The Dust Pirates: Trapper

#8 | Cli-fi | Post-apocalyptic | Thriller

The Dust Pirates is part of my cli-fi series There Is Hope about life on a planet devastated by climate change and the things that give humans hope.

This is episode #8. You can find an overview of all the episodes here.

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Previously👇

Seeds of Resistance

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The Dust Pirates: Trapper

During the rainmaking festival, a young boy rescues a teenage girl from danger, but her secret sends him on a perilous journey.

My father says there’s ice up north all year round. The last ice area, that’s what he calls it. All that cooling ice and freshwater belongs to the Canadian Colonies Alliance. The Arctic ice above the European Colonies completely melts in summer, making the European north warmer. For those living south of the border, summers are unbearably hot. There is nowhere to go, and crossing on the other side is almost impossible. So we all roast in the dust bowl of Central Europe and pray that we won’t turn to ash before next winter.

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The obsidian Pyramid of the Smoking Mirror rises above the sprawling slum, dark gray against white sand, like a cloudy sky over the bright desert. Sanse lays his red kite on the burning ground and bows, touching his forehead on the first step of the pyramid. The porous plastic is cool to the touch, and the boy feels the myriad membranes vibrating on his skin, capturing and filtering the sweat on his forehead. He stands up, pulling the ventilation mask over his mouth and nose, then he straps the kite on his back and starts climbing. Rivers of sweat run on his bare skin under the new ventilation biosuit made of supple plastic in his favorite color, blue. Blue like the sky. Blue like freshwater rivers melting from the Arctic. Blue like the last ice. On the square platform at the top, the moisture harvesters and rainmakers hum in the evening silence, calming his breath. He checks the water levels of the aquifer on the monitoring panel—only a quarter full. It hadn’t been a moist winter. The air is still, and the sky is a spotless blue, but silver-gray clouds are gathering at the horizon. He unstraps the red kite from his back, waiting for the promised wind.

Below, the slum of the Dust Road tribes sprawls out, home to hundreds of thousands of thirsty mouths depending on a fickle source of water: air. Beyond the slum, fields of rusty solar panels, broken wind turbines and old energy storage units are scattered over the dust. A leaky local grid funnels the energy to the ancient data tower, which supplies the tribes with electricity and digital services. It’s an old and unreliable infrastructure, but it’s better than nothing. Until one lays eyes on the shiny solar farms of the Siberian Cooperatives fenced with barbed wire. The rich had it better, even in times of scarcity. But while the tribes didn’t benefit from the reliable energy supply, the project had created much-needed jobs, which was more than one could hope for on the Dust Road.

A gust of wind blows heat through the pores of his biosuit, with the hope of one last rain before the full-blast summer temperatures settle in. Sanse unfurls the fly line, and his kite rides the wind, glowing red against the blue sky like fire on ice. Shouts of joy rise from the crowd gathered in the pyramid square, ready to dance the night away in a frenzy of hope. It was time for the annual rainmaking festival of the Dust Road.

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Heat is the venerable enemy.

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‘Portable lithium batteries! Portable lithium batteries! Miss, a fully recharged battery for your rainmaker?’ A street vendor shoves her merchandise in the face of a teenage girl with long black hair. Sanse tries to duck the clumsy girl and ends up bumping into his friend Kike.

‘Órale güey!’ Kike shoves him aside.

‘It wasn’t me!’ Sanse gives the teenage girl the stink eye.

‘I’m sorry,’ she says, looking over Sanse’s head at the Patio of Dances Square swarming with Slavic girls selling caloian effigies, middle-eastern imams invoking the rain with their singing, Persian dervish whirling in ecstatic dance, Balkan orthodox priests burning synthetic mirth, African tribal dancers, and colorful shamans playing their flutes and booming drums. A melting pot of cultures melting together under the scorching sun. Hopeful faces gaze at the dark clouds gathering over the pyramid surrounded by surveillance drones that watch over the precious aquifer resting under the Pyramid of the Smoking Mirror, the plastic sanctity of the Dust Road. Every year, tens of thousands of pilgrims gather with water offerings for the ancient obsidian god of the mexihcah, the patron and protector of the Central European dust bowl and home to the tribes of climate immigrants.

