Solarpunk: Ecological and Fantastical Stories in a Sustainable World

by Fabio Fernandes

  Élio seemed mesmerized. He kept his arms wide open, as if to embrace the light that strengthened more and more every moment. His chest rose and fell as the phototattoo shimmered discreetly. The smile on his lips was contagious, even if a solitary tear still stained his pale face. All Lúcio wanted was to hug him, but the first few hours of sunshine were the most important and shouldn’t be interrupted.

  Relieved, he breathed again. He put his hands to his face and rubbed his tired eyes. That last month had been unbearable, but it was finally over. Everything should get in place now and Élio would be able to live a normal life. However, something still didn’t seem right.

  I know I made the most sensible decision, but…

  Suddenly Laura touched his shoulder and kissed him euphorically. He stared at her in surprise. Even after the apology, the couple was still distant. So it was only natural that they remained withdrawn during Élio’s recovery, each one bound to his or her own fears. Now his wife seemed willing to forget her quarrels and start over.

  “Still thinking about peaches?” she asked with an amused smile on her lips.

  Instead of being offended by the joke, Lúcio smiled back. He shook his head and hugged the beloved woman, kissing her gently on the forehead. Enough of discord in this family.

  “No, no peaches.” He looked at his son again. “For the moment, being alive is enough.”

  * * *

  Roberta Spindler was born in Belém do Pará in 1985. She graduated in advertising and currently works as a video editor. A self-confessed nerd, she loves comics, games, and RPGs. She has written since her teens and is passionate about fantastic literature. She has stories published in ebook and in several anthologies, including Super-Heróis (2013) and Meu amor é um mito (2012), from Editora Draco. She is the co-author of the novel Contos de Meigan — A Fúria dos Cártagos (2011). See her blog at www.rspindler.tumblr.com and find her on Twitter @robertaspindler.

  Cobalt Blue and the Enigma

  Gerson Lodi-Ribeiro

  1 Premature Launch

  Under the approving eye of the gray general, the tall fellow takes three awkward footsteps in his metallic exoskeleton, until he stands on the shiny disk set on a raised pedestal in the center of the laboratory.

  The general shakes his head in dismay. The individual supported by the computerized titanium apparatus pretends not to notice the bitterness of his hierarchical superior. He keeps the mask of cadaverous indifference buckled in his pale countenance. Until two years ago he had been part of an elite command of military intelligence.

  Before the accident.

  Now, who knows, if all goes well and the project gets the green light, won’t he be given a second chance?

  Standing inside the titanium structure, dressed only in shorts, the very tall, thin man closes his jaws, turns his head with a certain effort to direct an inquisitive look at the superior.

  “Go on.” The general nods to the officer who still stands stiff on the disk. Then he stares at the stout scientist at his side, eyebrows arched in a tacit but emphatic interrogation.

  “Just wake the VIB by voice command,” the chief scientist of the project clarifies the obvious to the commander of the secret base. “Come on, Spider.”

  “Activate,” the quadriplegic officer subvocalizes the standard command.

  The voice recognition system of the armored smart garment sings the preliminary activation chord. The former member of the Brazilian Intelligence Service hears through the neurolink implanted in the middle ear:

  “Positive recognition of primary content. Enter passcode in ten seconds.”

  Jonas Spider subvocalizes the three words that compose the current code. The tiny implant in his larynx captures the vibrations of the vocal cords and transmits them to the suit.

  “Activation code correct. Completed vocal and retinal recognition. Prepare for activation.”

  The edges of the disc vibrate and rise, folding inward in a fluid motion, until it engages the user’s feet. From there they spread, penetrating inside the exoskeleton, climbing up his legs. At first, the diameter of the metal circle remains unchanged, though plates and pieces unfold from the main body of the disk, climbing and covering the lieutenant’s body inside the exoskeleton, like a gigantic origami endowed with a life of its own.

  As the origami pieces rise up through the untrammeled body of the tetraplegic, wrapping it and adjusting to each other perfectly, parts of the exoskeleton loosen and fall, drumming on the pedestal in a cacophony of strident clangs.

