Azalea: a science-fiction story
Janet’s voice crackles in Tascha’s ear as they dangle off their rappelling lines, swinging from point to point in their harnesses. The gray soup of Canada’s burning forests envelops them.
“How are we in Atlanta, sucking smoke from fucking Canada?” Janet continues. “Are we not America? Do we not have a long and honorable tradition of blockades, border checkpoints, and deportation? If we can keep Texas and Florida out, why not Burnt Canadians? Put up a sign: BC: Not Fucking Welcome.”
They’re stitching solar, dangling 300 feet in the air, working their way down Tower 3 of the new Azalea Arcology. Tying window electrics, solar paint, and cell panels together. The mix is meant to make a lovely pattern (azaleas, in fact) on the face of the arcology structure, but the architect should be shot, because the electronics are a hassle and Tascha’s crew is behind schedule.
Most of the arcology is fast-attach, standardized like Lego blocks, built in factories, then autonomously shipped to the site and popped together, as simple as a kit. In the early stages, Azalea was just swarms of bots digging, grading, and auto-assembling according to plan, knitting together the bones and skin of an entire new city of 10,000. Now that they’re at final finishing stages, though, humans are taking back the site. The complex patterns of varied electrical components still need a clever human touch, which is why Tascha’s crew is out in the Atlanta swelter, nearly mummified in Day-Glo frigrigs to keep the heat at bay.
It’s one thing to bike to work with just a filter mask and a chilled helmet to keep you cool; it’s a whole other thing to hang off the side of a building all day when wet-bulb temps push into the 40s.
“I heard someone was camping up in Alberta and lit a bunch of beetle kill on fire. Whole state’s going up.”
