It\’s Getting Hot In Here

The following is an excerpt from a science-fiction/future history story I am currently writing set in my home town. It is actually a piece of backstory. The story itself focuses on the society which arises a century after this conflict, in my attempt to envision a future we might hope to strive for. ~ Emily Jacke

Summer illuminates the treetops with gold and deepening shades of green. The dense foliage filters the light before it touches the ground below, patches of sun and shade flickering across the bracken and pine needles and loam. A wind hurries a creak from the bows of an ancient pine and rustles the soft leaves high above. Between two oaks a broken bike path wanders, the asphalt cracked, chunks strewn along the edges. Less than a century ago, lovers met here in the shade, paused on their titanium bicycles to look around, chugged water artificially infused with electrolytes from disposable plastic bottles, carved their names into the bark of two saplings. The lovers and their bicycles and their electrolytes are long gone now; the letters disappear into the trunk, raised scars in the bark swallowing themselves and their meaning.

Agent DH Storm 862, Senior Resource Reconnaissance Official for the Eastern American Army Expedition (DHS862 SRRO for the EAAE), dismounts his battered army scooter before the oaks, glancing up at the shadowy canopy above. The names on the trees do not impress him, their age does not fill him with awe; instead, after a quick evaluation of his surroundings, he makes a note on a clipboard and removes a can of paint from the holster on his bike. Nothing moves; the air is heavy. The quiet tears with the spraying noise of the paint marking a red X on the trunk of the tree. Instantly the air fills with the hissing of a dozen snakes. DHS862 stops, snaps the can efficiently back into the holster and draws his handgun, pointing it down at the ground.

“I thought you’d respond to that!” he shouts up into the trees. His raised voice jars the woods. “Come down and speak to me! I am your Senior Resource Official. It is your duty to respond. Come down or pay the consequences.”

He keeps his stance wide, stares up into the branches, jumps only a little when the trees begin to laugh. A wide, high, running cackle echoes around him. He keeps his face straight, though he feels exposed. Sweat gathers at the back of his neck; even in the shade it is hot.

His escort left him only a little while ago, fading back to ensure a safe path for their ambassador. They hide just out of sight, waiting for a sign. The outcome of this final meeting will determine whether the next officials to arrive come bearing saws or guns. The Administration holds no quandaries about shooting to kill, nor killing to exterminate the human pests currently occupying these trees, irritating secessionist meddlers who have somehow kept the logging teams at bay. Resources, however, are scarce, and though the government has seized control of the dwindling fossil fuel supply, the Capitol would prefer to spend it taking these trees. DHS862’s orders require that he use whatever means necessary to persuade the crazy tree-huggers to come down and avoid making a mess. He comes alone, armed with a single handgun and all the arrogance and entitlement of the army behind him, hoping to trick the tree-dwelling rebels into dropping their guard long enough to be persuaded. He has not encountered them before.

At last a voice responds. “We will not come down. We can hear you from here. Say what you have to say.”
“If you will not come down, I suppose you leave me no choice. Will you not reconsider? You may wish you had. ”
He pauses an ominous moment. Someone else above him shouts, “Are you going to tell us what brings your greedy, oil-slimed pantaloons here, or not? Get on with it.”

The agent scowls, then recites the Administration’s public decree. He did not write it down. Paper is too valuable.
“In these scarce times, it is the duty of every citizen to contribute to the rebuilding of our Just Society. With that in mind, the Government finds it necessary that the wood surrounding the Pioneer Valley in the renegade State of Massachusetts be harvested for commercial use in the Homeland. It is the Government’s explicit hope that we obtain your cooperation in this procedure as peacefully as possible. Therefore the Administration is willing to offer you a deal. In exchange for your cooperation on behalf of the United States of America, you will receive complete and official pardon for all crimes of treason against the Union committed by yourselves and your forebears in the Secession of New England. Furthermore, your selfish conspiracy to prevent the rightful common resources of the nation from proper use will be forgiven and you will redeem yourselves and your misguided predecessors by your choice of the Just path. Come down from the trees and return to the bosom of civilization and the good will of the Administration. If you refuse, we have no choice but to use force.”

The laughter recommences, long, derisive, like a pack of coyotes. He feels suddenly very small and alone, insulted by a wilderness he does not understand. The sound spirals around him, the howling and barking and yipping strangely human. He grips his gun tight, wipes the sweat from his forehead, resists the urge to cover his ears and roll into a ball. He does not signal his men. “Stop playing games,” he hollers,“I have come to negotiate with you. Let us be civilized!”
The laughter stops as abruptly as it began, and a moment of hollow silence engulfs the wood. DHS862 waits, jolted by the nothingness ringing in his ears. He shifts his weight, then freezes as the air shivers like a plucked bowstring, filled with a slithering buzz. Out of the canopy above, dark figures appear, human bodies suspended on long ropes, spinning and sliding down like giant four-limbed spiders. It is now too late to call for his backup. Before he can react, they surround him.

Thirteen men and women twirl upside down around his head, lithe limbs bare, smeared with mud, strange dark patterns painted in swirls across their bodies. They grin widely at him, their free hands training small blow darts on their quarry. Their feet grip the ropes, ready to pull themselves back into their trees at any moment. Behind deep tans and dark mud, the whites of their eyes shine. Like monkeys they stroke him, calloused fingers gently seeking out hidden weapons. They take his gun and fling it deep into the woods. Then they seize him and pull him with them up into the trees.
At first he is stunned, unable to move or speak. He stares at them in horror and disgust, “You’re savages!” he spits. They smile wider.
“We are the Savages,” someone begins, and someone else continues, “that die for the land.”
They speak at once, voices overlapping. The sound resonates in the trees, shaking bones.
“We are the daughters and sons of those who came to kill, but we live for those who died.”
“We embody the spirits of our brothers and sisters—
“—murdered here when the white face first appeared—”
“—murdered for the trees.”
“We stand for those who have fallen beneath the expanding greed”
“Of those who have too much.”
“We stand between you and the land,”
“And We are Angry.”
The last they speak together, one voice, ringing. The woods are hushed, the trees listen. The sunlight pours through the canopy, spills an eerie glow across the gritty, painted warriors. The air tightens.
“We are Angry,” they continue.
“You have wasted the abundance of the earth in the pursuit of profit.”
“You have drained and destroyed the land.”
“You come to take more.”
“And We are Angry.”
“We will not leave.”
“We will not come down.”
“Here you shall not pass!”

Agent DH Storm 862, Senior Resource Reconnaissance Official for the Eastern American Army Expedition, sits on a stone, eyes tight shut. They have taken his scooter. His gun. His dignity. His men have disappeared. He reels. Fear and anger boil over him. Never has he seen the authority of the government so completely rejected. At last he rises, his jaw clenched, and walks back along the path.
In the trees above, Naomi relishes a long drink of water, watching the government minion go. “They will come, now,” she says, turning back to the other Rangers. They grin back at her, muddy, sweaty, exhilarated.
“We are ready.”

It’s Getting Hot In Here: Create Our Climate is a month-long series to feature the creative work of the youth climate movement.  Through poetry, prose, visual and performance art, we aim to use these different media to communicate the passion, struggle and imperative of our work tackling climate and energy issues.  Please join youth leaders for posts on Mondays, Tuesdays and Thursdays throughout April.