  “Amazing,” the general whispers at the scientist’s ear. “As much as I watch this activation process, I still don’t get used to the volition of the armor…”

  “Assembling the exoskeleton again is usually the most work. But if the suit passes our tests today, our friend Spider won’t need it anymore.” The head of the project makes a vague gesture toward the titanium components scattered around the pedestal. He smiles thoughtfully as he gazes down at the officer’s body, now clothed from the neck down by the self-adjusting suit segments. Four symmetrical concave plates emerge from the thick collar and merge into a harmonious whole around the quadriplegic officer’s head, creating a mask resembling a glowing elm in the same silver hues as the rest of the metal suit. He can barely glimpse the wearer’s blue eyes blazing through narrow rectangular crevices. “In any case, it wouldn’t make any sense at all to make the user wear a biocybernetic suit whose operation is based on the integration of armies of nanobots as if it was an ordinary, everyday suit. We finally achieved absolute success in appropriating the pure science of Palmares, turning it into legitimate Brazilian leading edge technology.”

  “We expected no different from your team, my dear Cabezas.” The general nods, smiling. “Even so, I confess I feel very proud of you. Finally, we formulated an answer to the enemy’s supposed secret weapon advantage. An apparatus capable of transforming an incapacitated operative into a supersoldier.”

  “A secret enemy weapon whose existence has never been proven.” Júlio Cabezas lets out a short laugh.

  “You scientists and your categorical evidence…” The base commander crosses his arms over his chest full of medals, somewhat off-kilter in his rough campaign uniform. “The accumulation of evidence seems to have convinced most of our analysts.”

  “Full Activation,” the smart suit whispers in the wearer’s ear. “All systems operate within the programmed nominal parameters.”

  “That silver tone sounds a little conspicuous to me,” the commander says wryly. A silly, derivative maneuver to change the course of the conversation. “Have the camouflage programs been realigned yet?”

  “We completed the last tests this morning.” Júlio caresses his goatee in amusement. “Show General Heinz, Spider.”

  The officer nods inside the suit subvocalizes:

  “Camouflage. Demonstration.”

  Before the captain’s ecstatic gaze, the armor darkens gradually, until it becomes indistinguishable from a shadow. After a few seconds, it switches to a brownish-green shade. Suddenly it takes on the color of the clear sands of the Brazilian beaches and after that the bluish-green hue of the ocean. Finally, it stabilizes in a gray tint, more discreet than the original silver.

  “Excellent, Cabezas,” the general gives the scientist a friendly pat on the back. “You did it!”

  “Note that these are only the primary options for demo mode.” Júlio gestures, excited. “On a real mission, the suit is programmed to decide alone what camouflage to take, according to the conditions prevailing in the environment around it.”

  The base commander turns to face the lieutenant in the armor.

  “Hey, Spider? Feeling better now?”

  “Much better, General. Inside here I feel whole again.” He subvocalizes so that the suit retracts the helmet. As if it had a will of its own, the VIB assumes the cobalt blue with gold stars characteristic of the Brazilian flag. With his face again visible, he smiles at his superior. “More even than before the accid
ent. Almost like a superhero.” Serious again, he gives him a perfect salute. “Ready to get back to action, sir.”

  “Very well, Lieutenant,” the senior military man says in a low but excited tone. “Welcome back.”

  He can’t decide whether to praise the officer who was reincorporated by the initiative or admonish him for taking too much liberty with the colors of the nation.

  So this is it? Do we need a superhero, a Captain Cobalt, to take on the Secret Weapon of Palmares?

  Stuck in this quandary, he merely smiles. He sighs deeply and changes the subject:

  “What about power systems?”

  “In addition to the conventional atomic battery for its own emergency generation, according to the latest change in specs, we introduced an array of experimental quantum batacitors, capable of absorbing energy directly from compact fusion reactors and M-E converters.”

