A Grain of Salt

None of us can hear Bartlett’s tour. Not over the roar of surf against the seawall; not beside the grinding turbines of the desalination plant; not through our sunsuits. I ask my neural implant to boost his volume. Her response sneaks between exasperation and insubordination. Hattie, I need all the bandwidth I have for our mission. You know, the reason we’re risking our lives?

The man next to me, a coastal commissioner, waves a hand and taps the side of his helmet. Bartlett fiddles with a control on his sunsuit. His motions are choppy, aggravated. There's more at stake here than an ordinary tour. If his company can sell the Coastal Commission on his new desalination method they'll build these plants across California. Trillions and trillions of dollars in contracts. At last, he hits the correct button and one of the communication drones swooping around the complex breaks formation to hover over our heads. Full bars.

“That’s better.” Bartlett’s voice crackles through my implant. “I forget how poor reception is close to the plant. Our desalination method can interfere with reception. A consequence of being years ahead of the competition.”

A broadcast of Bartlett’s face peeks in the corner of my vision. He doesn’t look anything like his hundred and fifty years. The hair I can see under the sunsuit’s helmet is the same jet-black color as pictures of him from the aughts. A few creases radiate from his eyes and mouth, the only outward sign of age. His doctors earned their fortunes. They had given him enough aging to imply wisdom but not frailty. Baerlett looked every bit a healthy, virile man, an experienced captain of industry whose company tunneled a canal underground from the San Joaquin headwaters to Los Angeles. A man who could appear to deserve a life three times longer than the national average.

“Not so long ago this was a tourist paradise.” Bartlett gestures at the crumbling cliffs and thrashing water. “I loved going to the beach. Surfing, sandcastles, tanning.” His blue eyes appear to connect with mine even though I’m not broadcasting an image. His lips curl into a predatory smile. “Beautiful women.”

My hand falls to the holdout hidden on my sunsuit. The temptation is strong, but the gun has only one shot. For emergencies. For the mission. I pull my hand back and follow the crowd of commissioners and journalists into the bowels of the desalination plant. Bartlett guides us past one tube after another, an incomprehensible maze of water flowing in every direction. The complexity is mind-numbing, reassuring. Don’t worry, it wants to say. Engineers have this under control. Every problem engineering has caused can have an engineering solution. Flooding? Seawall. Toxic oceans and dying farmlands? Vat-grown nutrients. Scorching UV? Sunsuits. Vanishing water tables? Desalination.

Bartlett’s voice flows around my thoughts like a dull mountain stream. Every now and then an eddy swirls into my consciousness, its statistics spinning among trapped leaves. San Diego’s aquifer recharge rate, thanks to his plant, up 4.2%. Tijuana, which hadn’t the foresight–or the money–to pursue desalination, down 15.8%. Now managed retreat from the estuary is their only option, and Bartlett is the managed retreat expert.

You don’t want to ask how, my implant crows, but I got in.

Spreadsheets swarm across my vision to the point where enhanced reality blocks out normal reality and I stumble into one of the criss-crossing pipes. The commissioner from earlier steadies me while my implant apologizes and minimizes most of the clutter.

“Are you feeling well?” The commissioner keys into a private channel. I share video and his face pops up superimposed over the spreadsheets. He is an older man, though his face hasn’t been hidden by longevity treatments like Bartlett’s. A puffy white beard obscures deep acne scars and his gravelly voice implies a long history of gelly use. His dark eyes, curious and empathetic, remind me of my Aunt Casie, who first inspired me to try my hand at journalism.

“Fine.” I stick out a hand. “My implant got excited and spammed my vision. Hattie Jackson.”

He shakes my hand. “Jude Caldwell. You have an eco-newslog, don’t you? I saw your piece on the Tijuana Estuary extinctions. It was good work.” He pauses. “Important work.”

I blush and let Commissioner Caldwell lead me along the corridor. My implant inserts herself over Bartlett’s droning. She’s found no more than what we expected but the confirmation of our suspicions thrills me. All the pieces fit: Bartlett’s desalination plant, twenty times more effective than any other; his tunneling company, who created the San Joaquin subcanal; the sudden spike in Tijuana’s water depletion rate. Bartlett wasn’t making the Pacific drinkable–he was stealing water under the border.

