she could just reach above the middle point of the truck’s tires. The truck continued an additional 6 metres into the air. The machine’s size made her think not only about what it could do – that was obvious – but what it represented. Tremendous effort had gone into making this machine. Its task, to mine rock so that it could be processed into oil, was clearly a priority for the civilization that created it.
Perhaps 50 metres beyond the truck lay the ruins of a rope-shovel. The machine’s cabin, which was larger than the entire hauling truck, rested on a swiveling base to which was attached a pair of caterpillar tracks, which were used for locomotion. One of the treads on right track had been destroyed. Tanya inspected the damage: it was localized, but apparently fatal. Just above the broken tread was spray painted a globe in the centre of which was stenciled the words Earth Now!
Alison Schipka’s group had wrecked this vehicle. Perhaps that was why they were killed. It would certainly explain why they had been buried nearby. Tanya walked carefully forward. Although the terrain was level, it was very slippery, because the tarry rock inhibited the ground’s ability to absorb water. She continued north-west for another kilometre and then, before she reached the artillery range, exited via a path that had once been an access road for small vehicles. After two switchbacks she reached Highway 63, which was the direct way back to the base.
When Tanya got to the road she was surprised to see that it had been paved with asphalt as far as she could see in both directions. While her husband Keelut built cars, others were building roads for his cars to use.
Tanya’s return trip was quick. She reached the lab one hour before her date with the General, so she decided to re-examine the newspapers for stories about vandalism at the mines. Within minutes she found something. On May 17 the Slave Lake Gleaner announced that rope-shovel 28 in the North Pit had been destroyed by “environmental terrorists.” A day later the Fort McMurray Free Press published the following letter,
I used to work on shovel 28 until those eco-freaks destroyed it. Now I don’t have a job, because management isn’t fixing it. When we capture those punks we should kill them slow.
Although Alison Schlipka’s parents had thought she had been kidnapped – and presumably killed – by a private security team, perhaps she, and her activist friends, had been murdered by vigilantes.
Someone opened the door. It was Miriam, her assistant. She asked, “What did Professor Bryant send you?”
“I didn’t know he sent me anything”, Tanya replied.
“It’s that manila envelope, by the stuff the General brought.” Miriam said.
Tanya picked up the envelope. It had been sent to her from the Edmonton archives. In her rush to examine the newspapers, she had not noticed it. She broke the wax seal and removed a bundle of documents which had been bound together with string. There was a cover letter that had been hand written on vellum paper, which she read,
Mrs. Okpik,
I have great news! I’ve solved your mystery, and in a way you’ve solved one of mine. The murdered hiker – Alison Schlipka – was very famous for a brief moment 215 years ago. In fact, she was famous twice – first as a socialite who was allegedly kidnapped by eco-terrorists. Later, when her diary was found, she was identified as one of the most notorious environmental activists of the 21st century. Athabasca Insurance, which has records going back that far, estimates she personally caused over $2 billion of damage to mining equipment, including $1 billion the week she was murdered by a private police force. That’s a pre-hyperinflation number.
I’ve sent you a copy of her diary. I had my scrivener make it especially for you, so feel free to make margin notes.
Kind regards, JB
Tanya put down the letter and walked over to where the dig was reconstructed, at the back of the lab. Until this point she had thought of the corpses as artifacts, not people. She looked at Alison. Despite the tar, Tanya knew exactly how Alison had been dressed when she was murdered. It was a tomboy style that was still in fashion. She could easily imagine what Alison had looked like, with her broad shoulders, copper coloured hair and green, scared eyes.
Tanya looked away from Alison’s corpse and toward her assistant. Miriam was reading the letter from Bryant.
Tanya said, “I’m going to read the diary outside.” She picked it up from her desktop, walked past her assistant, and exited out of the western door of the laboratory. She took a seat in the middle of the egg-shell blue wooden swing that dominated the west-facing side of the porch, and opened the diary to May 15, 2027 – the date of the bus ticket they’d found.
We left Edmonton two hours ago.
The deciduous forest has given way to boreal, mostly pine and spruce, although you still see stands of maple and birch. There are blighted areas everywhere, which makes the landscape spooky. Sri said that this blight is caused by a different beetle than the one that has destroyed the coastal forests.
All things considered, its not a bad backdrop for man’s biggest crime against nature.
May 16
Today’s my birthday! To celebrate we’re going to do an action! Details to follow …
May 17
We took out a gigantic rope-shovel last night. Sri threw a molotov cocktail onto one of its treads. It was all so simple, though Sri nearly set himself on fire. When the broken machine slumped over I felt like a little English sail boat taking on a Spanish Galleon.
