“You?” he said, with an unintentional hint of a sneer that was a stab in the heart, not so much because it was a sneer as because it was so utterly casual.
“Maybe not,” she admitted. “But somebody with ideas similar to mine. The slogans that will win the future are ours. FREE THE CARBON. WAKE UP TO WARMTH. BIOMASS IS OPPORTUNITY. HEAT IS GOOD. GO WITH THE FLOW, NOT AGAINST IT. EVOLUTION, NOT DEVOLUTION. PROGRESS, NOT REGRESS. Shall I go on?”
“Do you really think the voters will go for that sort of crap?” he asked her bluntly, effortlessly coming all the way down from the intellectual high ground he had initially tried to occupy. “Here in Strasbourg I mean, not in the ex-frozen wastes of northern Sweden.”
“Maybe not,” she replied, “but a true statesman’s job is to change public opinion, not to reflect it. You might win this battle, by courtesy of historical inertia, but you can’t win the war. You can’t stop progress, and the CC really is progress, no matter how frightening it seems.”
“Frightening? It’s more than frightening, sister. It’s costing lives—billions of lives.”
“Everybody has one life, my love, and nobody loses it more than once. It’s Gaia’s world that can’t sustain the present population, and Gaia’s people who’ve produced it regardless. Maybe a better, warmer world can sustain a larger human population, and maybe it can’t—but there’s every chance that it will sustain a wiser population, because it will need a wiser population to create and sustain it.”
“You can’t dismiss the misery of billions of people with that kind of smart rhetoric.”
“And you shouldn’t try to sustain that misery with stupid rhetoric.”
It was at that point that the argument came close to spoiling the meal, and the birthday—which was something that neither of them wanted.
“Anyway, this student presidency thing is kids’ stuff,” Kay told Gerda, relenting his tone a little. “It’s a game. We won’t be going into battle until we actually graduate from uni—which is why you still have time to switch sides and join the White Knights. In real life, if not in proverbial wisdom, it’s the side that wins the battles that wins the war, and the Gaian majority is solid. It won’t disappear in our lifetimes unless the methane bomb goes off and the CC turns into the Venus Effect. School politics is only play-acting, but we’ll be embroiled in the real thing soon enough. Do you really want to be stuck in the struggling opposition? You don’t have to step into Selma’s shoes, flying the flag of prevarication for avaricious Eskimos and the Siberian Oligarchs—there are plenty of other things you might do. Your father was a bureaucrat, working on the day-to-day amelioration of the crisis, and there’ll always be more than enough to do in that direction. If you don’t want that, you could always work for me. We’ve always had a useful camaraderie, and every great front-man needs great back-up.”
“There’s a world of difference,” Gerda replied, sadly, “between being friends and being a team.” Because she was exactly the same height as he was, she was able to look him straight in the eye without any implicit disadvantage, and she knew full well that blue eyes were better equipped for staring, but she took the fact that he eventually looked away as solid evidence of the virtue of her cause.
Kay won the NIS presidential election hands down, just as he had predicted, but Gerda wasn’t unduly downhearted. The game had a long way to go before the final whistle. Kay might have put the first point on the board, but Gerda felt, passionately, that history and evolution really were on her side. As with all the other gods and goddesses that humankind had ever worshipped, the ideals that Gaia stood for were more honored in the breach than the observance. In Christendom, the meek had conspicuously failed to inherit the Earth, and even the loudest of Gaia’s preachers continued to breathe out more than their fair share of carbon dioxide, without ever managing to dampen civilization’s industrial flamboyance.
~ * ~
Gerda and Kay never discussed the possibility of going on to the same university after leaving the NIS. Kay took it for granted that the tacit parting of their ways introduced into their lives by their increasing commitment to opposing political ideologies would extend to an actual parting of the ways, and Gerda accepted the assumption—but she was able to leave it to Kay to insist that they meet up at least once a year to celebrate their birthday.
“I’ll never give up hope of bringing you into the fold,” he told her. “I’ll keep on trying to win you over.”
“So will I,” she promised.
Even Kay, of course, could not step directly into his father’s shoes after university, mainly because his father was still wearing them and fully intended to go on doing so for another ten or twenty years. That was a normal situation for ex-IS students to be in, and the conventional career path of the school’s elite had to accommodate that period of delay. Most went to Brussels, which had clung on to the greater part of its bureaucratic functions when the legislative chamber had decamped, in order to serve as cogs in the administrative machine while they waited for power-charged slots to open up, and that was what Kay did. Gerda, on the other hand, decided to stay on at her own university—Bern—as a postgraduate researcher.
When she communicated this decision to Kay on their twenty-second birthday, during a meeting in Budapest, where he had taken his own degree, he was not at all surprised. He even seemed to take a certain satisfaction in her decision, as if he imagined that he could take some credit for it. Mistakenly—mistaking her motives had become second nature to him by now—he jumped to the conclusion that she was planning to abandon politics permanently, having realized the folly of setting up a campaign-tent outside the Gaian encampment.
“It’s a wise move,” he told her, smiling to demonstrate his good will. “Academic life is a safe haven, especially for ... what was the title of your course, again?”
