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  Aerovoyant: The Industrial Age Volume One

  Copyright 2019 © P. L. Tavormina

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means whatsoever without express written permission from the author, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews. Please refer all pertinent questions to P.L. Tavormina.

  ISBN: 978-1-7341706-1-0

  Library of Congress Control Number: 2019916300

  This book is a work of fiction. With the exception of footnoted references, any similarity within this novel to actual historical events, real people, or real places is entirely coincidental. Names, characters, places, and events are products of the author’s imagination (or, occasionally, that of her children).

  Cover by James Egan of Bookfly Design LLC

  Interior formatting and design by Melissa Williams Design

  www.pltavormina.com

  Contents

  Author’s Note

  Acknowledgments

  Prologue

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Chapter Thirty

  Chapter Thirty-One

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  Chapter Thirty-Five

  Chapter Thirty-Six

  Chapter Thirty-Seven

  Chapter Thirty-Eight

  Appendices

  Author’s Note

  This is a story about climate.

  Ever since it became obvious to me decades ago that some forces actively suppress climate science, I’ve felt that science itself is under attack. The seed of an idea for a book was planted. Two characters—a young woman who is targeted because she perceives atmospheric chemistry and a young man who is essentially a walking history book—sprouted in my mind. Their families, their lives, the choices each of them makes, and their interconnected cultures began growing too.

  The goal of this novel is to frame science and history within a climate story. It’s a methodical story. Some readers describe the pacing as slow; others do not. But sacrificing the science and history—the nonfiction part of the fiction—to “speed things up” would detract from why this story exists in the first place.

  So yes, this is a story about climate science. But it’s also a story about family, and courage, and how each of us has part of the answer to the global challenge we face. It’s a story about hope.

  Acknowledgments

  I couldn’t have contemplated a project like this without the loving support of family and friends, and professional feedback from editors and artists. My heartfelt gratitude to all the Tavorminas and Boedigheimers who bounced ideas around with me and read through early drafts. Thanks to Vicki McGough for story guidance and Leah Brown for copy edits. I thank Michelle Argyle for the beautiful formatting and James Egan for the fantastic cover.

  Also, many thanks to local and online writing buddies, including members of Conejo Writers, The Inklings, the Ventura County Writers Salon, and Absolute Write. To personal friends, thank you for listening patiently when I told you the novel was finished—and then went back to wrestle through another draft.

  I so appreciate the help from all of you.

  Prologue

  “Why did they all die?”

  Alphonse had curled up next to his grandfather, whose shoes were off for the evening. The familiar smell of leather and too-warm socks was starting to fade.

  His grandfather’s eyes crinkled. “They didn’t, or we wouldn’t be here.”

  Alphonse gave a small, frustrated sigh at being handed yet another logic puzzle. “I mean, why did most of them die?”

  At that, his grandfather laughed. “Very good, Grandson. Very good indeed. Most of them died because they came from another world.”

  “Called Ert.” Alphonse scooted closer, right up against the old man’s side. Snug.

  “Earth. That’s right. Our ancestors wanted to live on Turaset, but the air made them sick. The radiation from our suns was like nothing they’d seen before.”

  “The radi . . .”

  “Ra-di-a-tion. The breath of fierno.”

  Alphonse ran his finger along the back of his hand. His skin had gone mahogany again, because of fierno’s breath. “They didn’t change color?”

  “No, they didn’t. None of the colonists had purple skin tones like your friend Matiya, or blue ones like the little girl next door.”

  “Because there wasn’t feerno on Ert?”

  His grandfather’s face went smooth, and his lips curved in a small smile. It meant the storytelling could last forever—all the time in the world, as long as Alphonse wanted—and he smiled back. “Fierno, Grandson. Earth. That’s what we think, but we don’t know all the details.”

  “Because they died.”

  His grandfather squeezed him gently around the shoulders. “Again, not everyone died, but yes. They needed to survive. And they believed some things should be left behind. They saw what happened to Earth and took it as a lesson. And so, they brought some things—”

  “Like grapes.”

  The man laughed. “Yes. Grapes. And destroyed other things.”

  “. . . destroyed other things.” Alphonse wondered what those things were. The room fell quiet in a middle-of-the-night kind of way. The kind of quiet Alphonse knew from waking up in a drowsy pocket of blankets and reaching about for his stuffed lion. Still and deep, where any small house-sound might cuff away at his ears. It was like that for a minute.

  “The Precepts say it’s important to live in a simple way.”

  Alphonse didn’t care about the Precepts. “But how come we turn colors?”

  “Because of the breath of fierno.”

  “No. How come?”

  “Ah. How did it come to pass.” His grandfather lifted him onto his lap, and Alphonse leaned onto his chest, where the steady thump from his grandfather’s heart pulsed into his cheek. “It’s hard to know the truth after so long. We think the scientists changed our cells.”