To tell the truth, the action was more of a fuck-up than a success. Disabling the rope-shovel took no effort. But we were nearly caught by a rent-a-cop a moment later. He started sweeping the pit with a powerful searchlight, and even though it was windy we could hear the barking of dogs. We were saved by freak weather. Just as the cop spotted us, the air pressure plummeted and the wind starting gusting really strong. While I watched the wind blow the cop’s car into the North Pit, I wondered if the earth ever needed me to save it.
Alison’s May 19 entry was simply “tonight we have some big fun.”
The next entry began in the middle of a paragraph.
… after the action we went into Fort McMurray, to a place called the Jackrabbit Grill, for some food. Writing about it now, in my tent, under the stars, far away from the town and everything, with the calming sound of the Lake nearby, I still think going there was a mistake. It may be the last mistake I ever make.
Going to the Grill was Sri’s idea. He thinks that if our movement is going to succeed we have to change the minds of the workers. His plan was to find someone in the community who was not dogmatic about the tar mines, and use them as an in. I thought the plan was foolish. The locals all knew about our action. They’d be looking for us. Police and rent-a-cops are bad enough without vigilantes. In the end, Sri won me over with these words. He said, “Sometimes crossing a barrier doesn’t involve stepping over a line drawn in the sand. Sometimes the barrier can only be crossed by looking at things differently.” Although I fear his idea will kill me, he’s right. If we don’t get people to see things differently, we’re going to keep making the same mistakes over and over again, until we become extinct.
We disguised ourselves by changing into what we call our “church” outfits. My outfit was a pressed blue dress in a sixties style. It fooled no one. The moment I entered the Grill someone asked me if I was“one of those climate bitches who thinks all these tornadoes are caused by the factory?”
I turned to go. Before I did a second man said, “Hey John. John. Chill out.” He was very good looking – tall, fit, neatly dressed in a denim jacket, jeans and expensive boots. He apologized for his friend. He said that there had been some vandalism at the mine and tempers were really high today. I said I didn’t know anything about that – we were just passing through on our way to the Athabasca Dunes.
His eyes lit up when I mentioned the Dunes. He asked me if I had been in touch with Lenny.
I gave him my stupidest look. I’m a terrible liar, and didn’t know what to say.
“Lenny Thiele”, he prompted. “He runs the camp up there.”
I said I didn’t really know because my friend made all the arrangements.
Sri jumped into the silence. He said, “I think I talked to someone named Margot.” The man began to say something, but stopped himself after a syllable. Sri is just as bad a liar as I am, but has this breezy knock-me-down-and-I’ll-pop-back-up-in-your-face manner people don’t challenge.
Sri whispered to me that he thought the tall good looking man was a “conciliator” and we should get to know him. I thought he was out of his fucking mind but just said, “I’m not hungry right now” and ran to the car. The other three joined me ten minutes later. They’d gotten coffee and sandwiches to go. Sri got a toasted cheese sandwich for me, bless his mixed-up soul.
I ate while I drove. I was anxious to get as far away from Fort McMurray as fast as I could. We were staying at a camp south of town, just off Highway 63. When we passed the industrial park at the intersection of Highway 69, someone started to follow us. I know we were followed because I stopped before I turned into the Park, and the car behind me stopped too.
But what could I do? All our gear was at the Park. It was already late and it was Sunday – we didn’t have enough gas to get anywhere. All the local stations were closed.
Sri got all caught up in the idea of tapping a pipeline for gas. There’s one within a couple of kilometres of here, he said. He thought we could vandalize it and get some fuel. I pointed out we didn’t have a refinery with us. That shut him up for a minute.
We decided to sneak out of the Park and drive to the next one down the road. It was about 50 kilometres away. We had more than enough gas to get us there. Our plan was to hide there overnight, and return our rental in Edmonton first thing Monday morning.
No one followed us out of the Park, but when we turned south onto Highway 63 I saw a car blink its lights. I don’t know if it followed us. We got to Crow Lake Park in no time, even though I was careful not to speed.
That’s where I am now.
Its really dark. And we’re all alone. I hope. I think I hope.
I’m going to go outside to see if we’re alone.