‘Heat is the venerable enemy.’ The pilgrims whisper the Dust Road mantra as they pour water on the permeable steps of the pyramid, praying for rain. Summer is coming, and with drought and heat come thirst and death, and soon, they will be queuing for water rations.

‘A caloian, miss? It will help bring rain!’ A little Slavic girl presents a hand-carved figurine to the teenage girl.

‘No thanks,’ the teenage girl says, taking a shiny new handpad out of her pocket.

Curious, Sanse scans the girl and whistles when a list of her gadgets and gear is printed on his virtual visor. He waves the data to his friend Kike who’s busy watching the dark clouds lowering in the sky.

‘What?’ Kike switches his attention to his visor.

‘A rich girl from the other side,’ Sanse says. Every year, youngsters from the North Colonies Alliance ventured into tribe land to join the famous rainmaking festival and always returned home a little lighter.

‘Shia Santos, half-Japanese and half-Iberian—a hafu—from the Japanese colonies. Now that’s interesting,’ Sanse says.

‘Look!’ Kike elbows him. A short, stocky guy pushes through the crowd with his eyes fixated on the hafu girl, Shia. He brushes the two boys aside and plants himself in front of the girl. ‘Pinche cabron!’ The boys squeeze their way back next to Shia with their ears peeled.

‘Can I help you, miss?’ The stranger smiles at her crookedly.

‘Are you from around here?’ Shia looks up at the stranger. Her almond-shaped eyes are strikingly blue and her face is plump with water and well-fed.

‘Are you checking him?’ Kike says, and Sanse looks at the gaunt face and worn out clothes of the stranger. He is most probably a beggar but aren’t they all beggars on the Dust Road?

‘You could say,’ the stranger says, checking out the crowded patio. ‘Are you looking for someone? I know a few people. I might be able to point you in the right direction.’

‘And?’ Kike leans into Sanse.

‘As expected, he has nothing of value on his back. Except for a fancy knife and… satellite access!’ Sanse waves the data to his friend.

‘And no personal details,’ Kike says, keeping an eye on Shia and her dodgy companion.

‘Let me check in the security database,’ Sanse says.

‘Your abuelo’s gonna kill you!’ Kike says.

‘My grandfather won’t know!’ Sanse submits the search and waits for the data to load. Then, his eyes widen: ‘There he is, a… Trapper?’

The boys freeze.

‘Why’s a Trapper hunting a girl from the Japanese colonies?’ Kike says. ‘What does she carry?’

The boys watch Shia measuring the Trapper from head to toe, then waving something to him.

‘I’m looking for this man,’ Shia says.

‘Oh, the old man?’ the Trapper says, scanning the surroundings. Sanse pulls his ventilation mask up, and Kike pretends to watch the bot fireflies luminescing the dark sky, now heavy with rainclouds. There’s a pressure in the air as a cooling wind blows through the electric crowd.

‘Do you know him?’ Shia says.

‘He’s the tribe leader of the mexihcah, maker of the water pyramid, not easy to get to,’ the Trapper says. The dark circles under Shia’s eyes make her look weary and tired. ‘But I have a friend who can help,’ he continues, watching his prey hesitate, circling his trap.

‘Can you please bring me to your friend?’ Shia folds her hands and bows her head. Several bot fireflies land on her silky black hair.

‘Follow me!’ the Trapper says, eyes glittering with delight.

The air is heavy with the promise of rain as the boys follow Shia and the Trapper across the Patio of Dances packed with sweaty bodies dancing with the abandonment of those who have nothing left to lose.

‘He’s leading her to the back alleys,’ Sanse says.

‘They’re gonna be empty at this hour; the serpent dance will start soon,’ Kike says.

The boys watch the Trapper stop at the entrance to a dark alley.

‘Here’s a shortcut!’ The Trapper steps out of the patio. Shia hesitates, looking back at the crowded patio and then at the dark alley in front of her. Suddenly, lightning brightens the sky, illuminating the lonely figure waiting for her. Then a mighty thunder booms in the sky filling the Patio of Dances with shouts of joy and laughter. Shia smiles then steps into the dark.

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Next👇

The Dust Pirates: Secrets

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I hope you enjoyed episode #8 of There Is Hope, a cli-fi series. You can find the series overview here. Please don’t forget to subscribe, like, comment & share. This goes a long way in supporting this independent publication!