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Chapter One

Solar farm, Millie’s, south of Deadweed

O n all sides of Vic’s solar farm sprawled the littered remnants of the Pacific Ocean.

With a flick of a finger, the binogs fell into place, bringing the shimmering horizon closer.

A flutter exploded in her chest. Every dawn that sliver of silver stole her breath.

Soon, this wonder of nature would disappear.

What ocean remained shrank by a meter every year as they desalinated it for consumption.

Strictly guarded, the only way to see it up close was by drone, that is, if the military didn’t shoot it down.

She’d tried, just to see a large pool of water.

South lay Old Ren’s solar farm, but Vic’s was the biggest in Deadweed by far.

If she headed west toward the ‘shore,’ she’d hit the old North American continent.

A chilly breeze teased the curls at her neck.

She pushed the binogs up to rest on her forehead.

Her eyes stung from the cold. The temperature dipped before sunrise.

The Great Water Shortage had triggered a shift in technology and space travel.

Without oceans and lakes, the weather had warmed, and now going into the sun without cover was suicide.

Protected forests produced and recycled oxygen, and there were rumors of idiot scientists attempting to reclaim deserts by planting thousands of trees. She didn’t place too much stock in that being successful, especially with water at a minimum. Unless they imported it...

She raised her gaze to the night sky, wondering what worlds lay in wait for colonization. Not that she’d ever leave Earth. She couldn’t afford it, and no space conquering conglomerate would sponsor her when fixing farm equipment was all she could do.

The sunrise would be in a few minutes. The butterfly plates would unfold, beginning the sol harvesting. Pa was due home any second, drunker than a farm-hopper.

He’d named the farm after her ma, Millie, when he’d bought it for her.

It had over a thousand plates that Vic maintained, along with other equipment.

If she didn’t ensure peak performance, she received a walloping.

That didn’t faze her, since Pa beat her either way, depending on his mood.

She had learned to lean back enough for the punch to sting but never to bruise.

To avoid it entirely, meant a furious man swinging wild punches.

If she allowed one glancing blow, he felt vindicated.

She rose onto her tiptoes and winced when her aching thigh muscles twanged.

A few years ago, she’d downloaded an instructional vid on ancient fighting techniques.

Not that she had mastered the stances yet, and without a sparring partner, she wasn’t sure she’d survive in a fight.

Still, every night after Pa left, she’d run through the vids.

She gritted her teeth, bouncing on her feet.

Hours wasted trying to learn to protect herself.

Quick reflexes meant fewer injuries when Pa was in one of his combative moods.

As the heat notched higher with the rising sun, she fitted the parts she’d dug out of the store.

More would arrive in a few days. Her ma hadn’t raised a fool, so when Pa gave Vic signing rights to the farm’s accounts, she’d split their funds.

The demand for sol-power was high thanks to evolving inventions which meant earning more tokens.

Of course, she had to keep the profits separate, not wanting Pa to know how flush they were.

He would piss it away on booze and sorrow.

Tugging the binogs over her left eye, she scanned the horizon sliced with powerlines running from the farms. No dust cloud marked Pa’s impending arrival.

She grimaced, dread and excitement warring within her stomach, churning until it was one twisted ball of pain.

She would have to fetch him. Visiting Deadweed’s only bar, Leviathan, meant curious gazes scanning the curves she had developed.

Leaving Pa there was out of the question, no matter how tempted she was.

The owner, Cleg, would charge to deliver Pa home.

With a twist, she latched the door on Plate-47.

She tossed the all-tool into a bag, slung it across her shoulder, then climbed onto her skid-cycle.

Black panels covered every clunky inch of it for maximum sol absorption, but it was one of the original designs able to withstand the harsher elements on the dry beds.

She wrapped strips of cloth around her arms where the heat-res suit had torn.

Buying a new one or clothes wasn’t an argument she wanted to suffer through.

Soon, though, she’d have to endure. At seventeen, she was outgrowing everything.

As she sped home, she cast a glance east. For Pa, dusk meant distilled-seaweed liquor, or sweed, and Cleg was happy to provide. By dawn, she’d find Pa sprawled across his bunk, stinking worse than a bloated corpse.

She hovered her cycle and darted down into the rock-hewn rooms buried under the seabed.