I just went for a walk along a beautiful natural path that follows the perimeter of the lake. I think deer made it. As I walked along the animals got excited, but they became really quiet when I pointed my head-lamp at them. I turned my head-lamp off, wondering if the darkness would make the night quieter or noisier. When I did the night went silent except for one weird sound, this gurgling growl. It was very menacing, but probably was just an angry rodent trying to sound like a bear. Big or small, the growl worked. I got more and more scared by the noise and the dark until I’d almost forgotten about the scary men who are chasing me.
When I stood still, right at the crest of the lake, even the angry rodents became quiet. It was like the night itself was expectant. That got me scared too – or kept me that way. Animals are silent when they’re afraid. What had scared them?
I know why I was afraid. I was afraid because I was alone and when you’re alone you’re vulnerable. I rushed back to our camp.
I wish some more of my team was here. Those millions in India and Pakistan and Bangladesh who now have to fight for their water. Or the tens of millions of people whose land has been reclaimed by the sea. I’m their advocate. Their shock troop. I wish they were here to add their voices to mine.
Do extra voices make a difference, if people aren’t listening?
The full moon is hovering on the horizon, just above the lake. Its beautiful. All of the tens of thousands of lakes up here are beautiful tonight. I know it.
I also know I’m not really fighting for those benighted people in Asia and Africa and what’s left of California, even though we are natural allies. They’ve already lost. I’m fighting for my people. Albertans. They don’t realize it, but this is all mankind has got left. We’ve destroyed the rest – or at least come so far along that that we can’t salvage the least of it. Yet the people here hate me. Many want to kill me.
Shouldn’t we be on the same team?
The next entry was dated one week later,
Consider the previous entry my last. What follows is a postscript.
I’m imprisoned in the Buxton Township police station
I haven’t been kidnapped by the police, or arrested. The station we’re in is abandoned. We’re being guarded by private security goons. Its certainly an inside job, though. The goons used official schematic maps to disable the security cameras.
I guess I should tell you – whoever you are – what happened. We were caught at Crow Lake. It was a community effort, coordinated by the rent-a-cops, but everyone was in on it. By everyone, I mean everyone we’d seen at the Grill, and everyone we’d met afterward, including a gas jockey, a convenience store cashier and two park rangers.
The good looking guy from the Jackrabbit Grill found our bomb kit in the false bottom of Sri’s suitcase. The rest had already made up their minds about our guilt. He wanted proof.
Sigh.
If only it had turned out differently.
Its dishonest to write that I thought it would. Personally, globally, it has all played out pretty much as expected.
§
Kirk tried to escape. I don’t know exactly what happened to him, but I know it didn’t go well. The shooting started the moment he slipped out the back window. It lasted for minutes. It sounded like he was hit 1,000 times. The rent-a-cops have a lot of different guns. I think they used them all.
There’s no longer any doubt about how this will end. So once again I ask the question, why did I take this path? I know I’m not suicidal, I don’t want to die. That’s why I ran out of the Grill, and why my idiot (God bless them) friends should have beat me to the door.
Of all the answers sloshing around in my brain the one that stands out now is one a rat might understand. I’m cornered – the people who hate seeing this planet destroyed – we’re all cornered. So of course I chose to fight like hell. I did fight like hell. To the death.
These two questions are my last words:
Do my enemies know they’ve won?
Do they know what winning is?
Tanya closed the diary and placed it on her lap. Her assistant immediately appeared beside her, but said nothing.
A horn honked. Tanya didn’t look toward the source of the sound. She knew it was the General. She clandestinely handed the diary to her assistant with a curt “Don’t let Brightbottom see you reading this”, gathered her purse from the floor beside her chair, and briskly walked down the stairs to where the General was waiting in a jeep.
The jeep – the first totally new motorized wagon Tanya had ever seen – was certainly going to raise eyebrows at the Athabasca Day celebrations. The General knew it. That’s why he had a grin on his face.
Once she was seated and they were on their way Tanya said, “General, I have more information about the corpses.”
To her surprise, the General frowned. He brusquely said, “What do you mean?”
“I think the hikers were murdered because they vandalized some mining machines in the North Pit.”
“Which machines?”
“I’ve just identified one. The rope-shovel at the entrance to the North Pit.
“The one with Earth Now! stenciled above its broken tread?”
Tanya realized that the General knew most of her story already. She nodded.
“Is there anything else I should know?” The General’s manner was now distant and formal.
“That’s all. I doubt I’ll find much more.”
There was a very long pause. Finally, the General said, “Don’t talk about the corporate death squads. We like to forget that part of our history. In fact, don’t talk about any of this until I give you permission.”