  “Splendid.” Heinz gives the operative wrapped in cobalt blue a radiant look. Since, with the support of the United Nations, Palmares succeeded in banning the production of antimatter on a commercial scale from the Earth, direct absorption from a matter-energy converter would only become necessary in space. “Exactly what the SBI needed.”

  “I just don’t understand one thing.” Júlio shakes his head, puzzled. “Why this insistence on installing batacitors capable of extracting energy from converters?”

  “In order to answer this question, maybe it would be better to leave aside the congratulations and begin at once the briefing of the first real mission on account of the project.”

  “First mission?” The scientist smiles uncertainly. “As far as I’m concerned, we haven’t finished the last tests yet.”

  “Easy, Cabezas.” The general rests his hand on the scientist’s shoulder. “Under normal conditions, of course we would all like to continue with the tests and armor simulations, according to the approved schedule. Unfortunately, however, the homeland needs us as quickly as possible and far from here.”

  “What do you mean, Ivar?” Júlio turns to face his longtime friend.

  “Infiltrated Palmarine agents are giving us hell in the moons of Jupiter again. This in itself wouldn’t be big news, nor a direct concern to us. However, the latest reports confirm a terrible suspicion: the reappearance of an old acquaintance of our intelligence services, the mysterious operative codenamed Enigma, whose existence and real nature we have both discussed for a long time.”

  “As I mentioned earlier, the hypothesis using this creative, original codename is nothing more than speculation.” Júlio caresses his goatee with a wry smile. “Probably an artifice, an excuse capable of justifying in one fell swoop most of our failures of the previous centuries.”

  “Speculation or reality, the fact is that we lost three of our best agents trying to fight an impalpable opponent in the Jovian system. The Minister of Security has practically demanded that our project act in the case, in order to contribute to…uh…to the solution of this problem.”

  “On the Jovian satellites?” Júlio frowns. “Project VIB is simply not ready to act…”

  “More specifically, in the international scientific base just inaugurated under the auspices of the UN on Europa.” An abrupt knife-hand gesture points out that Heinz admits no argument. “As I recall, the armored smart suit was designed precisely to deal with this kind of contingency, namely the superior power of the enemy operatives.”

  “We don’t have the necessary means to …”

  “Don’t worry about the means. The Ministry of Space Defense will come up with the necessary funds.”

  “But, Ivar, the suit is not yet …”

  “What do you say, Spider?” The base commander stares intently at the lantern-jawed officer, all wrapped in the beautiful starry cobalt blue glow. “Do you feel prepared to take down this Enigma guy on Europa?”

  “I’m ready to take action, General. Thanks for the vote of confidence. You can count on me.”

  “If this mission is inevitable—” Júlio shrugs and nods toward the vast rectangular portal at one end of the laboratory. “—let’s go to the last test, then. Reveal your secret identity to the general.”

  “With pleasure.” Jonas flashes a happy smile before subvocalizing to his suit. “Civilian clothes.”

  “Perfect.” Heinz exhales a satisfied sigh. Before his eyes, the quadriplegic wrapped in cobalt armor becomes a stocky, handsome fellow, a faithful copy of Lieutenant Jonas Spider prior to the accident. In the convincing simulation generated by the armor, the military man wears a white and blue striped suit of the latest fashion. “It passes visual inspection, easy. However, you should avoid body contact.”

  “Evidently.” Júlio nods. “We still can’t disguise the metallic consistency of VIB.”

  “It doesn’t matter.” The general shrugs. “We deal with what we have. What about the metal detectors?”

  “Show him.” Júlio gestures to the lieutenant.

  The civilian version of Spider heads in rapid, elastic steps to the rectangular portal at the edge of the room.

  “Presence of circuit of detection of metallic objects.” The suit whispers in his ear. “Intelligent deflectors activated.”

  The portal emits intermittent buzzing and pulses to indicate the activation.

  Jonas steps under the device. The portal remains silent except for a discreet beep of approval. A green light comes on at the control panel.

  “Excellent.” Heinz rubs his hands together. “This detector is identical to those installed in the Galileo Base access hatches.”

