The Clouds (Routledge Interdisciplinary Perspectives on Literature) [1 ed.] 1032360941, 9781032360942

Citation preview

“How can works of fiction help us ruminate on and answer questions about the nature of time and reality? Can fiction do philosophy? And how do games, specifically as they occur in fiction, contribute to philosophical understanding? Stefano Gualeni sets about answering these questions through demonstration. The Clouds first offers a novella centering on Carla, a Maltese professor of climate science who learns of a strange and unexplainable atmospheric phenomenon two weeks prior. As Carla searches for answers, she starts to question whether larger forces might be at play.” Alex Fisher, University of Cambridge, UK “‘Unhappening’: what could possibly go wrong? The centrepiece of Stefano Gualeni’s The Clouds is a formally inventive science fiction novella dramatising that theme with verve, humour and acute observation. The Clouds is an original book, unafraid to explore the boundaries of genre while providing striking refractions of contemporary debates around fiction and reality, mind and time.” Ivan Callus, University of Malta

The Clouds

On a slow autumn afternoon, an atmospheric physicist working at the Malta Weather Station receives a surprising email from a colleague working in the United Kingdom: something troubling has apparently been detected during one of their research flights. The ensuing meteorological mystery is the starting point for the science fiction novella The Clouds. Alongside the novella, this book features three essays written by the same author that discuss in a more explicit and conventional way three philosophical ideas showcased in The Clouds: • the expressive use of fictional games within fictional worlds; • the possibility for existential meaning within simulated universes; and • the unnatural narratological trope of unhappening. With its unique format, this book is a fresh reflection on the mediatic form of philosophy and a compelling argument for the philosophical value of fiction. Stefano Gualeni (Ph.D.) is Professor at the Institute of Digital Games (University of Malta) and Visiting Professor at LCAD (Laguna Beach, California). He is the author of the following monographic books: Virtual Worlds as Philosophical Tools (2015), Virtual Existentialism (2020 –​with Daniel Vella), Fictional Games (2023 –​with Riccardo Fassone), and The Clouds: An Experiment in Theory-​Fiction. Find out more about him and his games at www.gua-​le-​ni.com.

Routledge Interdisciplinary Perspectives on Literature

158 Comics and Novelization A Literary History of Bandes Dessinées Benoît Glaude 159 The Literary Legacy of Child Sexual Abuse Psychoanalytic Readings of an American Tradition Beverly Haviland 160 Explorations of Spirituality in American Women’s Literature The Aging Woman in the Image of God Scarlett Cunningham 161 Late Churchill Language from Crisis to Death Jonathan Locke Hart 162 Embodied VulnerAbilities in Literature and Film Edited by Cristina M. Gámez-​Fernández and Miriam Fernández-​Santiago 163 Adaptation and Beyond Hybrid Transtextualities Edited by Eva C. Karpinski and Ewa Kębłowska-​Ławniczak 164 The Clouds An Experiment in Theory-​Fiction Stefano Gualeni For more information about this series, please visit: www.routle​dge.com/​Routle​dge-​ Interd​isci​plin​ary-​Persp​ecti​ves-​on-​Lit​erat​ure/​book-​ser​ies/​RIPL

The Clouds An Experiment in Theory-​Fiction Stefano Gualeni

First published 2024 by Routledge 605 Third Avenue, New York, NY 10158 and by Routledge 4 Park Square, Milton Park, Abingdon, Oxon, OX14 4RN Routledge is an imprint of the Taylor & Francis Group, an informa business © 2024 Stefano Gualeni The right of Stefano Gualeni to be identified as author of this work has been asserted in accordance with sections 77 and 78 of the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988. All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reprinted or reproduced or utilised in any form or by any electronic, mechanical, or other means, now known or hereafter invented, including photocopying and recording, or in any information storage or retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publishers. Trademark notice: Product or corporate names may be trademarks or registered trademarks, and are used only for identification and explanation without intent to infringe. Library of Congress Cataloging-​in-​Publication Data Names: Gualeni, Stefano, 1978– author. Title: The clouds : an experiment in theory-fiction / Stefano Gualeni. Description: New York, NY : Routledge, 2024. | Series: Routledge interdisciplinary perspectives on literature | Includes bibliographical references and index. Identifiers: LCCN 2023018829 (print) | LCCN 2023018830 (ebook) | ISBN 9781032360942 (hardback) | ISBN 9781032360959 (paperback) | ISBN 9781003330202 (ebook) Subjects: LCGFT: Science fiction. | Novellas. | Essays. Classification: LCC PR9120.9.G83 C58 2024 (print) | LCC PR9120.9.G83 (ebook) | DDC 823/.92–dc23/eng/20230512 LC record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2023018829 LC ebook record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2023018830 ISBN: 978-​1-​032-​36094-​2 (hbk) ISBN: 978-​1-​032-​36095-​9 (pbk) ISBN: 978-​1-​003-​33020-​2 (ebk) DOI: 10.4324/​9781003330202 Typeset in Sabon by Newgen Publishing UK

