The Mammoth Book of Apocalyptic SF - Mike Ashley [209]
Vib nodes dotted the power transmission network, keeping people online just like at home. Plenty of dead zones existed elsewhere but not here, adjacent to the line.
A.B. had just enough time to place the trundlebug on autopilot before his vision was overlaid with a feed from home.
The security system on his apartment had registered an unauthorized entry.
Inside his lLDK, an optical distortion the size of a small human moved around, spraying something similar to used cooking oil on A.B.'s furniture. The hands holding the sprayer disappeared inside the whorl of distortion.
A.B. vibbed his avatar into his home system. "Hey, you! What the fuck are you doing!"
The person wearing the invisibility cape laughed, and A.B. recognized the distinctive crude chortle of Zulqamain Safranski.
"Safranski! Your ass is grass! The ASBO's are on their way!"
Unable to stand the sight of his lovely apartment being desecrated, frustrated by his inability to take direct action himself, A.B. vibbed off.
Tigerishka and Thales had shared the feed and commiserated with their fellow Power Jock. But the experience soured the rest of the trip for A.B., and he stewed silently until they reached the first of the extensive constructions upon which the Reboot Cities relied for their very existence.
The Solar Girdle featured a tripartite setup, for the sake of security of supply.
First came the extensive farms of solar updraft towers: giant chimneys that fostered wind flow from base to top, thus powering their turbines.
Then came parabolic mirrored troughs that followed the sun and pumped heat into special sinks, lakes of molten salts, which in turn ran different turbines after sunset.
Finally, serried ranks of photovoltaic panels generated electricity directly. These structures, in principle the simplest and least likely to fail, were the ones experiencing difficulties from some kind of dust accretion.
Vibbing GPS coordinates for the troublespot, A.B. brought the trundlebug up to the infected photovoltaics. Paradoxically, the steady omnipresent whine of the car's motors registered on his attention only when he had powered them down.
Outside the vehicle's polarized plastic shell, the sinking sun glared like the malign orb of a Cyclops bent on mankind's destruction.
When the bug-wide door slid up, dragon's breath assailed the Power Jocks. Their plugsuits strained to shield them from the hostile environment.
Surprisingly, a subdued and pensive Tigerishka volunteered for camp duty. As dusk descended, she attended to erecting their intelligent shelters and getting a meal ready: chicken croquettes with roasted edamame.
A.B. and Thales sluffed through the sand for a dozen yards to the nearest infected solarcell platform. The keek held his pocket lab in gloved hand.
A little maintenance kybe, scuffed and scorched, perched on the high trellis, valiantly but fruitlessly chipping with its multitool at a hard siliceous shell irregularly encrusting the photovoltaic surface.
Thales caught a few flakes of the unknown substance as they fell, and inserted them into the analysis chamber of the pocket lab.
"We should have a complete readout of the composition of this stuff by morning."
"No sooner?"
"Well, actually, by midnight. But I don't intend to stay up. I've done nothing except sit on my ass for two days, yet I'm still exhausted. It's this oppressive place—"
"Okay," A.B. replied. The first stars had begun to prinkle the sky. "Let's call it a day."
They ate in the bug, in a silent atmosphere of forced companion-ability, then retired to their separate shelters.
A.B. hoped with mild lust for another nocturnal visit from a prowling Tigerishka but was not greatly disappointed when she never showed to interrupt his intermittent drowsing. Truly, the desert sands of Paris sapped all his usual joie de vivre.
Finally falling fast asleep, he dreamed of the ghostly waters of the vanished Seine, impossibly flowing deep beneath his tent. Somehow, Zulqamain Safranski was diverting them to flood A.B.'s apartment.
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