Tanya nodded, but didn’t agree. She saw no reason why this story needed to be censored. It was hundreds of years old. No one would be personally hurt by it being told. And the story needed to be told, because it was about the world that created this one.
Rather than pursuing the conversation, Tanya changed it. She made a gesture that encompassed both the motorized wagon and the newly paved road. “Today is going to be a big day for automobiles, isn’t it, General?”
The General smiled.
Tanya looked east. In the distance she saw clouds of smoke and heard the sound of engines. She said, “The South Pit looks busy.”
The General’s reply was effusive, “How do you think we paved this road? Oil. Asphalt. Tanya, we’re turning back the clock.”
When they arrived in Fort McMurray it was after sunset, although not yet pitch dark. They took the highway straight to Liberty Square, in the centre of town.
Dignitaries were seated on the east side of the Square, on a small, wooden podium that had been raised one metre above the ground. They were illuminated by panels of electric lights attached to metal trellises. The west side of the Square was illuminated in a traditional manner, by pitch torches.
The General slowed the jeep to a walking pace when they approached the Square so that passers by could admire it. As they parked in front of the stage, on the stretch of road between the dignitaries and the audience, they were suddenly illuminated by a powerful electric light. There was a moment of baffled silence while the audience figured out what it was witnessing, and then a cascade of applause.
A second spotlight focused on an announcer who was speaking into a monstrous megaphone. The announcer introduced “the handsome General and the beautiful scientist”.
Once they parked, both the spotlight and the audience’s attention, drifted elsewhere. Tanya rushed to her seat in the bleachers opposite the stage. The General trailed behind her, shaking every one of the hundreds of hands held out to him.
A few moments after Tanya reached her seat, all of the lights went out except for a handful of torches.
While the orchestra at the foot of the stage played an introduction, a machine projected an image of the Premier onto a gigantic silver screen. The audience gasped. A new movie. The Premier had made a new movie.
While the Premier spoke, an electric spotlight shone on each of the vehicles lined up in front of the stage, starting first with a motorcycle, followed by an auto-rickshaw, a passenger car, a light truck, the jeep Tanya had arrived in, and two racing cars. The racing cars, one with red stripes, the other blue, were the main event.
The climax to the evening’s festivities was a race to Tar Island and back. The two contenders in this race were the military secrets Tanya’s husband Keelut had been working on. Tanya looked for her husband on the stage, but didn’t see him. He was probably at his garage doing some last minute tinkering.
While the master of ceremonies announced the race, a gaunt man with a military haircut and civilian suit stepped out of the pack of dignitaries crowding the stage. The gaunt man’ progress was illuminated by the main spotlight. Tanya recognized him as General Brightbottom’s Patron – a former General who now worked at a munitions conglomerate. He lithely jumped off the stage and landed immediately beside the blue car. As he jumped, his tie was blown behind his head by a strong gust of wind. Some of the pitch torches went out.
The General shook the hand of the the driver of the blue car, who wore a denim jacket and navy blue jeans. The blue driver’s hair was cut in a military fashion. The driver of the red car wore a thick, red leather jacket and white chaps. Her kinky dark hair was too long for the military. The General kissed her on the cheek, and then raised the starting flag.
A gust of wind blew the starting flag down before anyone was ready.
The General raised the starting flag again. The drivers’ revved their engines.
There was a precipitous drop in air pressure. Without thinking, Tanya ducked under her chair. As she did so, the stage in front of her was flattened by a wall of wind. The silver screen crumbled as it blew away.
Tanya lay down longer than she needed to: the freak wind storm quickly passed. When she rose, she did so cautiously.
The stage was a dark hole, except for where the powerful hand torches of the rescue crews shone. The damage from the storm was localized. It ended just before the highway. The new cars were covered in dust, but otherwise unscathed. The bleachers across the street from the stage, where Tanya was, were not affected at all.
The sound of a revving engine pierced the air.
The driver of the blue car, the military man, had never left his post. He was ready to race. The wheels of his car were spinning and spinning while he revved his engine. He was impatient for an opponent.
A crowd of people began chanting, “Where is the red driver?”
A man removed the starting flag from the corpse of the retired General. He leaped onto the first row of seats in the bleachers. The applause was almost as loud as the blue car’s revving engine.
Tanya watched as the people around her turned away from the damage, like a past they wanted to forget. They drifted over to the starting line, or stood on the bleachers, trying to get a better view. Some were cheering, others looked on with slightly dazed expressions. Only a few people had died; the crowd was quite large.
