Ecopunk!

by Liz Grzyb

  “Oh?”

  “Yes. I’ll be growing Theobroma cacao.”

  “Which means?”

  “Food of the Gods—the chocolate tree,” Francesca said. “Can you imagine a world without chocolate?”

  “I guess not,” said Brunelli.

  “My thoughts exactly,” said Francesca. “And, in the course of our negotiations, I discovered that the President is rather partial to hot chocolate. It won’t hurt to keep him supplied.”

  * * *

  The publicity was a media triumph.

  The Rat’s shocking footage of the fire-scarred terrain was released to air on the evening news. Those who saw it were outraged by such wanton devastation. The fire-boys were universally condemned as eco-terrorists.

  And then, next morning, the South American President appeared on a live international feed to Europe’s morning breakfast shows.

  “It has come to my attention,” he said, “that certain illegal land clearing operations have been taking place.” His tone was stern. “I am shocked and dismayed. I have taken immediate steps to put an end to such activities. I can assure you all that such eco-vandalism will not go unpunished.” He put his hand to his heart, next to his medals. “And I am deeply moved by the generosity of the Duke and Duchess de Glorian in offering my country the means to repair such appalling—I might say criminal—damage to our fragile bio-diversity.”

  Brunelli, alone in her private apartment, watched as the show streamed across her lenses. She raised her morning cappuccino in silent salute.

  Next, the newsfeeds all carried carefully choreographed footage of the de Glorian family standing on the marble steps of their Florentine mansion, perfectly framed. The Duke and Duchess were both dressed formally—Frederico in an immaculately hand-tailored black cashmere business suit, and Francesca in a tightly fitted black silk top and jacket that showed an expensive string of natural pearls to advantage, complemented by a long, sweeping black skirt. But Josephina-Jocetta was groomed for the occasion in an elegant Gucci jungle-themed ensemble—the perfect picture of a teenage celebrity heiress.

  With practised ease, Frederico spoke straight to the cameras. “It is my very great pleasure,” he said, “to announce that my wife and I have today donated two billion eco-credits for the preservation of wildlife security in South America.”

  His words caused a sensation. All the reporters tried to speak at once.

  Frederico nodded to the Rat. “Mr Totaro?”

  “Can you tell us how you are financing this, your Grace?” the Rat asked.

  “With pleasure,” de Glorian replied. “I have contracted to close my company’s last remaining coal-fired electricity generating plant.” He held up his hand for silence. “And before you ask,” he added, “let me assure you that this will not result in job losses of any kind. All power station employees will be offered positions in our new, solar powered facility for food production—to begin with, we’ll be farming tomatoes. The net result will be increased protection for our endangered species, and greatly enhanced food security. Everybody wins.”

  “And may I ask what prompted such largesse, your Grace?” the Rat said.

  Frederico took Francesca’s hand. “My wife and I were outraged to learn of the appalling consequences of the illegal fire bombings,” he said. “Our family companies have certain landholdings in the area affected, so it seemed right that we should come to the aid of our friend, the President, to help him set things right.”

  “Coffee or chocolate?” an uninvited reporter yelled from the back of the crowd. “Which is it? You must be growing one or the other!”

  The Duke ignored him, and affected not to notice as two burly security guards hustled him away.

  Francesca stepped forward. “But mostly,” she said smoothly, “we did this for our daughter. We did it for all the world’s children, to preserve their heritage, to save the wildlife from extinction.”

  There was a murmur of approval from the assembled reporters.

  Francesca reached out to Jo Jo. “Show them, darling,” she murmured.

  Jo Jo held up the baby capuchin monkey for the cameras. “His name is Raffi,” she cooed, waving his tiny hand for the newsfeeds. “He was saved from the fire-bombing. He’s just adorable. I’m so glad he was rescued. And now others will be rescued too.” Her smile was dazzling.

  The reporters applauded.

  * * *

  The newsfeeds cut to an interview with Tobias Rand, the outraged manager of the meat production consortium.