Gerda knew that Kay had studied International Relations, as a good MEP kid should; he, on the other hand, only contrived to remember that she had not. “Practical Botany,” she reminded him.
“Right,” he said, putting on a show of vagueness. “I knew it sounded as if it had something to do with flowers, even though it was really about crop engineering. Good decision—plant engineering is hotter than ever. It’s not just a matter of tweaking staple crops to help them adapt to changing climatic conditions, is it? The necessity of compensation for insect decline has forced the engineers to be more adventurous. And it’s still the cutting edge of carbon sink technology, even if it hasn’t delivered yet.”
“Plant engineering is crucial to the world’s future,” Gerda agreed, as she had at least twice before, when Kay had condescended to make similar remarks on their previous birthday meetings. His affected vagueness was intended to assist him in maintaining the appearance of knowing where the intellectual high ground was, even though his ignorance of the intimate details of genetic engineering prevented him from operating there. It never worked, and Gerda always took a certain delight in watching him flounder as he tried to pretend that he knew and understood more than he did.
“I’ve heard good things about contemporary work on hemp and ... er ... those primitive trees that were among the first colonists of the land,” Kay said, blushing when he was momentarily unable to conjure up the second term.
“Cycads,” said Gerda, helpfully. “Gymnosperms that look like crosses between tree-ferns and palms. Very interesting to engineers because of their lack of attention to strict speciation.”
“Right,” said Kay. “Will you be doing anything with hemp or cycads?”
“As a matter of fact,” Gerda said, “I will.”
“Which?” was all that Kay was able to say by way of follow-up.
“A bit of both,” she said. “I’m not a frontline engineer, modifying small sets of genes to produce new strains of existing species. I’m more of a genomic designer—a strategist rather than a tactician. Making incremental improvements in the old staples is all very well, and there’s certainly a spur of urgency driving such
work right now, but the process is too much like the early development of systemic computer code—or natural selection, for that matter. It’s just one quick fix after another, improvised patches gradually building up into nightmarishly confused strata. Somebody has to think on a bigger scale, and in a longer term.”
Kay obviously had little or no idea what she meant, but he wasn’t about to ask for enlightenment in any craven fashion. “At least you’ll be working for the cause,” he said. “The Heavy Metal brigade still favors engineering solutions to the problem of getting carbon dioxide out of the atmosphere and turning the methane-bomb problem into an energy-producing opportunity, and they have industry’s inherited quadrillions behind them, but I’m all in favor of the natural approach. Gaia made trees to secure her own carbon balance, so that’s probably the wisest way to get back to twentieth century carbon dioxide levels, if we can only make the crucial breakthrough. That’s what the current work on hemp is all about, isn’t it?”
Gerda flashed him a broad smile, as she always did—without always being conscious of it—before she set out to lead him up the garden path. “Hemp’s old news,” she told him. “It’s a perfect carbon-sink crop, I suppose—it grows like wildfire, and every part of the crop is useful.”
Kay knew enough to amplify that. “The fibers have always been used to make rope,” he said, “but modern engineers have expanded their textile versatility marvelously. The woody shiv produces building materials—properly processed, the material is as strong as concrete. We’ve got several initiatives in hand to increase its use, although your mother’s friends keep making smart remarks about rebuilding the Kremlin, the Taj Mahal, the Vatican, and the White House out of matchsticks. Is that the sort of thing you’re working on?”
“No. Insofar as hemp figures in my genomic schemes, it’s the leaves that are the interesting part. We all know what sort of potential the leaves of Cannabis sativa have as brain-food.”
Kay furrowed his black eyebrows at that. “I thought the engineers were trying to take the psychotropics out of the leaves,” he said. “Even the industrial varieties that have been tweaked to make the leaves usable animal fodder only preserve a mild tranquilizing effect.”
“That’s the present situation,” Gerda agreed. “All of the research to date has focused on adapting the foliage as a foodstuff or a biofuel source—but that’s a bit wasteful, in my view. If we’ve got abundant potential already there for the production of cannabinols, why not exploit it? That’s where the wise money is going now. Give the world a better building material, and people will shake you by the hand; give them a better way to get high and they’ll love you forever.”
“I don’t know about that,” Kay said, dubiously—and accurately.
“If Gaia made trees to strike the right compositional balance in the atmosphere,” Gerda told him, carefully keeping a straight face, “she must have made psychotropics to strike the right compositional balance in the noesphere. She’s an all-round chill-out fan, after all.”
~ * ~
After that exchange, Kay didn’t bother to ask about the cycads, any more than he probed any deeper to find out whether Gerda really had been converted to the Gaian cause—but the cycads were, in Gerda’s opinion, far more important than hemp to the cause of remaking the world. Hemp was a Gaian agent through and through: an old-school carbon sink that loved a relatively cool environment. If the newly fertile lands of northern Europe were to be planted with vast forests of genetically engineered hemp, the rains that fell on them would continue to be dutifully temperate, and the northward progress of the Creeping Tropic would be inhibited, even if it were not eventually reversed.
