Episode 4 - Cold Fusion

  Chapter 27 - Salt

  I lean over the railing, letting my eyes get lost in the maze of pipes. The ones running into the treatment plant are green, big wide fat ones. Returning from the plant back to the port town is a mix of blue, for drinking water, and lilac, for treated non-potable uses like in showers and toilets. I’ve learnt more than enough about pipes and direct-reuse water treatment these last few days to last me a lifetime. The pipes are not really what has my attention, except for the fact there are so many of them.

  It’s not the symbionts either, circling floating on the water and swimming within the treatment ponds. Long necked, perpetually graceful Cygnus circle, occasionally turning their head to look up at me or watch the other workers pass by. They turn around and around in the treatment ponds, willing the water faster and slower, moving from pond to pond as silent pumps. There is even the flash of scales beneath the surface of other symbionts, freshwater species that croon to pure elements and molecules like the Gypaetus does, helping purify and collect the valuable organic nitrogen, phosphorus and carbon from our waste in the water for reuse. Every scrap of matter and energy we use these days must be carefully conserved, sorted, and recycled, no matter how distasteful.

  It’s what lies beyond that has my attention.

  The edge where the clear city-dome meets the ground.

  A wall of concrete juts up from the ground and transitions about ten meters up into the clear material holding at bay the wisps of white fog beyond. It travels up into the sky higher than I can imagine, the only visual indication of its presence is the occasional odd glint of sunlight on its seams. I don’t know what it is made of, we’re never taught much about them. I don’t know who maintains them or who built them, but the few strongholds of precious land humanity now occupies are all confined to them.

  There are those who do go beyond though. The trains interconnect them all, maintained by Intertrain’s continental monopoly on almost all transport between cities. And I have heard there are companies that specialize in scavenging beyond their confines. I wonder what the world was like then? Just how long ago it was? I always suspected we were never taught these things on purpose.

  Here at the port, a system of cable cars and conveyor belts constantly pass through the concrete walled dome-locks and travel down the several kilometer long wharf to the waiting ships. I wish we could see the ships up close, and the cetaceans that pull them. I’ve seen drawings and descriptions, but the idea of a fully marine symbiont is so strange to me. Let alone the idea that they tug our cargo out into the open ocean and the white fog beyond where the domes keep us safe and contained.

  And then, finally… the sea.

  The brine I smelt when I came here last time was the ocean. They must pump and filter air through the dome here. It’s sharp and crisp, like I can almost taste the salt in the back of my tongue, and a little organic like potting soil that is moist and living, not like those barren fields at Borough. I take a deep breath, filling my lungs with its texture. How can anyone live in the sterile places we call homes? Not just live, but truly feel alive?

  I want the organic, decomposing world beyond. I want harsh edges. I want natural things, not smooth plastic and gleaming chrome. I want discomfort, grit digging into my skin, lights so bright I squint and rushing noises in my ears.

  I can see the ocean, a great blue line that travels as far as the horizon, with white froth spraying and sunlight bouncing off the waves that constantly dance on its surface.

  She sings, says Pooka. She sways with the moon back and forth. She wears foam as a crown and circulates energy within her, racing in currents to far places. She is calm, and she is rage. I’ll show her to you, one day. You can reach your soft hands and touch her, and feel sand between your toes, and salt crystallize on your skin.

  Pooka stands at my side looking out to the sea as well, his ears pricked forward, the long hairs on his muzzle twitching. His eyes glow like distant embers. I reach a hand and touch his back, the skin quivering under my finger tips. He does not move, he doesn’t even look at me, but his mind brushes mine with growing familiarity. We watch the tiny human figures on the wharf in hazmat suits, their symbionts at their sides, together.

  “Ready to continue?” asks some cog from Diabardi. I sigh, and push back off the railing with my hands, my green rubber gloves pulled over my white coveralls. Back to the office and warehouses that stink of raw effluent.

  My temporary city-monitor buzzes and I peel back the edge of one glove to look down at the message.

  Arriving today. Send me your apartment number and block. - ID:AO0000002B, EH.

  I pull my hand-held from my pocket and tap a reply.

  Block 5B, units 45 + 46. - ID:AO0000039A, CD.

  Shion taps her stylus against the tablet impatiently. “We’ll need a sample of your safety incident reports to review, do you have a full list somewhere?”

  “We can make you an export from our system?” says the cog who introduced himself as Foreman Janos.

  “Good, give it to Miss Storm and we’ll draw a random sample to review. We will also need any associated photos and root-cause analyses if you conducted them.”

  The narrative has been taken without authorization; if you see it on Amazon, report the incident.

  Connie Storm, that’s the alias Shion gave me and that was programmed into my city-monitor. She loves her nicknames.

  “It’s not our policy to conduct a root-cause analysis unless there is a death.”

  “That’s fine, we’ll need a copy of that policy as well then. Just give it all to Miss Storm.” Shion barely pauses before continuing to the next item. “Are we still doing the tour later today? We selected the architectural safety controls and camera coverage for our random review. We’ll want a tour of security and most of the gangways and catwalks in the headworks and the covered treatment ponds.”

  Even in white coveralls and a yellow safety vest Shion somehow manages to look elegant, wearing a simple black bob that is easy to keep neat under a hardhat. She seems to be channeling some Regina into this character.

