io9 is proud to present fiction fromLIGHTSPEED MAGAZINE.
Once a month, we feature a story from LIGHTSPEEDs current issue.
This months selection is Carbon Zero by D. Thomas Minton.
Illustration: Warmtail (via Adobe Stock)
you’ve got the option to read the story below orlisten to the podcaston LIGHTSPEEDs website.
Carbon Zero
Is there a problem, officer?
Were not the police.
Graphic: Adamant Press
My partner, Enrico, places his palm against the door, ready to test the old mans resolve.
I tap my finger against my thumb and SNAPbeam the warrant to the old mans synaptic cache.
Oh, the old man whispers, as if his voice has been snatched away.
Years of aggressive action against climate violators has given the Environmental Protection Force its well-earned reputation.
Give me a second to tidy
Enrico doesnt let the door close.
We dont care if you havent dusted, Mr. Costa.
Being no match for two young, modded investigators, Costa retreats.
end the door, he says.
Youre letting in the smoke.
Costa stands thin-lipped, arms crossed in defiance.
My IR lenses clearly register depressed skin temperatures due to heavy sweating.
With the windows thermal screens in place, the modest living room is cool and dim.
A small dining table.
Check his spongees, Enrico says, unclipping his analyzer from the belt ring next to his holster.
Costa raises his hands.
You have no right to touch me.
International bylaw seven-seven-three gives me the authority.
I SNAPbeam the relevant regulation to him, and without waiting, press my thumb to Costas forehead.
In a blink, I download his BIO-log to a secure evidence partition on my synaptic cache.
I think youll find everything in order, Costa says.
Im sure we will, Enrico mumbles as he follows his analyzer around the rooms perimeter.
Even I had been called back to the field.
I scan through Costas data.
His metallo-organic corpuscles and chloroplast implants are functioning within operational ranges.
What are you looking for?
Its in the warrant, Enrico says.
Im a historian, not a lawyer.
I almost hear the disdain in Enricos eyebrow rise.
What have we here?
Enrico pushes open what should have been a bedroom door.
He tosses the light switch, and several spots come alive.
Thats just a hobby, Costa says.
Enrico extends his arm to stop the old man from entering the room.
Let me guess, I say, coming over to the doorway.
Erico hands me his analyzer.
The small room has been converted into an algae-growing facility.
Seven one-hundred-litre containers have been hastily plumbed with water circulators and temperature modulators.
Tucked among the vats is a portable air pump whose intake hose snakes over to the door.
All but one of the tanks has murky, blackish water in them.
Enrico dips his finger into the one tank that has a skin of green algae on its surface.
Chlorella, he says.
IIm growing my own protein supplement, Costa says, again trying to enter the doorway.
I point across the room, and reluctantly, Costa retreats.
Enrico asks, stepping out of the grow room.
A sudden bloom and then a die-off?
Chlorella can be tricky that way, especially if you dont harvest it regularly.
It takes a lot of know-how to get the growing medium balanced just right.
But tell me, Enrico continues, why seven vats for just the two of you?
Thats a lot of protein
Costas eyes flick in Enricos direction.
Oh, yeah; theres supposed to be two of you here.
You and your wife.
Suzanna, Her name barely squeezes through the constriction in Costas throat.
Thats right, Enrico says, as if he didnt already know the answer.
She out in the garden?
Costa winces at Enricos question.
I dont like where this is going, so I clear my throat, hoping to divert my partner.
We know Costas wife has been ill, even if her sealed medical records deny us any specifics.
Costa is more than likely up to something illegal, but that doesnt give us license to be cruel.
I turn my attention back to the climbing CO2 numbers on the analyzer.
They peak near the bookcase, and then fall off as I move past it.
Those analyzers are top of the line, Enrico says conversationally.
Sensitive to carbon dioxide down to micromolar concentrations.
It can detect a single exhale from a person without spongees.
Im not sure Costa heard him; his gaze is focused intently on what I am doing.
Seven vats, Enrico says again.
I push against the bookcase and feel it wiggle.
His eyes shine wetly in the yellow light streaming in from the vat room.
I have an inkling of what Im about to find, and I pray I am wrong.
I push harder on the edge of the bookcase.
The bookcase shifts and swings open on a set of concealed hinges.
My helmet lamp flickers on.
A scuffle breaks out as Enrico wrestles Costa against the wall and clips a neural restraint onto his forearm.
The old man wails like a wounded animal.
Its not her fault!
The backs of her hands are covered with black pustules where her chloroplast nodules should have been.
Her head slowly rises, and she fixes me with pitiful eyes too large for her face.
The cancer, Costa says.
Her body rejected the MOCs because of the cancer.
I grip the edge of the bookcase; my head feels like it will float away.
What cancer has done this?
Is this a preview of Elenas fate?
Decades of inaction have driven atmospheric carbon dioxide concentrations above five hundred parts per million.
The world burns around us, caught in a positive feedback loop that threatens to run away.
Net zero is no longer an option, and the direct air capture facilities cannot scrub fast enough.
I do not need to check the analyzer, but I do anyways.
The readout flashes; CO2 levels in the hidden room are above the acceptable range.
Clearly Enricos determination is correct, and yet, I hesitate, something Ive never done before.
I need your concurrence, Investigator Munich.
The analyzer beeps as it finishes logging its evidence with Geneva.
Costa sobs against the wall behind me.
Surely, he knows what my concurrence means.
The mandate exists for a reason and leaves no room for compassion or exception.
I can do nothing except what is required by my oath and the law.
Yes, a Seven-seven-three.
Before I have even finished speaking, Enrico draws his pistol.
I grab his arm and start to say something, but what case can I make?
My partners eyes narrow.
Shes dead anyways, and every breath she exhales is only killing the rest of us.
Can we just
Enrico fires.
I stumble against the bookcase for support.
Caesar Costa, you are an accessory to the violation of International Mandate Seven-seven-three.
Do you have any defense?
Costa has stopped crying and stares blankly up at us.
I wonder now if this one should.
Yet, I know it cannot.
Not for anyone, not even me.
I flinch as Enrico fires.
He holsters his pistol.
Even if it doesnt burn down, will anyone want to live here after what we have done?
His idle ramblings hold court atdthomasminton.com.
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