As she stepped into the shadowed confines, she removed her helm and hung up the bag, grateful for the warmer temperatures of her home.

Decades ago, it had been an underwater observation base, small in size with a small kitchen, a bunk room, and a glass-walled common room that now looked out onto fossil-rich sand.

In a storeroom, she slept on a pile of rags amid crates, tools, and spare parts.

The compact room granted her privacy with the lock she’d fitted on the inside.

The scent of baked sand stung her nose, but the stench of old sweed and vomit watered her eyes. There wasn’t a free counter anywhere in the kitchen. She’d need to clean after she fetched Pa, obligated to do so in her ma’s stead. Besides, he would wallop her if she didn’t.

Flicking open the cooling drawer, she pulled out a cyan-dyed hydro-gel and squeezed the thick sweetness onto her tongue before swapping her binogs for sunvisors.

The short trip to Deadweed meant stinging sand particles finding every orifice of her body.

Shrugging on a jacket to serve as additional protection, she activated the magnetic fasteners, tapped on the helm, and bounded up the makeshift stairs to her skid-cycle.

The sun’s rays painted the dunes a glorious orange-gold.

The heat hit her hard. The shock of it snatched her breath.

Throwing a leg over the cycle, she flipped her visor down and wiggled her gloved hands under the handle guards.

She sped forward, skidding across the surface of the pale dunes, once hundreds of meters underwater, or so the old folks claimed.

On boring nights, she’d slip inside the bar, find a dark corner, and listen to the whispered stories of a world covered in water.

The Global Warming War had been over water resources, yet as she understood it, no clear winner had risen out of the chaos.

Those who could afford it had moved into domed cities or off-world.

Those who remained harvested sol as a power source, fueling newer inventions in medical technology, weapons, and any way solar could replace water—like a sol-bath.

She snorted, skidding over a chasm too deep and dark to be of any importance except as shelter from the sun.

Bath? She stood naked on a circular plate in front of a panel, and as it rotated her, solar rays scanned her body to eradicate bacteria, sweat molecules, and other detritus.

Med-rays neutralized her waste by-products still inside her.

She’d never seen a ‘bath’ in her life. To be honest, the idea of sitting in a tub filled with water was a shameful waste of resources.

The morning sun scorched the crown of her padded head, but it was tolerable.

Later, when she returned home with Pa, she’d activate the cooling system in her heat-res suit.

She didn’t want to use her secret stash of tokens on medical care so avoiding sunburn was preferable.

Through a shimmering dome, white half-buried egg-shaped buildings marked the town of Deadweed.

Sol vehicles of various ages circled the Leviathan, and folks scurried between the buildings, purchasing goods from the mercantile store, or visiting Aunt Mei’s for a decent rehydrated meal.

Vic deactivated her skid-cycle and attached it to the rear of Pa’s skid-car, assuming she would have to drive it home. Yanking the helm off, she tossed it into the back, along with her jacket. She squared her shoulders and strolled into the bar.

Sweed lay thick in the air, a musky stench merged with it and the aroma of refried rehydrates. Some sport or arena played on the hologram fixed above the bar, and most patrons had their eyes rolled upward as they watched it.

“My tokens are on Angel. She’s as lethal as she’s beautiful,” someone said from the back of the bar.

Vic grunted. Angel was a Ring champion, and why she still participated after she had won her freedom, Vic couldn’t understand.

She sought the woman’s dark face, her cybernetic eyes glowing blue as she fired sol bolts from her forearm.

Vic grimaced, wondering what they’d removed from her bone structure and muscle mass to cater for the sol canisters.

Scanning the bar, she saw no sign of Pa’s blond hair.

She dodged robo-servs as they carried jars of deep-green sweed en route to Cleg behind the counter.

When she slid onto a seat, she smothered a sigh as it conformed to her backside, offering the maximum of comfort.

These were a recent addition to the Leviathan. Cleg must be doing well.

“Seen Pa?” She wagged a dismissive forefinger when he offered her a hydro-gel. At the prices he charged, she’d rather die of thirst.

“Yep, dang near broke my new music box.” Cleg nudged his head at the panel in the wall. Not that it was playing, what with the arena on the holo.