Contents

Acknowledgements

x

The Clouds 1 Returning Sails

1

2 Evening Bell

9

3 Descending Geese

21

4 Evening Snow

37

5 Night Rain

45

6 Autumn Moon

58

7 Twilight Glow

79

8 Clearing Weather

90

9 Afterword by the Author: An Experiment in Theory-​Fiction

93

viii  Contents

Three Essays The Expressive Use of Fictional Games in The Clouds

103

Theodicy and Existential Meaning in Simulated Universes 117 On the Unnatural Narrative Trope of Unhappening

132

Index

146

n

Acknowledgements

This is a quirky book, even by my standards. I guess its most uncommon feature is probably its format: between its two covers, the reader finds a novella (fiction), a reflexive piece (my afterword to the novella), and three essays (non-​fiction). I submitted the proposal for The Clouds to Routledge in the Spring of 2022, when all I had was a plan and three draft chapters of the novella. To this day, I still do not know how they let me get away with this. In any case, I thought to myself, if they are foolish enough to let me write this, I am certainly foolish enough to do it. Producing a book –​at least in the way I work –​is not something that one does on one’s own. What I mean is that it did not take a single fool to put The Clouds together, but a village of fools. I am using this page to thank them. I will start by thanking Federico Campagna. Federico was not only an inspiration for this unusual philosophical endeavour (more on this in the afterword), but also enduring assistance in my own journey as an author. Thank you, Fede! It is not an exaggeration to say that the novella The Clouds would not exist without the assistance of an incredible individual: a climate scientist who was unreasonably supportive of my project and recklessly generous with his time. Robin Hogan (University of Reading), this book is yours as much as it is mine. My heartfelt thanks to Nele Van de Mosselaer, Aphrodite Andreou and Jennifer B. Barrett for their invaluable insight and counsel. To them and to the other readers who read this text in its rickety, formative stages, I am both sorry for putting you through it and thankful for your critical notes and helpful comments. In no particular order: Chris E. Hekman, Riccardo Fassone, Johanna Pirker, Rebecca Portelli, Daniel Vella, Ivan Callus, Alex Fisher, Simon ‘Israel’ Robbins, Benedetta Gualeni, Johnathan Harrington and Zhang Zimu.

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Acknowledgements  xi Finally, I am grateful for the support I received from Charles Galdies (University of Malta), Liza Thompson (Bloomsbury) and Jennifer Abbott and Anita Bhatt (Routledge). Last but not least, I would also like to thank my employers, the University of Malta and the Institute of Digital Games, for granting me the time and the resources to pursue philosophical reveries such as this one. Have fun!

1 Returning Sails

★ Testing the newly installed SLAGG valves was not hard work, but it required constant attention. And it took time. A lot of time. Having spent the best part of his day checking how those valves responded to variations in pressure and temperature and whether these responses fell within the manufacturer’s specified ranges, Steton decided to take a long shower. He had been an evening-​shower kind of person for as long as he could remember. The long-​drawn-​out duration of his ablutions, however, was a new habit –​one he had picked up after relocating to the complex. It is possible that this ritual functioned as a way of marking the separation between his work hours and his personal time in his relatively new Icelandic life. Even if that was the case, the separation between his two lives –​professional and personal –​was never sharp or complete: regardless of how long his showers became, Steton could never cleanly step out of his engineering mindset. On this particular evening, for example, under a jet of naturally hot water, Steton busied himself with assessing the benefits of evening showers over morning showers. As he saw it, showering in the morning meant having to sleep in a bed that had previously been occupied by sub-​optimally clean versions of yourself. That alone should dissuade anyone from doing it, he thought. A corollary to this idea was that the bed linen of an evening showerer would, on average, require less frequent cleaning compared with that of a morning showerer, which had the additional benefit of making the choice economical. Ruminating on these thoughts, Steton stepped out of the shower stall. The bathroom’s only concession to decor was the logo of the software company that owned the building painted in a light shade of grey on the wall opposite the entrance. The same logo was printed on the side of the generous cheques Steton had received over the last two months. Or was it three already?