  Alphonse scrunched his face.

  “They say the founders took the different colors—pigments—from Turaset’s byantun trees and quiverfish, and from other plants and animals too, because those creatures survive fierno. And they gave the pigments to us, into the part of us that gives us our shape.” His grandfather held Alphonse closer, and his voice dropped to a whisper. “They even say, Alphonse, that there are more gifts inside our cells. Waiting to be unlocked. Gifts to help us avoid the mistakes they made.”

  “On Earth.”

  “That’s right! And you said that exactly right. On Earth.”

  Chapter Oner />
  The last time Alphonse wore this tie had been to his grandfather’s funeral seventeen years earlier.

  He remembered playing with it during the service, twisting the too-long tails around each other in one direction, then the other, then back again, while the funereal deacons watched with disapproval. There’d been eulogies, and embraces, and other things he probably should have held onto over the years, but in truth the only crisp details he remembered were the glaring deacons and this thin, black tie.

  Tonight, he found it in the copperwood chest on top of a few suits his mother had put away. Tucked between his grandfather’s wallet and spring-driven pocket watch. Traces of sandalwood cologne drifted from the suits—ghosts, the past wrapped up in this little chest. The memory of his grandfather, Councilor Stavo di Gust, saying Alphonse too might sit on the city’s Council one day.

  A seat had opened, and with his mother’s connections, Alphonse had a shot. A tingle of nervous anticipation spread down his arms. Pushing a tie clip over the tails, he muttered, “You should be here.” He headed downstairs, where his mother was speaking into the distavoc.

  “Into the joint account, tomorrow.” As she spoke, Ivette Najiwe fiddled with a carved ring on her index finger. The color matched her dress, both white. She met his gaze and pointed to a jacket laid out across the sofa. “We need the money by mid-morning. Yes, I know the limits.”

  The jacket was white as well. He walked past it to the hallway closet.

  “You don’t need to record the transfer at all.” She snapped a finger and gestured at the jacket again.

  He pulled a brown one out, mouthing, Matching clothes?

  She exhaled loudly. “Why do you need the name? Fine. Zelia Naida.”

  The funds she was transferring had to do with the combustion industry, the interprovincial conglomerate of energy production, which meant this call would take a while. Alphonse stepped outside to wait.

  Bel and Letra, the twin suns of Turaset, were climbing down the western sky. Two identical drops of liquid gold. Dusky light from both carpeted the Martire Arel range, and his breath caught. The glow out there. One peak in that great swath soared over the others, Mount Tura and its crowning pinnacles, the Prophets. His grandfather had once said they’d climb those together.

  Anticipation and anxiety tossed around inside of him, along with a little self-doubt. Sangal’s most influential lawmakers would be at the gala tonight, and he’d need to convince them he was the right choice for the Council seat.

  Relax.

  Behind him the door opened and his mother stepped out, reached up, and flicked something from his shoulder. Her eyes landed on the tie, and her expression froze. “That’s Father’s.”

  “Yes.”

  She regarded him, unspeaking, frown lines starting on her forehead.

  “I’ll change if it upsets you.”

  “It doesn’t upset me. It concerns me. The Council’s different now. He has no place in your thoughts.”

  No. She was wrong. If ever Alphonse needed an anchor, it was tonight.

  “I thought you wanted this.”

  “Yes, of course I do. Yes. It’s the means that bother me. Grandfather wouldn’t stand for appointment by acclamation.”

  “You don’t know that.”

  “Mother. Think about the laws he wrote; the ones he fought for and the ones he let go. Whoever’s named has zero mandate from the people. Acclamation—it just isn’t a good foot to start on.”

  “Alphonse. You are an excellent candidate.”

  He blinked. This was a departure from their normal argument. His chance at success had always been pinned to her connections, her job with the industry and its influence up and down the coast. Quietly, he said, “Thank you. I’m sorry. I’m a little nervous.”

  A hired automobile pulled up, and gesturing to the aut’s back door, she dropped her voice. “You have no reason to be. Listen, I understand how you feel. I do. It’s possible nothing will come of tonight. I’ll do the talking. You be agreeable.”

  Agreeable. She meant he needed to keep his head together around the Council leader, Lesteri di Les. “The man’s a crook,” he muttered.

  “The man is necessary. Just hold your temper.”

  Alphonse had often thought campaigning for a council seat would be the political equivalent of scaling the perfect cliff. There’d be plenty of challenges along the way. Building a platform, finding support. An opponent and debates. Each step, a pitch up the face.

  Reaching the Council through acclamation, well. That was different, wasn’t it? But the destination was the same. At its heart, acclamation was a different route to the same clifftop. Nothing more.

  When they arrived at Governance Hall, Alphonse held the door and followed his mother in and upstairs to the banquet chamber. Narrow windows, lavish drapes. Waiters with trays and politicians with drinks. A few other political funders. Same as a dozen times before.