If Gaia were to be permanently toppled from her icy throne and replaced by a Mother with fire in her loins, in Gerda’s opinion, hemp could only be awarded a peripheral role in the deicidal army, perhaps as a sly double agent. A host of new cycads, on the other hand, might well provide shock troops capable of turning the battle into a rout.
For the moment, research on cycads, like research on many other species, was being driven by anxieties about the global decline of insect populations. People who thought botany had “something to do with flowers” considered flowering plants to be one of Gaia’s artistic masterstrokes, and were horrified by the thought that much of that beauty might be lost because many of the nasty insects that had long undertaken the duty of pollinating them were in danger of extinction. Flowering plants had, of course, been so outstandingly successful in the eternal war of natural selection precisely because insect pollination allowed them to range further and faster than plants relying on less agile and versatile pollination mechanisms. Where the insect-pollinated angiosperms had led, the sturdier varieties had been able to follow, including the fruit-producers that used evolutionary johnny-come-latelies like birds and mammals as seed-transmitters.
Now that the insects, birds, and mammals were all on the decline as rapid climate change took its punishing toll, the pressure on agriculturalists and genetic engineers to save the angiosperms had become intense, but the difficulty of the task was such that biotechnologists had been forced to examine the possibility of a bolder substitution, responding to a potential angiosperm die-back by introducing new and carefully enhanced models of the various kinds of plants that the angiosperms had replaced, especially the most ancient: tree-ferns and cycads. The primitive nature of their genomes gave them a certain precious flexibility, which more recent species had forsaken. Cycads, in particular, seemed remarkably amenable to exotic genetic augmentation, unusually hospitable to gene-complexes transplanted from very different species, including fungi and animals. They had never made much appeal to tactical engineers because they had few economically useful properties to be enhanced, but from the viewpoint of genomic strategists they were raw clay, which might be molded into anything at all by flesh-sculptors of genius.
Gerda knew that it was the versatility of specialized angiosperms, more than any other single factor, which had facilitated Gaia’s manifestation as the Snow Queen, cooling the Earth down from the much higher temperatures that had been normal when gymnosperms ruled the climate. Gerda was interested in cycads not because they might have the potential to take up slack as Gaia’s favorite carbon sinks ran into difficulties, but because they might have the potential to initiate a much more profound metamorphosis in the ecosphere. For the neo-cycads, Gerda thought, the imaginable might be only the beginning. The ultimate objective of human intelligence, as she saw it, was to roll back the horizons of the presently imaginable into the realms of the previously undreamed-of—and, for that, flesh-sculptors of genius would require the proper clay.
Gerda was perfectly well aware, of course, that humankind had been a casual byproduct of Gaia’s fondness for a cool throne. It was not so much that Homo sapiens was a mammal, designed to live in a cool environment—its ancestor-species had, after all, evolved in the tropics—but that its great leap forward, in evolutionary terms, had resulted from the sequence of Ice Ages in which Gaia had displayed her most recent wardrobe. It had been the domestication of fire—the foundation of all technology—that had allowed human beings to colonize almost the entire land surface of the globe, including such inhospitably cold regions as northern Sweden. Gerda was not prepared, however, to draw the conclusion from this intrinsic indebtedness that humankind was bound to remain Gaia’s slave forever, trying loyally with all its collective might to restore the world to the climate she liked best.
In Gerda’s view, such ecological conservatism could only lead to evolutionary petrifaction and an end to progress. If humankind were to continue to advance, it needed to evolve; to evolve, it needed new challenges, new pressures, and new opportunities.
Gaia had cooled the world down by putting carbon that had once been incorporated into living organisms into a whole series of inert deposits: coal and oil sealed up in geological strata, methane held in crystalline clathrates in permafrosts and on the sea bed. The cost of the ecosphere’s cooling had, in consequ
ence, been a massive loss of biomass: biomass that had once been embodied in species that thrived in the heat, based in jungles and swamps that must have made angiosperm-dominated rainforests look like mere kitchen gardens by comparison. There had been no deserts in those days, when it really had never rained but it poured.
Unlike Kelemen Kiss and his pusillanimous majority, Gerda Rosenhane did not want to design new carbon sinks in order to calm the atmosphere down and make the Earth cool again. She wanted to design new carbon carriers, in order to liberate all the dead carbon from Gaia’s miserly hoards, to give it life again, and to restore the ecosphere to all its prodigal glory. She believed that humankind, armed with a sophisticated biotechnology, could not merely come through that transition but thrive on it, emerging stronger than before—and she also believed that if the species’ statesmen would only condescend to become constructive strategists instead of mere reactive tacticians, they ought to be able to take control of the metamorphosis and guide it.
Cycads were to be her secret weapon; they had lost their first battle against the angiosperms, but the war was not yet over. With the right scientific allies, there was every chance that they might be re-equipped to take full advantage of the trouble that the angiosperms had run into as their traditional pollinators died in droves. If they were to do so, however—if the world were to be fitted out with a new and enduring heat-loving ecosphere—they would need human foot-soldiers to clear their way. Gerda knew full well that the war would first have to be won in the political arena, and that was where she intended to fight when the time was ripe.
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