DOI: 10.4324/9781003330202-1

2  Returning Sails Steton’s silent monologue continued in front of one of the washbasins. ‘One must concede, however, that the scenario in which every person is an evening showerer is a logistically nightmarish one: the demand for water and power would have a predictable climax at the end of each day, putting a strain on the infrastructure. In other words, if everyone who needed a shower always showered in the evening, the system providing resources to, say, the city, or even just a tall residential building, would be underused most of the time and then undergo a period of stress and potential scarcity in the same two or three hours each day. This would result in higher maintenance and repair costs, not to mention the fact that, in this hypothetical scenario, hiccups and failures would be far more likely to occur in the evening, increasing the risk of problems affecting a large portion of the population.’ In light of these ideas, he concluded that people’s differing preferences when it comes to showering might even be an evolutionary advantage for our species. Steton wiped the misty mirror clean with the palm of his hand, moved closer to its wet surface and examined both sides of his pale, unshaven face. ‘Godspeed, brave morning showerers!’ he said while mimicking a military salute. Wearing a white T-​shirt and tracksuit bottoms, he ambled out of the bathroom, his hair still wet from the shower. The corridor was roomy and clean, freshly painted in white and warmly lit by flat lamps mounted on the floor and ceiling. The ground floor of the complex consisted of a foyer with a still unmanned desk, a half-​dozen of bedrooms (each with a private toilet), a staff bathroom and a common room. The rest of the building –​or, to be precise, its two upper floors –​were dedicated to an array of electronics that some would consider ‘every computer engineer’s wet dream’ regardless of their showering preferences. The complex had been completed a few weeks earlier and still smelled of plaster. It was commissioned by a Danish-​American videogame company for the purpose of hosting the biggest and most advanced supercomputer on the planet. The complex was built less than a kilometre across the fjord from the airport serving Akureyri, one of the northernmost towns in Iceland. In this period, preceding the activation of the various server lobes, the building was practically unstaffed: no secretaries, no janitors, no maintenance team. In these days of pre-​activation tests, Steton shared the Akureyri building with only one other human being: the lead engineer, Vamvera Zamdem, who, like Steton, was American. The common room occupied by far the largest part of the ground floor. It was simple, with white walls and a grey floor; it featured a glass wall overlooking Eyja Fjord. Through it, one could also see the entirety of

Returning Sails  3 Akureyri and a portion of what the map of the complex labelled a ‘sculpture garden’ –​a space between the building and the water that was populated by two dozen metal statues with the appearance of large, ominous trees. Like the rest of the complex, the common room did not yet do a good job of making the staff feel welcome. The space was still awaiting more furniture, which was scheduled to arrive and be assembled next week. Currently, the room contained only a couple of tables, a few chairs and a fully automated kitchen. On the room’s walls, three posters in postplastic frames showed breath-​taking aerial views of some of the new areas to be featured in the upcoming expansion of the company’s most popular videogame, the dark fantasy multiplayer online world of Tales of the One Reborn. Steton walked from the corridor into the common room. He stopped by a table and yawning. Then he cleared his throat and vocalized, seemingly to no one in particular, ‘Hey, Buddy.’ ‘Welcome back. How can I be of service?’ replied no one in particular after a soft buzz. ‘May I have a grilled cheese sandwich and fries, please? Also activate the hologame. Thank you!’ ‘Any game in particular?’ ‘Launch Returning Sails, please.’ ‘Acknowledged. Your sandwich will be ready in less than three minutes.’ Before the disembodied voice had finished speaking, an animated hologram began to take shape in the space over the table next to where Steton was standing. Flat bright yellow and green polygons appeared in mid-​ air, fizzling in and out of existence and merging to form progressively more complicated shapes. Gradually, those shapes became a coherent three-​dimensional representation –​a relatively crudely rendered two-​tone scene at sea. The hologram occupied a space that was roughly cubical and approximately a meter and a half on each side. One of the lower corners of the holographic projection was eerily distorted by the presence of a beer bottle that had been left on the table the previous evening. This representation served as a thematic background for the game’s menu. ‘List the last games played,’ Steton commanded.