  I furiously type to keep up with her, taking notes on all the steps of our checklists as we work through them. I’m up to two tablets in my rush to keep track of all the details, both set before me in the conference room with portable keypads clipped to their bases.

  “Anything else?” asks Shion.

  I scroll down the checklist on one with my finger. “Interviews?”

  “Ah right, thank you Miss Storm.” The pleasure she is getting from saying that name is almost detectable. “Do you have a list of employee IDs and roles? We will conduct a stratified random sample of them for safety protocol interviews as well. You’ll also need to give us their training histories and curriculums.”

  “Of course, how soon do you need them?” asks Foreman Janos.

  “We’ll want to schedule everything for the day after tomorrow. We’ll spend the day reviewing everything and get the sample lists to you by late in the day. Do you have a spare office space we can use?”

  “We have this conference room set aside for you the whole time you are here.”

  “Ah, perfect!” purrs Shion, tapping her fingernails against the desk. “Can we leave things here?”

  “Yes, but you’ll need someone to supervise you through security?”

  “Oh no, that won’t work, we will be working late, coming and going. Can you get someone in security to program our guest passes to let us come at our own leisure? I’d hate to have to bother someone.” The request rolls from her tongue like smooth butter.

  “We’ll have to let the Security Director know for approval?”

  “Of course, of course. Sorry for the inconvenience.” Shion’s tone is so natural, there isn’t even a hint of hesitation to not comply from Janos.

  “They’ve got great bread,” I remark as we walk back to our rooms, a borrowed plastic plate from the mess piled with battered fruit fritters, glazed in something sweet, balanced in my hands. I feel like I haven’t used my head this much since studying for exams, it’s exhausting.

  Shion grins, and steals one of the fritters from the plate, waving it in front of my face as we walk. My hands are full between one of our tablets, the plate, and a hanging bag of data sticks with all the materials that Diabardi’s Water Utilities team provided us for the audit materials. I try to balance the plate on my tablet one handed with a growl of frustration so I can snatch it back, to no avail as I watch the other fritters tip precariously in response to my efforts.

  Pooka chuffs with amusement behind us. Want me?

  “You’re a picky eater,” comments Shion, taking a bite of the treat and licking the glaze from her fingertips to continue taunting me.

  I sniff slightly. “No I’m not.”

  “You most definitely are.”

  “I-” my pace slows a step. “I guess weird foods just remind me of the buy-out that happened at Murasaki when I was a kid. They bought in a lot of new things when it happened, including the food.”

  Shion nods knowingly, “Ah, yes. Childhood trauma. They’re not weird foods by the way. Plenty of people eat them every day.”

  “I know. I just… I like what is familiar, sometimes.”

  “Everyone has to have something that’s a comfort in the face of the harsh world. Food is a relatively harmless comfort choice,” she replies with a judgement free-tone. “Better that than alcohol, or drugs, or worse.”

  “I didn’t know people could even get drugs? Like what?”

  Shion cackles with laughter, beginning to climb the stairs to our apartment. “My dear. I am not answering that question. If you do not know already, all the better. Ask the wolf Prince one day.”

  “Everett was into shady business?” I ask curiously.

  “That boy was into all the shady business when he was a pup. But I am not one for telling Rhett’s secrets, I’ve said too much already. What’s been up between you two? Seemed like you started getting along for a bit.”

  “I thought you just said you weren’t telling secrets?” I mutter sideways in response.

  “Other’s secrets. I’m all for listening to your secrets.”

  “There’s nothing up. He doesn’t trust me and is an ass, I’m not much better. Nothing complicated about it.” I adjust the balance on my tablet, redistributing my snacks better on the plate.

  “Uh huh,” replies Shion with an unconvinced chuckle. “Speaking of shady…”

  Everett is leaning on the wall beside our guest rooms waiting as we climb the last flight of stairs, a backpack slung over his shoulder and wearing a mix of casual clothing and high-visibility workwear, sleeves rolled up.

  “Took your time,” he grumbles as we approach. “Where were you?”

  “Don’t get your panties in a knot, we were eating dinner. We actually have a fairly significant amount of legitimate work to get done,” replies Shion, swiping her city-monitor to let us all into her room.

  NUCLEUS

  THE DUST OF MOON

  ?? A Space Opera Where Sexuality Meets Cosmic Drama

  ?? In 2295, humanity has expanded across the Solar System, but ancient terrors have awakened with them.

  Four destinies collide:

  - Lorna Weiss, a psionic operative with the Terra Alliance;

  - Zhi-Xin Wu, a programmer fleeing the Imperium's grip;

  - Jabari Adomako, an ambitious Scarab pilot from the Emerald Directorate;

  - and Dilinur Altai, a conflicted Conjurer serving Imperial masters.

  As these rivals, potential allies—and sometimes lovers—cross paths, they discover the Moondust Crystal, an artifact with the power to control mutated monsters known as Radi-Mons.

  Rich with diverse cultures ??????, complex relationships ????, and spicy cosmic romance ???? that'll blow your mind (among other things).

  New chapters released on Tuesdays and Fridays.

  Volumes 1 & 2 complete, 200K words ready for reading.

  3 more volumes in the works.