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    Ecotastrophe II
    Ecotastrophe II
    Ecotastrophe II
    Ebook181 pages2 hours

    Ecotastrophe II

    By J Alan Erwine

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    About this ebook

    More than a decade ago, Sam’s Dot Publishing released a small anthology titled Ecotastrophe that looked at the dangers posed by global climate change.
    Now, the planet seems in even greater peril, and maybe we are facing Ecotastrophe, but is there time to save ourselves.
    Ecotastrophe II features startling fiction from Tyree Campbell, Dan Rice, Melanie Rees, Robert J. Mendenhall, Gustavo Bondoni, and Mike Adamson.

    LanguageEnglish
    PublisherNomadic Delirium Press
    Release dateJul 26, 2017
    ISBN9781370372898
    Ecotastrophe II
    Author

    J Alan Erwine

    J Erwine was born Oct. 15, 1969 in Akron, Ohio. Early in his life he was exposed to science, and specifically astronomy. From there on, J's passion turned to science fiction, a passion that's never died. Due to family issues, J eventually found himself in Denver, Colorado, where he still lives (well, right outside now.) From the time he could put subject and predicate together on paper, J has been writing stories. None of those early stories exist anymore (thankfully), but that passion for writing has never waned. After several years of rejection, the story Trek for Life was eventually sold to ProMart Writing Lab editor James Baker. It wasn't Asimov's, but it was a start. Since that time J has sold more than forty short stories to various small press publishers. In addition ProMart also published a short story collection of J's entitled Lowering One's Self Before Fate, and other stories, which is still available. ProMart also published a novel from J entitled The Opium of the People, which sold a few copies before going out of print. The relevance of the novel after the events of September 11th caused J to self-publish the novel, as he felt the story had a lot to say in the new reality we now find ourselves living in. Now, this same book has been re-released by Nomadic Delirium Press. Eventually J would become an editor with ProMart. Then, after the untimely death of ProMart editor James Baker, J would move on to ProMart's successor Sam's Dot Publishing. J also spends most of his time working as a freelance writer and editor. J's novel was voted a top ten finisher in the 2003 annual Preditors & Editors contest, and his short story The Galton Principle won a ProMart contest for best story over 5,000 words. In addition, a number of his stories have been voted "best of" in various issue of The Martian Wave and The Fifth DI… and have been included in Wondrous Web Worlds Vols. 2, 3, 4, and 6. In 2009, the Ephemeris Role Playing Game was released. J is the co-creator of this game, and has written numerous supplements for the game. J has now sold three novels and four short story collections, all of which are still available from various sources, including Smashwords. J currently lives with his amazing wife, three wonderful children, three cats, and a very quiet turtle.

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      Book preview

      Ecotastrophe II - J Alan Erwine

      Ecotastrophe II

      Edited by J Alan Erwine

      Published by Nomadic Delirium Press at Smashwords

      This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each person. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

      Ecotastrophe II is a publication of Nomadic Delirium Press. All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including physical copying or recording or by any information storage and retrieval systems, without expressed written consent of the author and/or artists.

      Ecotastrophe II is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the authors’ imagination. Any resemblance to actual events or persons, living or dead, are entirely coincidental.

      Cover design by J Alan Erwine

      First printing July 2017

      Nomadic Delirium Press

      Aurora, Colorado

      http://www.nomadicdeliriumpress.com

      Contents

      Editor’s Introduction by J Alan Erwine

      Gyroscope by Tyree Campbell

      Kale by Dan Rice

      The Last Polar Bear by Melanie Rees

      The Perisphere Solution by Robert J. Mendenhall

      Kia Manawanui by Tyree Campbell

      The Wrong Kind of Ship by Gustavo Bondoni

      Pelagus by Mike Adamson

      Editor’s Introduction

      By J Alan Erwine

      More than a decade ago, Sam’s Dot Publishing released a small anthology called Ecotastrophe that looked at futures on Earth where global climate change had been real, and the world had been ravaged by the effects of the changing climate. Now, more than a decade later, global climate change is still a very real threat to humanity…maybe an even greater threat, and Nomadic Delirium Press has decided to take another look at global climate change.

      The stories in this volume look at several possible futures, some bleaker than others, and some looking at the grand scale of climate change, while others look at the smaller more personal consequences.

      Whether you believe global climate change is real or not, I hope that you will at least enjoy the stories for the wonderful story telling abilities of the authors.

      Enjoy Ecotastrophe II, and hopefully you’ll help make a difference, and make sure that Ecotastrophe doesn’t happen.

