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  Glass and Gardens: Solarpunk Summers

  Solarpunk is a type of optimistic science fiction that imagines a future founded on renewable energies. The seventeen stories in this volume are not dull utopias—they grapple with real issues such as the future and ethics of our food sources, the connection or disconnection between technology and nature, and the interpersonal conflicts that arise no matter how peaceful the world is. In these pages you’ll find a guerilla art installation in Milan, a murder mystery set in a weather manipulation facility, and a world where you are judged by the glow of your solar nanite implants. From an opal mine in Australia to the seed vault at Svalbard, from a wheat farm in Kansas to a crocodile ranch in Malaysia, these are stories of adaptation, ingenuity, and optimism for the future of our world and others. For readers who are tired of dystopias and apocalypses, these visions of a brighter future will be a breath of fresh air.

  GLASS AND GARDENS: SOLARPUNK SUMMERS

  an anthology

  Edited by Sarena Ulibarri

  World Weaver Press

  Copyright Notice

  No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of World Weaver Press.

  GLASS AND GARDENS: SOLARPUNK SUMMERS

  Copyright © 2018 Sarena Ulibarri

  See Copyright Extension for details on individual stories.

  All rights reserved.

  Published by World Weaver Press, LLC

  Albuquerque, New Mexico

  www.WorldWeaverPress.com

  Cover layout and design by Sarena Ulibarri

  Cover images used under license from Shutterstock.com

  First edition: June 2018

  ASIN (mobi): B07B8X9CW3

  BN (EPUB): 2940155429999

  Kobo (EPUB): 1230002200002

  This anthology contains works of fiction; all characters and events are either fictitious or used fictitiously.

  Please respect the rights of the authors and the hard work they’ve put into writing and editing the stories of this anthology: Do not copy. Do not distribute. Do not post or share online. If you like this book and want to share it with a friend, please consider buying an additional copy.

  Introduction

  In his well-circulated Ozy article about solarpunk, Tom Cassauwers writes, “Imagine a scene, set in the future, where a child in Burning Man-style punk clothing is standing in front of a yurt powered by solar panels.” To be honest, there isn’t a single story in Glass and Gardens: Solarpunk Summers that contains that scene, though I am quite curious about this child and would love to read their adventure. Nor do any of these stories look quite like the towering tree-covered skyscrapers so prominent in solarpunk artwork. Still, those evocative images have spurred interest in this developing subgenre of optimistic, environmentally-conscious science fiction, and maybe the stories in those settings just haven’t been written yet.

  A lot of the tropes and requirements of solarpunk are still being negotiated, among both the writers and artists producing solarpunk works and the bloggers and critics discussing it. Does it have to explicitly deal with energy technology? Does it have to be anti- or post-capitalist? Does it have to be utopian? Does it even have to be science fiction? When I was reading through submissions, I settled on a couple of requirements: stories had to touch on environmental issues and/or climate change, and they had to have an overall optimistic tone. But beyond that, these worlds each look quite different. The stories in this anthology present a number of different possibilities for what the label “solarpunk” could mean.

  Science fiction has a bad habit toward homogeneity, whether it’s the depiction of a single-ecosystem planet, ubiquitous and monotone cultures, three-course-meal food pills, or futuristic silver jumpsuits for all. It would be an insult to the decentralized, localized nature of solarpunk to pin it down as only one thing. Single visions of the future ignore the cultural and ideological variations that make us human. They also ignore the interconnectivity of eco-systems, and the variations of landscape and climate that make up a world.