  “This is preposterous,” Rand said. “Our operations were never secret. I can promise you that the South American government had full knowledge of our production methods. We were assured of their full support.”

  “But you don’t deny your company was deliberately destroying the capuchin monkeys?”

  “Of course I deny that,” Rand snapped. “My company was simply clearing land for food production. You can’t have it both ways.”

  “It appears we can,” the reporter replied. “And it appears your shareholders think so too. Can you confirm the drop in your share price?”

  “I can confirm a market correction,” Rand said, his face mottled red with anger. “And I’ll tell you this for nothing: a very underhand deal has been done to destroy my company.”

  “A conspiracy?”

  “If you like,” said Rand. “And I intend to get to the bottom of it.”

  “Then I’m sure our viewers will be interested to hear the result.”

  The credits rolled, over charming file footage of a troop of capuchin monkeys foraging freely in a now non-existent South American rainforest.

  * * *

  Later that evening, the Rat himself was interviewed for the current affairs newsfeeds.

  “Can you tell us how you came to be way out there in the first place?” one of the panellists asked brightly. “It must have been pretty dangerous.”

  The Rat pushed back his mop of corkscrew-blond curls and grinned at the camera. “Not really,” he said. “I was with a professional crew.” He gave the reporter his best, self-deprecating smile. “I just had to try not to get in their way.”

  “Yes,” she said, “but what were they doing out there?”

  “Protecting the wildlife,” the Rat said. “What else would they be doing?”

  “There have been rumours that the de Glorian family has some sort of plantation out there. Do you know anything about that?”

  “I know that the de Glorian company is financing new, sustainable techniques for crop cultivation,” he said.

  “What kind of crop?”

  “I have no idea,” the Rat said, all blue-eyed innocence. “All I can say is that without that plantation, there would be no wildlife habitat left at all by now.” He smiled again, thinking of his fat bank balance: the Duchess had been more than generous. “I think,” he added, “that we should all be very glad that the future of the last remaining capuchin monkeys is now assured.”

  * * *

  When the fuss had died down, Brunelli was once again taking tea with the Duchess de Glorian.

  “Have you thought about my offer, Brunelli?” Francesca asked. “I need your answer. The orbital station is finished. We’re moving our headquarters there, and Frederico is already collecting artworks. He’s re-inventing Medici Florence—a centre for business and the arts.”

  “He can do that?” Brunelli asked.

  “He’s already done it,” Francesca replied. “I need a reliable head of security, and Jo Jo needs a bodyguard.”

  “I don’t do dress shops,” Brunelli said.

  Francesca laughed. “Nobody would expect that of you,” she said. “Just light surveillance, where my daughter is concerned. You can choose your team for the day-to-day operations. There’s nobody else I trust to do it.”

  Brunelli was thoughtful. “I’ve just about had enough of things as they stand here,” she admitted. “There’s no political will for change: our leaders only act if there’s no alternative�
�or its in their best financial interests not to block reform. Your wildlife sanctuary just proved that.”

  “It was ever thus,” Francesca said. “But we did get the sanctuary. The wildlife is protected. That has to count towards a better future.”

  “True,” said Brunelli.

  “Surely there’s something we can offer you?” Francesca pressed her advantage. “Something to tempt you to join us on the orbital station?”

  “I was thinking I might open a coffee bar someplace,” Brunelli said. “Somewhere near the spaceport on an orbital satellite would be about right.”

  Francesca’s face lit up in a warm smile. “That’s brilliant,” she said. “It’s the perfect cover for my head of security. You’ll hear everything that’s going on.”

  “Exactly,” said Brunelli. She held out her hand. “I’m in, Duchess,” she said.

  * * *

  Some six weeks later, Brunelli hefted her kit bag and swung her battered red leather jacket over her shoulder, checking that little Raffi was safe inside her sweater. The baby capuchin had grown, but still clung to Brunelli for safety. It seemed somehow right that she should take him with her.