      Gyroscope

      By Tyree Campbell

      Dear Towhomit,

      I dove headfirst off the cliff this morning in what looked like a suicide attempt. A strong wind swept me up and deposited me back on the grass, several meters from the precipice. The others were aghast, of course; my father, especially. I’m the Heir to the Throne, so to speak. If there’s going to be a Throne left. Why am I even here? It’s my duty to

      The flap to the tent opened. Without turning around, Paul Barrow knew it would be his father. He stopped writing and waited, knowing the old man would gather himself first, letting his anger steamroll into an outburst. But he closed the diary and placed the pen beside it. Waiting.

      A faint whiff of something fragrant graced Paul’s nose, and he realized someone else had entered the tent behind his father. Not his mother; she left discipline and recriminations to the old man. The only other viable options were Liza Talbot or her daughter, Alexandra Sinclair. Unless, of course, one of the men had a secret he was willing to reveal, now that the hunting party was isolated and lost. Alexandra, then, Paul concluded. But why?

      His father cleared his throat, and muscles knotted in Paul’s shoulders. At forty-four, the old man was not really that old, but he was so called around CommEarth corporate headquarters in Atlanta. Paul even referred to him obliquely as the old man, although a sneer sometimes accompanied the reference. After another coarse ahem, the question reverberated throughout the tent like thunder.

      Just what in the hell did you think you were doing?

      Still Paul did not turn around. I should have thought that would be obvious, he said, his soft voice a sharp counterpoint to his father’s inquiry.

      You scared the shit out of me, said Barrow. Your mother as well. What were you trying to do, kill yourself?

      Paul knew it would do no good to respond with the truth, but he made the attempt anyway. I was trying to prove a point, he replied, and now stood up and turned around. As tall as his father’s six-foot, but with far more brown hair, Paul had inherited most of his softer looks from his mother. Though he hardly looked effeminate, and certainly was nothing of the sort, his father continued to regard him as a creature of a weaker species. Even now, in the dim light of the tent, Paul felt the weight of his disrespect and disgust. You’re going to succeed me as president and CEO? the old man seemed to be saying by his bearing and attitude.

      Not if I can help it, Paul thought. But he had yet to summon the courage to say as much to him.

      Behind Barrow and to one side stood Alexandra Sinclair, tall and slender and aloof. But now the expression in her dove-gray eyes was hard for Paul to read, in the shadow of his old man.

      And I suppose you’re writing all this down in your journal, Barrow fleered, and wiped a sheen of sweat from his forehead with a dirty handkerchief. Christ on a popsicle stick! What the hell would you have written, had you succeeded?

      The point was that I did not believe I would succeed, thought Paul. But he withheld the words, because they would only keep his father in the tent longer.

      It’s a diary, Pop, he said instead, for the umpteenth time.

      Diaries are for sissies.

      Paul’s chest rose slightly and fell under the green jersey, his sigh inaudible. After a moment, silence won out. Barrow thrust the tent flap open and left, leaving behind a Bah!

      Alexandra, to Paul’s mild surprise, remained, tilting her head to one side as she regarded him with a curious expression. A smile toyed with the corners of her thin mouth.

      Am I in your diary, Paul? she asked.

      No.

      The smile died stillborn. Oh.

      Idiot, Paul told himself, after Alexandra ducked from the tent. We’re stuck here, and she’s the only female available for companionship. But the notion faded quickly; he had other problems to solve.

      Sunlight heated Paul and brought forth beads of perspiration as he emerged from his tent. Along with his, the other four tents had been arranged in a circle, rather like wagons against natives in the Old West. Except they had yet to encounter any natives. He shaded his eyes and gazed out at the rolling savannah with its sparse, browning grass and its sprinkling of solitary trees; at the dense mixed forest on the hillside that bordered the encampment; and then, turning around, at the ocean beyond the cliffs and the narrow river that became a waterfall as it spilled down into it. The cliffs reminded Paul of the Cliffs of Moher on the west coast of Ireland, although these were but twenty feet high, if that. Near the precipice grew a copse of trees, and just landward of that rested what remained of the Cessna. The pilot, Roberto Dario, had been thrown clear and, presumably, over the cliff. They had not spotted his body in the rocks below—the rocks toward which Paul had dived head-first without success.

      It occurred to him that he had no sense of direction in this place. He might assume that west lay in the direction of the sun’s motion—the sun was in fact headed toward the horizon at the end of the ocean—but he had no confidence in that assumption. With a sliver of iron or steel he might contrive a compass of sorts, but they had not packed anything useful in that regard for a hunting trip. And the bag in which the compass had been packed was lost overboard along with the pilot.