There was a tremendous cheer when the driver of the red car appeared. Her white chaps were stained blood red. Word got around that a shard of wood had nearly pierced her femoral artery.
The crowd was now louder than the revving engine of the blue car.
An ambulance alarm pierced the air. The crowd roared louder still.
The red driver opened her car’s door, even though one young man passionately begged her to turn back. When the man’s hands touched the red driver, they became bloody. The red driver was indomitable. She entered her car and turned on its engine.
The crowd roared its loudest yet, but the sound of two car engines revving was louder still.
While the cars’ wheels spun, a last round of bets was made. It was all about the red driver: some people thought she was too injured, while others thought she had spirit. Some bettors argued that she had something to prove.
The cars’ wheels kept spinning.
The man with the starting flag lowered it.
The cars raced through the debris that cluttered the newly paved highway.
Author’s Note
When I write, I prefer to explain not present, so not very much background information is given in these stories. For those who want a bit more backstory, here it is.
The starting point for this cycle of stories is August 2, 2011, the day two crises occur: the US Federal Reserve discounts Treasury Bills (Default Tuesday); and a massive earthquake centered on the Hayward fault wipes out the North American Pacific coastline from Vancouver to San Diego. The inability of the our political and economic system to adapt to these catastrophic developments leads to the collapse of civilization.
The stories in this book are set between 200 and 230 years after Default Tuesday. The technological center of this world is the Canadian mid-west, while the population centre is further north, in a now habitable arctic. The main country in these stories is the so-called Federal Republic of Alaska and the Northern Territories. The Republic has an aristocratic (patron/client) model of government. The idea is that as social development declines, so too does democracy. Although the model for this aristocratic system is the mid-19th century Russian aristocracy, it has libertarian elements, reflecting its roots in current North American class structure. A recurring trope is that libertarianism doesn’t make you free: it leads to a class structure that favors the wealthy.
The Federal Republic of Alaska is actually controlled by Canadian successor states. The story here is that in the early 22nd century Alaska invaded the Yukon, and then got conquered by a coalition of Nunavut, the North West Territories, and what’s left of coastal British Columbia. After 100 years the coalition – including conquered Alaska – has evolved into the Federal Republic of Alaska and the Northern Territories, which is colloquially shortened to Alaska, or The Republic. It has a franchise based on property ownership, so is more aristocratic than democratic.
Don’t get bogged down in the impossibility of this alternate future because ultimately these stories are about right now: our drift toward a patrician form of government; the erosion of state institutions; the various identity problems we face in a class/gendered/hierarchical/technological society; the conflict between religion and science; the conflict between folk religion and established religion; our seeming inability to learn from history; our destruction and/or rejection of paradise etc.
The use of Canadian spelling is thematic.
I use the word toward – which is the American version of the English word towards. Canadian usage is inconsistent.
Comments and edits are welcome. I can be reached at brianmacmillan.com
-Brian MacMillan May 7, 2012
Notes on the Individual Stories
The story begins when a ship called the Yéil arrives at Los Angeles, two centuries after California was destroyed (mostly flooded) as a result of the Hayward Quake. The name of the ship (Yéil ) is a reference to the trickster, Raven, who in Tlingit mythology is credited with – among other things – stealing the moon on behalf of mankind. Disruption is an important narrative device in all of the stories.
Long Beach Island was created when the Hayward Quake – and its numerous aftershocks – caused much of the western coast of North America to flood. The “Island” is what remains of the southern suburbs of Los Angeles. It is comprised of what is now the area west of highway 405 (the San Diego Expressway), including land currently under the Pacific Ocean. Its northern tip is the area between Highways 110 and 405, just south of downtown Los Angeles. Downtown Los Angeles is completely under water.
The set for the story is the shanty town that has grown up around the old Pacific Investment Management Company (PIMCO) headquarters, in Newport Beach. In the story, the ruins PIMCO headquarters is slightly closer to downtown Los Angeles than it is today.
I chose the PIMCO headquarters as the set for this story’s parody of financial shamanism because PIMCO has more bond assets under administration – $1.8 trillion in May 2012 – than any other company, and is the largest financial firm on the west coast of the USA. Mohamed el-Erian, the person whose personal communication device is featured in the story, is one of the two CEOs of the firm (along with Bill Gross).
The idea behind the parody is that when the Collapse happens, trade decays and, as a result, communities have to draw upon local resources in order to survive. The natives who live on Long Beach Island have few skills to help them survive – knowledge about bond and equity trading has become practically useless, and quite meaningless in a world without global financial markets. Over time this “knowledge”, because of its association with the lost wealth of the early 21st Century, gets turned into the magical language of the local religion. All this is to parody our current deification of free market economics.