4  Returning Sails A dozen games, each labelled with a variety of information appeared in white letters hanging in the air, overlaying the holographic maritime vista. ‘The second-​to-​last game –​load that one please.’ ‘Coming up: Malta, Marsaxlokk Harbour, Steton G. vs Vamvera Z. –​Steton on first pick. Time of day: 14.50. Weather seed: #D50913619. Session played on October 15, 2080.’ The generic seascape hologram dissolved back into simpler geometrical shapes, as new polygons appeared in the middle of the holographic space. A growing sphere. A planet. Our planet. As the representation progressively zoomed in and resolved, one could start to recognize the shapes of the continents formed by geometrical vectors and surfaces of bright yellow and green. The geometrical complexity grew exponentially as the view shifted towards the Mediterranean Sea. Before long, the island of Malta became the focus of the game’s holographic display. The game then zoomed in even closer, homing in initially on the island’s southern coast and finally on Marsaxlokk. ‘Cool,’ Steton commented unenthusiastically. ‘Please roll back 12 moves from the game’s end. Zoom in on all sailboats. South towards me.’ Buddy complied with his request almost instantly, allowing the game to populate, frame and rotate the harbour playfield in smooth transitions designed not to cause discomfort or disorientation in human players. About ten sailboats rendered in bright orange and blue were then clearly marked as the focal elements of the chosen view. An interface with values and symbols filled the top layer of the holographic space, reporting a slew of contextual information such as the direction and strength of the wind, air temperature and roughness of the sea. Each sailboat was similarly marked with information about its direction and relative speed, as well as the type and amount of cargo carried. A couple of lonely clouds occupied the middle layer of the game arena’s virtual volume. ‘This is perfect, thank you,’ commented Steton, as if talking to someone who could appreciate his expression of gratitude. ★ Dawn. Another day. Notwithstanding the long night of sleep, Steton woke up groggy, in a dark mood and without any motivation to do work. Every day on the job consisted of the regular repetition of the same few

Returning Sails  5 procedures –​subjecting a particular batch of valves first to ten percent and then to fifteen percent beyond the pressure threshold recommended by the manufacturer and then carrying out the same process at a higher SLAGG temperature. And then at an even higher temperature. Submitting an online report on the performance of each individual valve to HQ was the final step in this process. Again and again. Steton’s dwindling sense of purpose was somehow made more acute by his dislike of the complex –​ especially his bedroom. All rooms smelled of glue and plaster. His did too. On top of that, his bedroom had an east-​facing and still curtain-​less window that stretched from floor to ceiling. The window made the room too bright too early, and faced a modest two-​lane road and an endless, rolling mass of grey clouds. Occasionally, when the weather cleared, it offered him a glimpse of the distant hills surrounding Lake Ljosavatn, which, about a month ago, had been emphatically presented to Steton as a popular outdoor destination. ‘Hardly a destination,’ he thought to himself while staring through the big window, ‘let alone a popular one.’ There was barely any tourism in Akureyri at this time of year. Save for his actual presence, only a few traces of Steton could be identified in the otherwise pristine room –​a sweater strewn on the floor, a mobile phone charger sticking out of a wall plug and a three-​tone art print in a transparent frame on the bedside table. The framed picture was a graduation present from Steton’s brother, Bennart, and featured three images, three square vignettes. Each image captured a significant passage in the development of a minimal narrative of sorts: • The first image (the leftmost one) depicted a scene on a country road, with grassy hills in the distant background. A strong, bare-​chested man wearing tattered old trousers stood on the side of this country road. Next to him was an ancient-​looking agricultural vehicle –​a tractor perhaps? Both the man and the presumed tractor faced the same direction, with the windows of the latter drawn in a way that made it impossible to determine whether anyone was at the wheel. Ropy clouds of smoke originating from the tractor’s exhaust pipe denoted two things: first –​that the tractor’s engine was running, and second –​that a breeze was sweeping over the gentle hills of the depicted countryside. The man’s steely eyes appeared to be focused on a point in the distance that was not part of this first image. • The vignette in the middle portrayed the same man running down the country road, his forward posture and sweaty brow casting a new light on the way he stood and stared in the first scene. Behind him, a few startled blackbirds were taking flight as the tractor, presumably gaining speed, raised a roaring trail of dust and smoke.

