needed power the most for agriculture.
The Doctor paused and looked towards Toxic Bay again, hidden from view by a curve in the shoreline. That noise hadn’t sounded like an explosion. It sounded kind of familiar.
He shrugged and studied the wind farm.
“So how many more can you fit in here?” he asked.
Philip scratched his head and studied the row of wind turbines through his thick glasses. “We’d have to shift them, bunch them up a bit more. That’ll be a big job.”
“That’s not what I asked,” The Doctor said, his impatience rising. Why couldn’t people answer a simple fucking question?
“We could probably add three or four more. We have the materials for that.”
“Do it.”
“But that won’t solve—”
“I said do it.”
Why does everyone have to be told everything twice? How many years of my life have I wasted getting people to do the obvious?
Running footsteps made the three men turn. Clyde Devon, the Head of the Watch, huffed up to them, his face red and sweat beading his bald pate. He wore camouflage from head to foot, had an M16 strapped to his back, and his belly was pressed into shape by a bulletproof vest he wore under his fatigues.
“Jesus Christ, Clyde. Why are you wearing Kevlar? You’re going to give yourself a heart attack. And yes, that’s my professional opinion.”
Clyde stopped and took a moment to catch his breath.
“Did you…hear…that?” he puffed.
“The explosion?” Marcus asked. “There isn’t a toxic cloud headed this way, is there?”
The Doctor rolled his eyes. The wind was blowing south, towards Toxic Bay, not north. Why didn’t anyone pay attention?
Clyde shook his head. “That wasn’t…an explosion. Didn’t you…recognize the sound?”
The three men stared at him. Clyde flung his arms out. “North Cape? The port? Come on, Doc, you and Marcus are old enough to remember. I even remember and I was a little kid.”
“Remember what?” The Doctor asked. He could almost feel the answer rising to his conscious mind. An impossible answer.
“A ship’s horn!” Clyde shouted.
“Oh, come on,” Philip scoffed.
The Doctor and Marcus didn’t scoff. As soon as Clyde had said it they remembered.
In the last days of North Cape there had still been a few freighters plying the sea. The corporations or countries that had made them were long gone, so the ships had become independent merchant vessels, sailing between the last few surviving ports and trying to keep up a semblance of regional trade. But fuel became ever scarcer, and the ports fell one by one to wars or coups or economic collapse. By the time North Cape had its final, fatal revolution, its port hadn’t had a visitor in five years.
That was four decades ago.
“It couldn’t be,” Marcus whispered, his voice expressing the same doubt, the same hope, which The Doctor felt.
“Some tweaker must have found a working ship’s horn over at the port,” the Doctor said.
“But the rumors,” Clyde said, his eyes wide. “Haven’t you heard the fishermen’s tales of seeing freighters out on the horizon?”
The Doctor waved a dismissive hand. “Fishermen are so full of toxins they’re almost as high as tweakers.”
“I’m going to lead a patrol over there.”
The Doctor shrugged. “They’re your lungs.”
“Hell no,” Clyde said, regaining his usual swagger now that he had caught his breath. “Me and my team all have gas masks.”
“Have fun,” The Doctor said with a grin.
As Clyde lumbered off, Marcus watched him go, shaking his head. “That man isn’t happy unless he’s panicking.”
“Don’t tell him about the power supply,” Philip said, “or he really will have a heart attack.”
“We’ll have to announce it at the next citizens’ meeting,” The Doctor said with a sigh.
That’s going to be fun. More people bitching at me.
He turned to Marcus and clapped him on the shoulder.
“How about we get lunch?”
Marcus looked surprised. “Rosie’s already
The Doctor paused and looked towards Toxic Bay again, hidden from view by a curve in the shoreline. That noise hadn’t sounded like an explosion. It sounded kind of familiar.
He shrugged and studied the wind farm.
“So how many more can you fit in here?” he asked.
Philip scratched his head and studied the row of wind turbines through his thick glasses. “We’d have to shift them, bunch them up a bit more. That’ll be a big job.”
“That’s not what I asked,” The Doctor said, his impatience rising. Why couldn’t people answer a simple fucking question?
“We could probably add three or four more. We have the materials for that.”
“Do it.”
“But that won’t solve—”
“I said do it.”
Why does everyone have to be told everything twice? How many years of my life have I wasted getting people to do the obvious?
Running footsteps made the three men turn. Clyde Devon, the Head of the Watch, huffed up to them, his face red and sweat beading his bald pate. He wore camouflage from head to foot, had an M16 strapped to his back, and his belly was pressed into shape by a bulletproof vest he wore under his fatigues.
“Jesus Christ, Clyde. Why are you wearing Kevlar? You’re going to give yourself a heart attack. And yes, that’s my professional opinion.”
Clyde stopped and took a moment to catch his breath.
“Did you…hear…that?” he puffed.
“The explosion?” Marcus asked. “There isn’t a toxic cloud headed this way, is there?”
The Doctor rolled his eyes. The wind was blowing south, towards Toxic Bay, not north. Why didn’t anyone pay attention?
Clyde shook his head. “That wasn’t…an explosion. Didn’t you…recognize the sound?”
The three men stared at him. Clyde flung his arms out. “North Cape? The port? Come on, Doc, you and Marcus are old enough to remember. I even remember and I was a little kid.”
“Remember what?” The Doctor asked. He could almost feel the answer rising to his conscious mind. An impossible answer.
“A ship’s horn!” Clyde shouted.
“Oh, come on,” Philip scoffed.
The Doctor and Marcus didn’t scoff. As soon as Clyde had said it they remembered.
In the last days of North Cape there had still been a few freighters plying the sea. The corporations or countries that had made them were long gone, so the ships had become independent merchant vessels, sailing between the last few surviving ports and trying to keep up a semblance of regional trade. But fuel became ever scarcer, and the ports fell one by one to wars or coups or economic collapse. By the time North Cape had its final, fatal revolution, its port hadn’t had a visitor in five years.
That was four decades ago.
“It couldn’t be,” Marcus whispered, his voice expressing the same doubt, the same hope, which The Doctor felt.
“Some tweaker must have found a working ship’s horn over at the port,” the Doctor said.
“But the rumors,” Clyde said, his eyes wide. “Haven’t you heard the fishermen’s tales of seeing freighters out on the horizon?”
The Doctor waved a dismissive hand. “Fishermen are so full of toxins they’re almost as high as tweakers.”
“I’m going to lead a patrol over there.”
The Doctor shrugged. “They’re your lungs.”
“Hell no,” Clyde said, regaining his usual swagger now that he had caught his breath. “Me and my team all have gas masks.”
“Have fun,” The Doctor said with a grin.
As Clyde lumbered off, Marcus watched him go, shaking his head. “That man isn’t happy unless he’s panicking.”
“Don’t tell him about the power supply,” Philip said, “or he really will have a heart attack.”
“We’ll have to announce it at the next citizens’ meeting,” The Doctor said with a sigh.
That’s going to be fun. More people bitching at me.
He turned to Marcus and clapped him on the shoulder.
“How about we get lunch?”
Marcus looked surprised. “Rosie’s already
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