  The space shuttle for the orbital station was waiting at the docking bay.

  Brunelli was heading for the stars.

  * * ** * ** * *

  The Today Home

  Jason Nahrung

  The man in the wolf mask says, “Apply this”, and swings.

  The iron bar glances off the crown of Mautake’s head, the smack of crowbar on safety cap filling his skull, and the world flashes black.

  Falling, he hears the roar of his island’s waves, the cacophony of seagulls. His nostrils fill with the scent of sea and frangipani. He sees his sister, smiling, shining, erupting from the lagoon with a crayfish on her spear. That’s when he knows, God help him, he will likely die here.

  * * *

  Dinner sat uncomfortably in Mautake’s belly as he made his way to the greenhouse. Local pork and greens in an Asian stir fry. Again. No turtle, ever; fish, infrequently, and never reef fish, just their own spoils; vegetables he sometimes didn’t know the name of. What he wouldn’t give for a mug of toddy, the simple pleasure of cutting a coconut, of watching the women cook a freshly caught bonito over the fire. But it wasn’t the canteen food disturbing him tonight; rather, it was the conversation over the patchy FrigateBird connection with his grandfather. The caretakers had ridden out the latest storm okay, but how much longer could the islands survive?

  This time of the evening, the other islanders would be gathering at the vacant space among their huts, a concrete slab that had been earmarked for some building back when the mines were here; it was too small to ever be a maneaba, but they met there anyway for want of somewhere better. Without land owners or elders, they’d had to devise a new method of working out who should sit where, based on island of origin, force of personality and familial relationships, and took it in turns to play host, shuffling around with each gathering like hands on a clock. They covered the slab in mats the women, and a few cajoled men, too, had woven from banana leaves filched from the mulch pile, the closest thing they could find to the coconut leaves they were used to. The islanders, clad in coats and blankets against the penetrating chill of night, would be huddled around the iron fire pit they’d salvaged from the rubbish left behind in the mothballed workings, telling stories and singing and dancing, sharing their common heritage and arguing about the differences in myths and customs.

  But there had been a storm at home, and although, thank God, none of the caretakers had been hurt, Mautake didn’t want to talk about it with the others, or dance or sing to distract himself. He wanted to sit alone in the spot that reminded him most of home, where he could feel some kind of physical connection. The dances just reminded him of how far away he was.

  When he reached the airlock, he had to sign in on his phone. He entered “retrieval of lost item” for his reason for being there after hours, and no one challenged him when he waved his phone to pass through decontamination. A blue light and a light mist fell over him, glistening on his high-vis vest and lightweight QuickTuff safety cap. He sloshed through the boot pond in his steel-capped gumboots before emerging through the doors into the greenhouse.

  The smell of moist earth enfolded him and he breathed deeply as he pushed into the tropical atmosphere. Like home, but different. The ceiling was in night mode, helping to regulate the heat generated by the hanging thermal sheets, but he knew that on the other side of the opaque glass, stars glimmered in the cool night, their patterns familiar but not quite the same.

  Rows of banana trees stretched as far as he could see, and in another quadrant, pineapple beds made a matrix of spiky crowns. He made his way down the aisles, checking the monitors by instinct: temperature, humidity, moisture levels, nutrient mix. His pace quickened as he heard running water—almost there.

  A buggy approached, amber light revolving on its roof. Should he hide? Pointless. His phone was broadcasting his location for anyone to see. The spike of anxiety subsided as he recognised the driver. The whine of the motor descended into the whirr of tyres on concrete as the buggy pulled up next to him and fell silent. The chief foreman, Ted, leaned out and shot him a wide grin.

  “Wombat.” Ted pointed to the tablet strapped to the dash, its screen cross-hatched with fields of lights. “It is you.”

  “Who else would it be?”