6  Returning Sails • The third square concluded the series in a way that could be considered somewhat abrupt. In this image, the tractor was visible in the background, with its bulky shape surrounded by a small crowd of cheerful people. In the foreground, at the centre of this last image, the man sat hunched, drenched in sweat and covering his face with his hands. Steton often wondered whether this sequence originally featured more scenes than those pictured. If this was meant to be an allegory, wasn’t it missing some sort of cautionary ending? Who was the man, and why did he decide to race a tractor? A bet of sorts, perhaps? I push against the backrest of my office chair, tilting it backwards for a good old stretch-​and-​yawn combo. Then, I turn toward the window of my office and stare outside for a few moments in thoughtless disinterest. It’s a sunny autumn afternoon. Still pretty damn hot for this time of the year. I sigh and turn my head back to my laptop screen, where the draft of Marija’s second chapter is patiently waiting for a few more minutes of my attention. This is shaping up to be an interesting piece of writing, I think to myself while staring at the virtual page. Somewhat funny, too. What about the three vignettes with the old tractor, though? Is this foreshadowing something? Could it be an oblique reference to something we watched together? Just then, an alert jiggling one of my browser tabs catches my eye. “NEW EMAIL,” it says. It might have been there for the past half hour, for all I know. Determined to leave the Met Office for the weekend with no unanswered messages in my inbox, I decide to save the rest of Marija’s story for later. from:    to: date: subject:

Robert Hogan Carla Mikkelsen Oct 10, 2025, 15:21 a friend in need (not a scam!)

It’s been a long time, dear C, hasn’t it? I hope this email finds you well (that is, temporarily ignoring the refugee crisis and the dismal international situation). Acknowledging the cognitive dissonance of the absurdity of continuing with ‘business as usual’ under the present circumstances, I am writing to you asking for help. Additionally, in case you didn’t sense it already, this is going to be a messy email (for which I apologize in advance). As a case in point, let me present you straight away with a second apology; this one is for still not having read your EAPS paper on the effects of ocean acidification. It’s been a busy

Returning Sails  7 period (aren’t they all?). Not that you need me to tell you what it’s like to hold down a university post along with a job at the Met Office. Malta seems to be still rather warm for this late in the year. Sad to see that a couple of stormfronts will spoil your weekend. Oh well, and how’s Maria? To come to the point (and to the subject of this email), I need to ask you a favour –​a personal one, in a sense. To be more specific, this is the kind of personal favour that is also a professional one. I told you this was going to be confusing, didn’t I? Ok, so here’s the thing: Would you be so kind as to look into the ground-​based data your office collected 11 days ago? I’m specifically interested in anything mildly unusual or worthy of a second look that happened on Monday, 29 September, from 11:40 to 12:00 CET. Should your data diverge from what was predicted by the models in any significant way, could you please be so kind as to let me know at this email address? I’d prefer not to use my institutional email for this. You see, I’m trying to get to the bottom of something that will probably turn out to be very silly, and I’d rather not involve my employer at this point. Even less so as I am still in my probationary employment here at the University of Exeter. I know it’s nothing more than a formality at this point, but why take chances? Well, dear Carla, I hope this makes sense to you and is not too much to ask. I can tell you more if you’re interested, but this email is already too long as it is. Will you lend an old friend a hand? Additionally (and unrelatedly, but still on the topic of helping your old pal), would it be okay if I sent you an invitation to serve as external examiner on a doctoral dissertation that a student of ours will defend in the Spring session? If it’s okay with you, I could have an official request sent by our support officer early next week. In case you’re wondering, yes, it’s the same deal as the other time. For the dissertation, I would need you to send in a page or two of preliminary feedback and critical comments, and a couple of questions you intend to ask during the viva. Remuneration is also the same as last year, alas. Write soon and enjoy the thunderstorm(s)! B.

8  Returning Sails I read the email again—​Bob at his finest. To quote a common university acquaintance, with friends like Robert, one does not need enemies. I take a deep breath. And then another. A moment later, I am browsing the Met Office database for the information Bob is interested in—​a variety of meteorological data concerning Maltese weather in the late morning on September 29th. I download the entire dataset, watching the progress bar crawling forward with exasperating slowness. Judging by its pace, my chances of beating the rush-​hour traffic aren’t looking so hot right now.