  “So I guess it will be easier for Spider to pass as a new technician.”

  “That’s the idea.” Heinz stares at the scientist with a serious look. “The armor can handle the X-ray fine. But what about the infrared?”

  “There’s nothing like that on Galileo hatches, as far as we know.” Julius smiles. “And once inside, the VIB will map the location of the infrared sensors and produce the proper pseudo-signatures.

  “It’s not the sensors and the hatches that worry me.” The general frowns. “Not at all.”

  2 The Hidden History of Palmares

  “Fuck off, Pellê. I don’t have any more time for your pitiful researches.” The middle-aged fat guy turns in his chair, turning his back to his friend, a little older and gray-haired, but in better physical shape, sitting across from the multifunctional desk. “Unlike some others, I don’t live off copyrights. I need to work.”

  “Damn, Fernandes. I thought I could count on you.” Gilson replies, his tone deliberately friendly in the effort to captivate the journalist. Apparently, after all these years, he still has not forgotten the disagreement that culminated in the successful publication of Brazil: Feet of Clay in Palmares. “You’re the only one I can trust for this kind of analysis.”

  “Look, there’s no point in coming in with this ‘old-time’ chatter. I don’t fuck with this shit anymore.” Fernandes turns the chair back, facing his friend with his finger. “Fuck you, I won’t be a sitting duck Besides, if your suspicions are unfounded, it’s going to be a fucking waste of time.”

  “You know very well they’re not unfounded.”

  “Then it’s even worse.” Fernandes lets go an irritated sigh. “Because if what you suspect is true, then I want to be far away when the Palmares people come after you.”

  “I admit that the survey I’m doing carries some risk.”

  “Talk about fucking euphemisms, huh, Pellê! Some risk is a guy in my health condition eating what I eat and drinking what I drink. Some risk is crossing a busy street after drinking a lot.” Fernandes laughs with contempt. “Some risk my hairy ass! We’re talking a surefire risk here. Because in this case, as you are fond of saying, the order of factors changes the final result in the equation.”

  “Don’t overstate it, Fernandes.”

  “Overstating it, me?” The fat man holds his hand flat against his chest in a studied dramatic gesture. “Who insisted that we deal with this investigation only in person
? You’ve said it yourself that it wasn’t safe for us to exchange information through the Network.”

  “All right, all right. I confess that I’m also afraid of what might befall us if the Palmares secret service finds what we have discovered.”

  “What you discovered. Or rather, what you claim to have discovered. Because I, my dear, want nothing to do with this.”

  “Too late. You already know almost as much as I do about this feast of mysterious deaths throughout the centuries.”

  “I wish I hadn’t known anything,” Fernandes murmurs softly. “Damned be the day when you came to me to reveal this basketful of absurdities.”

  “They’re not absurdities.”

  “I wish they were.” Fernandes shuffles uncomfortably in the ergonomic armchair. “Listen, man, you don’t have any proof. Just a lot of empty conjectures. Let’s put a pin in this subject…”

  “I don’t have any proof, that’s true. But we have very strong evidence.”

  The fat man shakes his head with the expression of someone who would like to be somewhere else.

  Because, if his old friend and fellow writer is right, the History of Brazil for the last three centuries will have to be rewritten.

  On the other hand, it is hard to accept the fact that, ever since the wars against the Dutch, Palmares has always possessed a supernatural, mysterious, and infallible method of exterminating the Portuguese and Brazilian enemies who stood in their way.

  Gilson Pellegrino seems to sense where his friend’s thoughts are straying to, for it reminds him of the facts that the other would rather forget:

  “Remember what I told you about the first mysterious death I discovered?”

  “Fernão Carrilho, right?” Fernandes shivers. “Butchered at his camp on the eve of the Treason of Palmares.”

  “Exactly. I discovered another apocryphal account, a document more than three centuries old in the Tower of Tombo, in Lisbon. According to this account, the corpse of the Master-of-Field Carrilho was found without a single drop of blood.”