  I think M. Lopes da Silva’s vision of a desert city reconstructed from collapsed skyscrapers is just as much solarpunk as the domed garden oasis envisioned by D.K. Mok. The rural aesthetic of Sam S. Kepfield’s underground farmhouse has just as much to add to this genre as Jerri Jerreat’s rooftop gardens and SkyCities. It wasn’t actually the mention of solar collectors in Blake Jessop’s “New Siberia” that gave me the solarpunk vibe, but rather the way his space explorers face the consequences of their past mistakes and choose not to take the same colonial, exploitative path again. There’s hardly even a mention of renewable energy in the panoramic narrative of “Midsummer Night’s Heist,” a contemporary story of non-violent protest through art that exemplifies the “punk” part of solarpunk. Helen Kenwright’s quiet tale of clairvoyance and family secrets might be better classified as lunarpunk, and no one would bat an eye to simply call Edward Edmonds’ weather manipulator murder mystery “cli-fi,” but these terms all have nebulous overlap. They circle around the same ideas.

  A couple of quasi-dystopias and environmental apocalypses did sneak in here, and while none of the utopias are quite Omelas, some of them do have a darker underbelly. But I tried to choose stories that depict adaptation and compromise rather than destruction and conquest, stories that value empathy and cooperation over greed and competition. Once you’ve read them, I’d love to hear how you think these stories stand up to those expectations. Honest reviews are one of the best tools to help readers find the kinds of stories they’re craving.

  If you’d like to read more solarpunk, check out EcoPunk!: Speculative Tales of Radical Futures, Wings of Renewal, and Sunvault: Stories of Solarpunk and Eco-Speculation, as well as novels such as New York 2140 by Kim Stanley Robinson, Walkaway by Cory Doctorow, and The Fifth Sacred Thing by Starhawk. Or, try writing your own. There’s plenty of space for varied visions of brighter futures.

  Sarena Ulibarri, June 2018

  Caught Root

  by Julia K. Patt

  I.

  I arrive at the gates of the New-Ur settlement just after dawn.

  It is so different from my home in Hillside, some three hundred miles away. Where Hillside’s shining towers reach for the blue sky, New-Ur seems born from the very rock, all adobe and stucco and low-sitting buildings. Here and there, I can see where green relieves the brown, and this is the only similarity between the two.

  The wide-eyed guard, only a teenager, scuttles away when I try to speak to him. Will they let me in at all? I told Arthur this was a fool’s errand, that New-Ur and Hillside would never trust one another. But you don’t say no to Arthur, especially when an idea’s taken hold.

  Finally, a woman appears; she introduces herself as Safiya. Am I lost? Injured?

  “No, ma’am,” I explain. “I represent the Hillside Project. We wrote two months ago, asking to meet Dr. Khadir for an exchange of ideas.”

  Safiya studies me, considering. Eventually, she nods and enters the code that opens the gate. Not all low-tech, I see.

  II.

  “You can go in,” Safiya says. Her dark eyes crinkle in secret amusement.

  This room, like the rest of the complex, smells like water and fresh-turned earth. It’s designed to cool passively, and entering it is like walking into a cave: the air chill, damp. Shade plants—ferns, hostas, bleeding hearts—line the walls. Skylights drop sunbeams throughout.

  Khadir stands at his desk, reading a report on paper, of all things, and frowning. He’s a tall man, olive
-skinned, with a scattering of ivy, twigs, and flowers in his curly hair.

  He brushes them off self-consciously when he sees me looking. “The children…sometimes,” he offers by way of explanation. “You must be Dr. Orkney.”

  “Ewan is fine,” I say. I stoop to examine the discarded blossoms, most of them dark purple. “These are lovely.”

  “A newer varietal. We need more dry season plants, especially edibles.” He covers them with the papers so I can’t study them further.

  Such distrust. I should be pleased they allowed me in at all. Somehow, I’m meant to change this, much as I insisted—at length—that I am a scientist, not a diplomat. I clear my throat. “To that end,” I say. Awkward. “These are for you.” I drop a packet of seeds into his palm.

  He plucks one out to study, his movements delicate. This is a man accustomed to handling the smallest tendrils of life without bruising them. “Are these…?”