2 Evening Bell

Hamrun—​a town that is just seven kilometers from my office. It’s almost dinnertime, and I’m on an overpass in Hamrun. Fuck. I tighten my grip on the steering wheel of our old Toyota Vitz, which is hopelessly stuck in traffic on the regional highway. The sun is setting over the flat-​top buildings near the highway, and my softly spoken curses are lost in the low buzz of the car’s air conditioner. With little to do other than look around, I notice that blue and green tarpaulin tents now line the sides of the road and fill the spaces between the highway ramps. All sorts of temporary shelters started popping up after the refugee camp reached its occupancy limit in mid-​September. By early October, both in this town and in Marsa, vacant urban lots became sprawling encampments of people without housing. Now, about two weeks later, makeshift housings occupy almost every bit of usable space under the highway. From where I am locked in an endless row of vehicles, I can see two vans from a non-​profit organization parked next to one of the largest clusters of refugee tents. The volunteers are doling out hand sanitizer, bagged dinners, and bottled water. By the time I make it home, the sun has set completely. I slam the door of my car a little too hard. It is so dark already. My mood starts to change as soon as I enter our maisonette and the sweet smell of homemade food washes over me. Rosemary, roasted garlic, potatoes. Marija stamps a big kiss on my face, her hair tied up in a hasty bun and still wet from her evening shower. “Hi! I made a roast!” “I can tell!” I say, making a valiant effort to smile. “It smells incredible. Thank you.” She chortles and walks toward the kitchen.

DOI: 10.4324/9781003330202-2

10  Evening Bell “So, how was your day?” she asks without turning around. We eat on the small table in the kitchen, but it still feels like a special occasion, with a candle between us and a fresh tablecloth instead of the usual placemats. Marija’s roast is delicious. While eating and talking, we finish a bottle of local white wine, cold from the fridge. To be completely fair, it’s not quite a full bottle; we already drank two glasses yesterday night on the couch. Technicalities notwithstanding, by the end of the meal, we are both tipsy and mellow. Marija gets up and puts on some music—​a band she likes. Over our conversation, I think I hear the singer saying that he doesn’t trust a smelly mattress and that he can de-​invent the wheel, but I am likely mishearing the lyrics. It doesn’t matter. I giggle at Marija’s recounting of her afternoon encounter with a particularly affectionate dog while she was out getting groceries. When it’s my turn to share a quirky anecdote from my day, I tell her about the email I received from Bob. I go as far as dramatically reciting one of its best passages, using my phone as a kind of teleprompter. Blame it on the wine. Marija doesn’t much care for Bob, I think, but she is amused. They must have met three times in total, and I guess something didn’t quite click. So be it. While finishing the last of my potato wedges, I tell her that I enjoyed what I’ve read of the second chapter of her science-​fiction novella. I could even have finished it this afternoon if I hadn’t been distracted by Bob’s email, I add without thinking that this additional piece of information will not help make him more popular in Marija’s eyes. I ate too much, but with no regrets. I get up to start clearing the table and kiss Marija on the forehead, then I collect the plates and stack them neatly in the sink. She moves to the living room and, just for a moment, I am in the kitchen. Standing alone in front of the faucet, I think back to the time when I lived by myself. Redaction: what I imagine is what it would be like if I had not met Marija. A different life, no doubt, possibly one with a cat or two camping out in an otherwise empty apartment. It is an oft-​rehearsed projection that I entertained back when I was an aspiring academic—​a life of marking assignments, overdue journal reviews, and late dinners eaten directly over a sink not unlike the one I am facing now. Part of that mental exercise involved imagining a future where the social and affective dimensions of my being would need to fit uncomfortably around the amount of traveling and relocating that I would have to do in pursuit of a career as an atmosphere scientist. The life I had in mind was not unlike those of some of my former supervisors and current senior colleagues. I think it was sheer luck that I met Marija, and even luckier to have met her when the capricious winds of my twenties and early thirties had calmed down and I had been offered a tenured position here in Malta.