“That brings us to the end of our tour. Please, make yourselves at home.” Bartlett has led us to a wide concrete balcony overlooking violent gray waters. The twenty or so people break into small groups. They converse while connecting their sunsuits to nutrient plugs. Way out to sea, a million-ton Pacifimax freighter eclipses the dusty brown sunset. I see Commissioner Caldwell standing alone, hands on the railing, watching the ship.

Connect me to him, I tell my implant. Maximum security line.

What? Why?

I may never get this chance again. I edge around a heavy-set woman who appears to be in a vigorous argument with her own neural implant. Caldwell is someone with real power. Someone who can stop Bartlett now that we have real evidence. If I try to call his office, though, I’ll never get past his PR team.

I don’t think–

Just connect me.

The implant doesn’t reply. She never does when she’s sulking. I stop next to Caldwell and his face pops into my vision. The edges of his smile crinkle into his Aunt Casie eyes, quite a contrast with the blank silver screen of his sunsuit. He starts to make small talk but I don’t have time for that.

“This plant is a fraud.” I point at the Rube Goldberg mess of pipes. “Bartlett isn’t desalinating water. He’s stealing from Tijuana’s aquifer. I have evidence that he tunneled a line to–”

I pause because Caldwell’s friendly smile has disappeared. His Aunt Casie eyes droop into a disappointed furrow, an expression familiar from my days throwing balls through the protective window or stepping on prize petunias. His real body, his sunsuit, holds a hand to its forehead.

“Oh, Ms. Jackson, I wish you hadn’t said that.”

I feel a hand on my shoulder. It’s a security guard in a corporate sunsuit. His other hand is resting on his sidearm.

“Mr. Bartlett is one of the Coastal Commission’s most important partners.” Caldwell turns off his video.

The guard drags me backwards as if I weigh nothing. No doubt Bartlett can afford the best upgrades for his personal security. I kick and scream and try to get the attention of the others. Nobody, not the commissioners, not the journalists, not even Bartlett, pays any attention. They’re all in on this, one way or another. A nice house with a UV shield; a session of longevity treatments; a lead for a juicy story. Everyone knows their reward from this dance and the steps they need to get there. Everyone except me.

The guard throws me into a long, tall enclosure behind the balcony. It’s open at the top, but there’s a hundred feet of sheer concrete wall between me and the sky. Even then I can see barbed wire. My implant points out dozens of security cameras, all focused on me.

Do you have a connection? I ask my implant. Can you publish the story?

Of course not. I tried to warn you. Even somebody nice will be paid off. Everyone is. Hopefully after they kill you they’ll implant me into someone smarter.

You’re not helping. I run a hand along my sunsuit, feeling the comforting groove of the holdout.

You get one shot with that thing, says my implant. What are you going to do if there are two guards when they come back?

I’m not planning to shoot at guards. I look into the sliver of dusty sky beyond the barbed wire. Communication drones buzz back and forth. Ready?

You really think you can shoot one of those down?

With your help. I concentrate and track the flightpath of a drone. Get ready to upload the story. We’ll only have a connection for a moment.

You get ready. My implant brings up telemetry. Adjust left one degree. There. Track. On my mark. Now. Fire.

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7.13.68 17:44:03 BREAKING UPLOAD: Bartlett Corporation stealing water from south of the border. Millions stand to be displaced. [4,751 views]

7.13.68 17:44:07 BREAKING UPLOAD: ‘Mountain’ Calc Rosstern reportedly upset with Tati Valentine. Could the Slugjab duo break up the band? [8,751,433 views]

7.13.68 17:44:21 BREAKING UPLOAD: Production delays on Ocelotman 3 set threaten Christmas release date. [14,591,381 views]

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9.22.68 21:19:33 BREAKING UPLOAD: New audio from Applecross stage reveals an angry Robert Burley blowing his top! [4,553,648 views]

9.22.68 21:19:38 BREAKING UPLOAD: Body of journalist found in Mojave desert. Police have no leads. [1,214 views]

9.22.68 21:19:41 BREAKING–

THE END