The Sustainable Garden – aka Eden – was built during the Collapse. This is one of my favorite historical themes – that even in dark ages technology develops. That’s something we’ll have to watch out for. If a nasty batch of disasters wrecks our civilization, we may not even notice because our iPhones are so captivating.
This story is about how libertarian societies can become oppressive. On a character level it is about the loss of innocence.
The term “hoarder” comes from Stalinist Russia.
This story is the happy ending to the previous story. Its not a particularly happy ending, because the libertarian-aristocratic society that created the injustice in The Cell is still in place.
The backstory to Lots is that Rhonda got pregnant when she stayed over night with Cody on Long Beach Island, in Mr. Market. She wanted to get pregnant so that her child could have Cody’s genetic alterations. That’s why at the end of Mr. Market Rhonda has the marines kidnap Cody.
In the Republic of Alaska, procreation with genetically engineered people is taboo. When Rhonda reveals that Cody is the father of her child (Tanya), she is shunned by her aristocratic family and forced to live a middle class existence, which given the low level of social development at that time, is pretty rough.
The main theme of the story is scarcity versus plenty, played out in as many ways as I can think of. I also have some fun considering unusual ways in which beauty can be socially constructed.
Narratively, Lots is a re-casting of the ugly duckling story with a focus on identity issues.
I play with voice in this story – does it work or is it too much?
This story is a study of how social constructions define and distort identity.
Its also a love story influenced by the sun and the moon (and of course that trickster Raven).
There is a third theme about how culture – in this case poetry – plays out in real (non-literary) circumstances. That’s what the varying renditions of the Romeo quotation are about.
For non-information technology (IT) folks, the joke about the wooden internet may not resonate. The joke is that “building a wooden internet” is an answer to the question, “What is the stupidest conceivable IT job?” A computer network made up of poplar and pig iron is practically impossible. It would have to be too big. The Director’s insistence that building an internet out of wood is a strategic goal for the Republic reveals him to be an ignorant bureaucrat.
Every poetry fragment is thematic.
Notes on The Battle of Tar Island
The Battle of Tar Island is the final battle in a resource war between the north and the near-north, caused by global cooling. In the 21st and 22nd centuries the arctic has become heavily populated, thanks to global warming. The decline in manufacturing and global population that has happened because of the Collapse is causing a reduction in man-made greenhouse gasses, which is resulting in cooling.
Most of the imagery is 19th century – the Republic has early 19th century technology (Napoleonic wars) and the Albertan’s have late 19th century technology (US Civil war). The battle is absurd because it takes place in a 21st century artifact, so everything is out of place and/or time.
References to the Tar Island factory – and the north and south pits – are entirely fictional but based on fact. Google Tar Island Alberta to see one of the world’s largest surface mine (its approximately the size of Manhattan and growing steadily), and the factory there. Those concerned about water issues will be horrified to know that pollution from this mine is allegedly polluting the entire Mackenzie water system, included much of the planet’s remaining supply of fresh water. Horrific fish mutations in Lake Athabasca lend credit to the allegations. Sadly, the Canadian Prime Minister Stephen Harper is actively suppressing research into this issue. The two maps – Route Taken by the Second Army 1 and 2 – illustrate much of the Mackenzie River watershed.
The protagonist, Anton, has spent his life defining himself externally – as the child of his parents, and as a node in a military hierarchy. Mutiny within the Republic’s army forces him to make existential decisions.
Initially I gave this story a completely ambiguous ending, but decided I liked it better when the protagonist achieved his objective without killing anyone, and without surrendering.
On the surface, this is a “here we go again” story. I have gone to great lengths to make the ending ambiguous so that optimists can have a happy ending, and pessimists one full of dark humor.
[1] Athabasca Day. The first day of a week long holiday that starts on April 10, the anniversary of the Battle of Tar Island, and concludes on April 17, the anniversary of the Peace of Yellowknife.
[2] Member of the Legislature of Alberta
The Djinn Intakes
Additive, subtractive and re-distributive magic – to escape the Djinn cannot do something additive – apply power to a lock or whatever – all he can do is redistribute – move things around. No force, just direction and misdirection.
[She knew that he would accede to her request, provided it was given in good faith. He was one of those people who discerned good intentions from bad and supported them.]
Protected: My Last Adventure (Pen)
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