A cautionary tale for geoengineers
Think engineering our way out of the climate emergency is a good idea? Read below part of the prologue of my new novel - SKYSEED - an eco-thriller about climate engineering gone wrong.
Karl Slater put on a burst of speed as he crested the tussocky slope that climbed steeply out of the village, then paused to suck air at a drystone wall where the ground levelled out. He was out of shape, seriously out of shape. Too many working lunches, not enough workouts. His side was already cramping and he bent over to stifle the pain. Easing himself upright as the discomfort passed, he took in the widescreen view to the west and south, where gritstone crags like tumbledown castles capped green, rolling hills.
It was late September and the air was bitter. Patches of snow and ice lurked in the shadows, the first year they had persisted throughout the summer in the English Peak District. He turned to watch a line of dark cloud coming in fast from the north, gravid with the first of the winter’s snow. A little way off, a mountain hare squatted on its haunches, ears alert, watching and waiting for his next move. It already bore its white winter coat, a sure sign that the all too brief summer was at an end.
He shivered beneath his fleece and wondered if next year would bring any summer at all. The climate had deteriorated so quickly he wondered how long it was going to be possible to stay in the village. The winters were already grim, and he knew that much of the high ground of Scotland, the Lake District and the northern Pennines were already shrouded in snow all year round. The official word was that they were over the worst, but all the signs said otherwise. In any case, he would know more when he met up with Jane that evening.
He took a deep breath and launched himself down the slope on the next stage of his run. The hare’s eyes widened as he bore down on it. Then it turned and fled in the direction of a nearby copse.
The promised heavy snow arrived during the early afternoon and played havoc with the rail timetable. Sheffield station was steeped in a miasma of diesel fumes, sulphurous smoke and steam, and overflowing with disgruntled passengers. After a number of platform alterations, the announcer settled on number four for the next London train. A tide of desperate travellers swept Karl up and over the bridge and down onto the platform, where he shoehorned himself into one of ten already packed carriages and was lucky enough to commandeer a last remaining seat. Departure time came and went, with no explanation or apology. For a time, he watched the snowflakes melt on the window, then closed his eyes, leant back in his seat, and resigned himself to a frustrating few hours. Finally, twenty minutes late, the train nudged forwards, faltered, then juddered onward again. Couplings clattered, and he heard the familiar ‘chuff – chuff – chuff’ of an engine getting up steam. Incrementally, the train eased itself out of the station and – with a struggle – began to pick up speed. It was going to be a long, slow journey.
The train crawled into London’s St Pancras International terminus more than two hours late. Rather than fight his way through the crush to the tube, Karl decided to brave the blizzard conditions. Turning up his collar, he made for the small hotel in Bloomsbury that he used on the rare occasions, these days, that he was down in the capital. At least the weather had kept the smog at bay, so he didn’t need his face mask. Dumping his bag, he called Jane and arranged to meet an hour later in a small pub around the corner. The place was pretty much empty when he arrived and he ruffled the snow from his unkempt nest of brown curls and matching beard as he waited to order at the bar. Jane was already there, half hidden in the shadows at a table close to the enormous coal fire, hands clasped around a large glass of red wine. He took his pint over and sat down opposite. Jane greeted him with a crooked grin and leant forwards to plant a kiss on his cheek. He smiled in return. It was nice to see her again, but by God she looked tired. Her eyes were ringed with shadows and he was shocked to see that there were one or two streaks of grey in her long, brown hair.
He waded straight in. ‘How does it look?’
Jane Haliwell stretched out an arm, palm down, and waggled her hand from side to side. ‘Touch and go, I’m afraid.’
‘I’d heard things were improving,’ said Karl. ‘It’s a fair few years since the last of the ash settled out.’
‘Well,’ Jane was cagey, ‘it’s not that straightforward.’
‘So what are we talking now?’ queried Karl.
Jane looked down at the dregs of wine in her glass. ‘I’ve just come from the commission – the latest figures aren’t good. Carbon dioxide levels are down around the two hundred parts per million mark.’
Karl gasped. ‘Jesus Christ!’
Jane continued, ‘The concentration of carbon in the atmosphere has more than halved in just seven years.’
Karl shook his head and was quiet for a few moments, digesting the news. ‘What about global temperatures?’
‘Still dropping, as you’d expect,’ said Jane, twiddling the stem of her glass.
‘So, what’s the official line?’
Jane’s mirthless smile said it all. ‘For what it’s worth, both the WMO and the Met Office are saying the worst is over. It’s the government’s angle too, but that’s understandable. People are shit scared already.’
‘And what do you think?’
Jane puffed out her cheeks. ‘I think we’re screwed.’
Karl lay naked on the bed. Outside, the snow continued to fall, but the room was overheated and stuffy and sleep just wouldn’t come. Turning his head, he watched Jane’s exposed breasts rise and fall as she slept. They hadn’t planned this. It had been solace rather than sex, a commodity much valued in a world going to hell in a handcart. Her prosthetic lay in the corner of the room and the smooth stump that ended her left leg just below the knee peeped out from the bottom of the sheet. He looked away and stared at the ceiling. The sight of Jane’s maimed leg never failed to bring with it a sharp pang of guilt. He knew it wasn’t his fault, but sometimes it didn’t feel that way. Seven years, he thought. Just seven years since this whole thing blew up. What the hell were they thinking? The stupid bastards had called it ‘the fix’. In fact, it wasn’t a fix at all. It was a fuck-up, the mother of all fuck-ups.