  Wombat. A supervisor at the immigration camp in Cairns had called him that. “You’re a bit of a wombat, aren’t ya, mate,” the man had said as Mautake struggled to understand the instructions on the form, had got something wrong that was apparently simple. “Which bit?” Mautake had asked. He’d smiled, the man laughed, slapped him on the shoulder, and showed him how to fill out the form. But the nickname had stuck, once his friends had looked up just what a wombat was, and enough of them had come to Galilee for the name to follow.

  “What are you doing here, mate?” Ted asked.

  “Ah, lost my gloves, Ted.”

  Even after all these months, he was still getting used to the safety regulations. Boots. Trousers. Hard hats. Goggles, sometimes. And the damned gloves. A far cry from going barefoot and shirtless, picking breadfruit and coconut and babai.

  “Security know you’re poking about?”

  “I logged it.” He waved his phone.

  “Did you hear from your grandpa? He come through the storm okay?”

  “I spoke to him just now. They lost some trees, but the cyclone huts held up fine. I think he’s more worried for me than himself.”

  “Because of the protesters? You tell him he doesn’t need to worry. Security got beefed up as soon as they pitched a tent. We’re as safe as houses here, mate.”

  But Ted, he wanted to say, but didn’t, because he didn’t want to make the foreman uncomfortable. Every king tide my mwenga’s floor is a foot underwater. Maybe Ted meant the cyclone huts, so much more sturdy than his traditional raised hut of timber and woven leaves.

  “Why are these protesters so worried, Ted? If you can grow healthier food, and more of it . . . surely that’s a good thing?”

  “They’re afraid we’ll create monsters, or some plague thing, some super weed. Triffids, maybe.” He gave a laugh and Mautake just smiled; he didn’t know what a triffid was, but he got the idea it was both bad and unlikely. His people had trialled salt-resistant, drought-resistant varieties of various crops, but the sea had been too strong. There hadn’t been any monsters, though.

  “Well, I pray we make things better,” Mautake said. That we win this time.

  “I don’t know about better, but if we can find a way to survive without making things worse, I’m all for it.”

  “God wouldn’t let us destroy ourselves. He loves us.”

  Ted shook his head. “You think so, after He took your island?”

  “We humans took my island.” Mautake couldn’t stop a sudden grin. “God gave me yours.”

  “You’re a cheeky
bugger, Wombat.” They shared a laugh. “You watch the game?”

  They talked about the rugby match for a bit. Mautake had always followed Fiji; Ted chided him that he should switch to Australia now that he was living here, but their play just didn’t excite him like the Fijians’.

  “Well, it’s getting on,” Ted said. “I’m glad your granddad’s okay. You should call it a night, go home, eh.”

  Home. Where was that again?

  Mautake all but ran to the experimental aquaponics section, once Ted’s buggy had got out of sight. This section of the shed had originally been designated to the coffee and cocoa project, but that had been moved to a new, purpose-built shed next door—having the boss as your boyfriend was helpful in getting your way, Ted reckoned, but even he acknowledged that Jess was a hard worker and a lot more hands-on than Mr Steinhardt, who rarely left his air-conditioned office. Mautake didn’t care much about the politics; he was just happy to be able to work with the fish. The section was still a work in progress, a blunt, industrial mix of lines and racks of soilless plant beds devoted to growing herbs, cucumbers and lettuce, and various-sized ponds for trout and barramundi, all locked in a delicate symbiotic cycle of give-and-take. Mautake propped himself on the edge of a tank, watching the flash of masses of scales as aerating water burbled over the hum of electric pumps. This was, for all its tubes and pipes, one of his favourite places. The fish were a bittersweet reminder not only of the simple bounty the sea had once offered, but the efforts to preserve the islands’ life as they slowly went under: fish numbers dwindling, reefs bleaching, mangroves shrivelling. The fish, in this humid, green-splashed shed, were the strongest touchstone to home this place could offer. All these hectares under glass and garden, and not a single coconut palm. He longed for a row of white crinum lilies, the crimson flash of hibiscus or Poinciana, but all that grew around their dormitory huts was clumps of drab, stringy spinifex.