      Looking out at the ocean, Paul was aware of eyes on him, as if someone meant to prevent him from repeating his next death spiral. He turned his head slightly to look at the Cessna and the trees again. There on a boulder sat Adrian Skinner, who had been hired as the party’s hunting guide. Skinner was in his early thirties, black-haired and pale-eyed, and generally as silent as the zephyr that filtered through the leaves of the trees. He had a lean physique, like that of a bicyclist or a climber, and of the men in the party Paul felt the least threatened by him. The eyes Paul had felt belonged to Skinner.

      But it was a woman who touched Paul’s arm. He twitched, and spun around, and found Alexandra standing within arm’s reach. The heat from the sun was as nothing compared to that which now enveloped him, yet it was the heat from above which focused her attention.

      We should find shade, she said, like the others.

      You’re afraid I’ll jump again.

      Despite misgivings, Paul let her lead him to a cluster of trees opposite the Cessna and well away from the others. For the moment, at least, she no longer wore an air of superiority that verged on haughtiness; she seemed almost human now. He thought perhaps she was beginning to realize that, a week after the crash, they might be stuck here a while, wherever here was, and that her only other option for companionship was the taciturn man sitting by the airplane. But it was an act, a façade; to her he would suffice until they were rescued.

      He did not tell her that he doubted a rescue was forthcoming.

      They climbed a gentle slope and finally seated themselves on the trunk of a tree that had fallen to land at a slight angle, she a little above him, as if it befit her station. She was wearing what he surmised was the last of her clean clothes, a new pair of black jeans and an aqua pullover that exposed her already-reddened arms and shoulders. He was aware that she was not wearing a bra, and chided himself for even noticing. For even looking to find out. He switched gears, and wondered why she had brought him to this place, isolating them from the others. He was hardly attired to her standards; his own black jeans had worn through at the left knee, and the fabric over the right thigh was thinning. He’d worn the green jersey for the past four days. And his sparse, youthful beard was beginning to show.

      I’m sorry, she said softly.

      Only because of your limited options.

      She stiffened. You needn’t be cruel.

      We should be clear where we stand, you and I.

      You’ve made yourself clear, she groused. But can we declare a truce?

      A truce, he said, without enthusiasm.

      An armistice, then.

      Her voice trembled, and Paul glanced at her. A sheen of moisture made her pale eyes glisten. The budding tears might be real, or they might be a ploy. Suddenly he found himself wanting to trust her, and to trust what he saw in her.

      An armistice, he agreed, nodding. Tell me why.

      Alexandra hesitated, and dropped her gaze to the patches of grass between her feet. Paul had no idea what might shame her, and wondered whether her superior demeanor might itself be a façade. In a trice, she became to him a sympathetic creature—not weak, but burdened with normal human concerns exacerbated by their current plight. His right hand twitched; he wanted to reach out to her, to comfort her with a touch, but feared her interpretation of the gesture.

      Her admission came out of nowhere. Because I am alone, and I am frightened, she whispered.

      Belatedly Paul understood. Two decades younger than most of the others, she’d had no one to talk to or to confide in. By nature distant himself, he had not encouraged conversation. Of roughly the same age, of course they should have gravitated together. He realized that now.

      Sunlight through the foliage dappled her short golden hair, and tears still made her eyes gleam like silver in the broken shadows. He looked directly at her and said, Cougar.

      Startled, Alexandra blinked. Her lips formed a soundless question.

      You’re five months older, he explained. I won’t make twenty-one for another month.

      She barked a laugh. He thought it was good to hear her laugh, and better that he had made her do so.

      Tell me what frightens you, he suggested.

      A brief silence followed, while she composed herself. It’s . . . little things, she said presently. I . . . the day after we crashed, you looked up at the sky and said the sun was wrong. It was almost orange, and seemed smaller. My father said it was just pollution, like the horizon at sunset at Los Angeles. But that wasn’t the sun, that was the clouds, and they were brownish orange. I’ve seen them.

      Wait till you see New Jersey. Such a lovely vermilion sky.

      Oh, I wouldn’t want to go there. She brushed imaginary tresses from her cheek, and went on, You also said this place was wrong, all wrong. I’ve been thinking about that. What did you mean by it?

      Paul did not respond

      Is this . . . are we on another world? she asked.

      How could we be?

      "I don’t know, I don’t know. Our smart phones don’t work. But the airplane’s radio still works, and Adrian says it’s not picking up any transmission

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