  “Councilor di Les,” she murmured. “By the far wall.”

  Yes, there he was, speaking with a councilwoman. As head of the ruling caucus, di Les could line up the votes to give that seat to anyone. Alphonse swallowed against his nerves. He’d bet good money that if di Les picked him, there’d be some string attached. He might be asked to swear a loyalty pledge of one sort or another.

  His mother took a flute of sparkling wine from one of the waiters. “Try to enjoy yourself. He’ll be free soon enough.”

  “Yeah,” he breathed.

  Outside, first sun was down. Evening light had deepened, and the view of the Prophets was clear. Immutable, monolithic giants, standing guard over the Martire Arels.

  So old.

  Those great cliffs would have dominated the western skyline even before humanity claimed Turaset as its new home. Legends, dozens of them, had been built off those hills. One said the ghost of a colonist, Arel, haunted the pinnacles. Find Arel and steer fate, that was the legend. It had become the family joke, too, that Stavo had written his environmental laws to keep Arel safe.

  His mother leaned over. “The councilor’s free.”

  “Right.” Alphonse’s hope and fear focused into a point. Once seated, the new councilmember would help steer law. He started toward di Les.

  His mother pulled ahead at the last moment. “Lesteri!”

  “Ivette.”

  All massive bulk and calculation, that’s how di Les came off. His hair looked like snow that had seen too much exhaust, shoved off to the side in clumps, and his complexion was a ruddy gray, but that part was temporary. Everyone’s pigmentation shifted when Bel and Letra aligned.

  “Alphonse. That’s a sharp look. New suit?”

  “Good evening, Councilor.” Alphonse ran his hand down the tie. “In a manner of speaking, I suppose it is.”

  His mother locked eyes with him, seeming to know exactly where his thoughts were. This was a climb, he reminded himself. He needed the next grip. “I understand Sangal has sent a delegation to Beschel. Something about off-shore mining?”

  Di Les’s eyebrows went up and he grinned. “You follow energy policy. Yes, there’s archaic carbon under the shelf. More than we thought.”

  His mother smiled. “Alphonse loves policy detail.”

  Di Les studied her. “Ivette. Alphonse is young. Etta di Low is not, and she makes a stronger case for the seat. She’s been my aide for a long time.”

  “I wonder if she shares her father’s views on donation caps.”

  It grated that his mother would bring money into a discussion that should more rightly focus on qualifications. From the scowl on the councilor’s face, it seemed he agreed.

  Di Les tapped a ciguerro out of his pack. “Frankly, I’m in no rush to fill it. I’ve been more preoccupied with my bill. Getting it through committee. You and I had an understanding.”

  “You’ll get your votes.” She gestu
red at a group sitting a few feet away, and wine dribbled over the side of her flute. “Clumsy.”

  But that move wasn’t clumsy; it was calculated. Get a small thing—say, help with a spilled drink—then go for the prize.

  She took the napkin di Les held out. “Thank you, Lest. I’ve funded half the councilors in your caucus and pulled strings for a few others. I’ll make some calls.”

  Di Les was appraising him now. Standing taller, Alphonse anchored his thoughts into the issues he’d like to work on. Besides expanding the boundaries for wilderness protection, which in all likelihood would take years due to claims the industry made for the land, factory workers were paid a bare fraction of what they deserved. The combustion industry said cheaper oil would solve poverty, but there were other possibilities. Changing tax law might free up a little revenue.

  Ivette handed her glass over. “I need this freshened.”

  What she wanted was privacy with di Les. Alphonse took the flute and nodded. “Councilor.”

  He worked over to the bar, handed the flute to the barista and turned to watch his mother. She was eyeing di Les now. Di Les leaned toward her, said something, and she laughed. He said something else, and she whispered into his ear.

  Alphonse swallowed and turned back to the bar. Different route, same clifftop.

  Down the bar, two councilors, both women, were discussing trade. The older of the pair had gone on record opposing interprovincial commerce, and Alphonse didn’t understand her reasoning, since other parts of the economy weren’t constrained in that way. It seemed opening trade might spur innovation. If he was seated, he’d have the opportunity to speak with her—

  “Let’s talk about that seat.”

  Startled, Alphonse found di Les next to him. “Sir, thank you. I’d like that. Discussing it. I’d very much like that.”

  “It’s a representation, son. The seat is a symbol. What I’d actually like to go over with you is the importance of strengthening City Council.”

  “Sir?”

  “Making it stronger.” Di Les leaned onto the bar and faced forward; he didn’t look at Alphonse at all. There was no sense of judgment from di Les’s eyes, no tension. The man’s face was simple contemplation. Maybe his bland expression was supposed to put Alphonse at ease, but the last thing he’d expected was for di Les to behave as though the seat held no consequence.