  “Pears. They’ll bear fruit in the second year. We’ve crossed them with an Asian near-arid to boost their water efficiency,” I say. And can’t help adding: “They’re my own work.”

  Khadir regards me, amused. “And we can keep working with these seeds? They won’t require a second visit or your permission for replanting?”

  “We’re giving them freely,” I say. Trying not to let my offense show. “We’re not some hard-hearted corporation, Dr. Khadir, just because we’re well-funded. We have the same goal as New-Ur: to re-imagine civilization. Surely we can help one another? Exchange ideas freely?”

  “Call me Bari, especially when you appeal to my humanist sensibilities.” He smiles. “Come, let me show you around.”

  III.

  The more I see of New-Ur, the more I understand it is both like and completely unlike Hillside. They use the same conical structures for multi-layered planting that we do, but their base materials are reclaimed and reused metals, whereas ours are recycled, unblemished, new-looking. They live in the same circular configuration we do: concentric rings interspersed with lush gardens and communal spaces, each section self-sustaining and yet part of the greater whole. Nothing goes to waste at either settlement, but here they use less to begin with—no need for extra tech.

  Khadir doesn’t object when he sees me taking notes, even sketching portions of their water purification system, made from porous clay. He flinches, however, whenever I pause to examine a leaf or bud, or gently turn a still-green tomato on its stem.

  “You’ll have to forgive him,” Safiya—his sister, I learn—tells me at the communal dinner. The whole settlement gathers at the center of the complex, passing dishes around several tables and talking, laughing, sharing the end of the day, and enjoying the cooling air of the desert. “He’s protective of this place.”

  I think of Arthur and Hillside, his passion for the community and the technology, his determination, his willingness to hear any idea from anyone. “I understand. We’re not so different, you know. Aesthetically, we might appear to be opposites, but we share the same goals.”

  “Not entirely,” Khadir corrects me from across the table. “Hillside doesn’t care about searching our past for solutions. It’s all new, new, new. The shinier the better.” His smile eases the criticism, but I can see in his eyes that he means what he says.

  “Bari,” Safiya chastises him. “Don’t be rude.”

  I wave her off. “It’s fine. It’s true that Hillsiders aren’t overly burdened by sentimentality, but we do incorporate lessons and methods from every culture. Tiered planting, like you do, for example.”

  “But you still rely heavily on automation, even if it is solar-powered,” Khadir counters. He gesticulates with his fork, a piece of sweet potato speared on the end. “There’s no connection between the work and the workers. You’ll take us right back to a divided labor force, alienated from the meaning of the task.”

  I gesture back with a hunk of naan. “Automation means our workers can choose their tasks more freely, can devote more time to study, creativity. They’re invested in bettering their society through innovation.”

  “But what is this measure of better—” Khadir starts to reply.

  “Gentlemen,” Safiya interrupts. “While we certainly don’t object to intellectual discussion at the dinner table, perhaps you should save your debating prowess for another venue. We’ll sell tickets.”

  Everyone around us laughs; Khadir subsides, offering me a sheepish smile, which I return. This, too, is like Hillside, where conversation stretches long into the night, only to be resumed, unabated, the next morning.

  “A proposition, then,” I say. “I will stay and work with you all for the next three weeks, and if I survive—” More laughter here. “—you will send an emissary to Hillside to live among us, too.”

  It’s quiet for a moment, thoughtfully so, and I begin to fear I’ve overstepped. Safiya’s eyes twinkle, catching the illumination from the solar lamps that light the complex; their once-faint blue glows more powerfully as the night settles around us.

  Khadir extends his hand across the table to me. “It’s a deal.”

  IV.

  The first week, I work on the maintenance crew. We replace the terracotta tile roofing on the exterior ring of the complex. A recent storm has damaged the tiles. It’s sweaty work in the sun, even in the morning. Khadir surely thought this would deter me, but it doesn’t. Where Hillside is climate-controlled, New-Ur adapts to the seasons, shifting work schedules with the demands of summer and winter. We spend the hot afternoons resting in the shade and in quiet contemplation. The children bring us water and flowers, the purple blooms from the day before. “Where do these grow?” I ask, on the third day.

  They lead me to a garden tower ringed with the same plants. The others don’t have them yet, so they’re clearly experimental. Maybe a deterrent for pests? Khadir said they were edible, but I’m not sure which part. The petals are bitter when I taste them; the children laugh. “We eat the leaves,” one girl tells me. “And the shoots.”

  It’s tempting to take samples, even a complete specimen, but instead I rejoin the crew. At dinner every night, Khadir and I resume our debates, much to the amusement of the others. I sleep well that week, deep and dreamless.

  V.

  The second week, they place me with the school. This is happier work than replacing tiles, although no less exhausting. The children’s lessons roll continuous from one subject to another, uninhibited by rigid structures. If a question demands one explain Algebra or Chemistry or Chaucer, we discuss Algebra or Chemistry or Chaucer. Nothing in the settlement is off limits, either, and the children visit the water purifiers and the gardens and the chicken coops at will. It is apparently tradition for the teachers to end up with flowers and leaves in their hair; I am no exception. Khadir teases me at dinner one night. Despite my spaceman clothes, as he calls them—the standard-issue jumpsuits we wear at Hillside—I am starting to look like I belong at New-Ur.

  At the end of the week, I find the trestle with the purple flowers ringing it again. Although I feel a pang of shame, I uproot one plant and carry it away with me. Only for examination, I tell myself, but really, I feel the need to bring something of this place back to Arthur and the others.

  VI.

  The third week, I find myself on kitchen duty. More surprising, however, is the sight of Khadir waiting for me on Monday morning, his apron already dusty with flour. “Everyone takes part in everything,” he explains. “No one is too important for any work.”

  I think of Arthur mending water silos or giving immunizations to toddlers. “I think you would get along better at Hillside than you imagine.”

  “Perhaps I will see it one day.” Khadir smiles and returns to kneading dough, slapping it against the countertop.

  We spend the week in lively conversation, debating the merits of hydro-electrics in this climate, the natural airflow of the buildings in Hillside vs. New-Ur, the cultivation of interbred varietals as opposed to the preservation of heirlooms. S
everal times, I see the other cooks rolling their eyes and sighing. “We’re boring them,” I tell Khadir.

  “They hear it all too often, I’m afraid,” he confesses. “It’s nice to have someone here who is still passionate about such things.”

  He looks away; something tightens in my chest. I almost blurt out the truth about the plant I took, but our conversation turns to other topics.

  VII.

  After dinner on my last Friday in New-Ur, we walk under the stars. Khadir shows me the night-blooming lilies; their color reminds me of the bioluminescent lanterns at Hillside, which I try to describe to him and fail. Midway through, he leans down and kisses me, once and then twice more.

  We stumble back to my quarters, entirely too impatient, fumbling under each other’s clothes. I push him onto my bed and he tumbles, boneless and smiling, looking up at me.

  Come to Hillside with me, I want to say.

  We wake up curled together. The dawn fills the corners of my room, the skylight above my desk illuminating everything, including that small cluster of leaves and buds.

  How could he miss the purple flowers he knows so well, tucked among my books?

  He doesn’t even look angry, just blank. “Ah,” he says. “I see.”

  VIII.

  Safiya sees me off.

  She has been appointed emissary to Hillside, she tells me. She will depart at the end of the summer.

  “We’ll look forward to your arrival,” I say, sincere. “I hope you’ll find it as pleasant as I have your home.”

  She kisses my cheeks in farewell. Hesitates. “My brother…”

  I haven’t seen Khadir since that morning. I shake my head. “It was my fault.”

  It’s a two-mile walk to the hovercraft station and my trip back to Hillside. The day is still cool; the hills are pink and green with vegetation.