Evening Bell  11 Marija and I moved here together from a flat we shared in the UK. She’s originally from here. We occasionally drive by the three-​story house where she grew up. I am still staring absently at the dirty plates when Marija walks back into the kitchen wearing her glasses. She opens the fridge, and takes out a small white plate. “You know what time it is? It’s time for our Friday special!” She means a large cannolo to share, which she buys from a Sicilian place in town. She puts the “Friday special” on the table and hugs me from behind and, at this point, I can barely hold back the tears. I take a big breath. We sit down at the table and I take another one, trying to focus on my half of the cannolo. Marija says nothing for a while. Halfway through our dessert, she makes a sound. It is a groan muffled by a mouth full of sugary ricotta cheese, but one that still has the unmistakable tone of someone having just remembered something interesting. She hastily swallows and asks whether I have any comments or complaints about the draft of the second chapter. I repeat what I already told her—​I still need read the last two pages, but I found it joyfully written and intriguing. I am looking forward to the next chapter, I say. “Grazzi ħij!” she replies in jocular Maltese, “and you’d be happy to know that chapter three is almost ready!” As we are on the topic, I ask her whether the main character’s tirade on evening showers vis-​à-​vis morning showers is a reference to our discussions on the matter. She covers her mouth as a chuckle erupts—​of course it is. “Also, what’s the deal with the picture with the three vignettes on the bedside table?” “What do you mean?” “Well, I was just wondering what that was about. One would not spend time describing that picture if it didn’t somehow hold some relevance to the plot, right?” “Um, unless the author is a bit of a trickster who enjoys deceiving the poor reader. In any case, the vignette is not a red herring—​it prefigures one of the key themes of the novella.”

12  Evening Bell “Which is to say…?” “Well, it’s a version of the tale of John Henry. You know, the folk hero.” “John who?” “John Henry. Okay, look, John Henry was—​at least in some versions of his legend—​an African American freedman who lived somewhere in the United States in the 19th century. His job consisted of hammering a steel rod into rock before there were power drills.” “He would probably have loved Malta—​there’s hammering and drilling going on all the time, here!” “Yes, very funny. Ha-​ha. Anyway, as the story has it, John’s quasi-​mythical strength and skill were doomed to become obsolete because of the recent invention of a steam-​powered rock drilling machine.” “Is this one of those ‘man vs. machine’ kinds of things?” “Precisely! So much so, in fact, that in the folktale they literally organize a race of sorts. Who can drill the fastest, John or the machine? But get this—​unlike the trope you are referring to, John wins! In that story, mankind prevails.” “We do?” “Yeah! Well… sort of. John proves to be still more efficient than the drilling machine, only to die with the hammer in his hands as his heart gives out at the end of the race.” “So, in a sense, the machines still win.” “In a sense. And to answer your question about what the deal is with the vignettes, I am using a version of the folk tale to foreshadow the idea that technologies also give us new ways of asking the big questions. You know, the ones about the meaning and value of our lives.” Marija casually rubs the place where her glasses touch the skin behind her ear. I pause and think for a moment. “I see. Okay, maybe this is a stupid question, but the steam engine, or machine technology in general, can only be a threat to human dignity and

Evening Bell  13 self-​worth if we understand our value in terms of labor efficiency, right?” “Do you mean in the sense that machines can put us in an existential funk only if we see ourselves as mechanical devices too?” “Right! I mean, even without getting into considerations of Henry Jones’ race and gender—​” “John Henry.” “Yes, sorry. Even without opening that can of worms, isn’t it evident that a human being is much more than her productivity? We can feel and express emotions and artistic sensitivity. We are imaginative and brave, and we can pursue intellectual aspirations.” “Sure, but you might want to concede that the significance we attribute to our lives depends on the context in which we live. Imagine,” Marija continues, “a world where machines could also have an inner emotional life, write novellas of their own, and autonomously accomplish mathematical proofs and political reforms. Would this capability of theirs make us feel less valuable?” On the basis of what Marija just said, the character of Steton in her novella—​who I am assuming is the protagonist—​starts to make a little more sense to me. I guess he is human peg forced to fit into a machine-​ shaped hole. Does she plan to make Steton obsolete? “Take Iain M. Banks, for example,” Marija adds after a while, snapping me out of my thoughts. “He had some truly fascinating answers to the question of what kind of lives biological sentients will live after machines take over the political and logistical aspects of a post-​scarcity civilization. In my story, I’m going for a far less hopeful take. I mean, supposing I can ever finish this mess of a text and further supposing a publisher will be stupid enough to take it on.” “If you’re going for a hopeless perspective, that’s already the perfect attitude right there!” “Ha! But really, qalbi, hardly anybody reads in this day and age, and book publishing is a dying industry.” “And yet you are still writing.” “Heh… At this point, I might as well get on with it,” she smiles, “like in that famous play.”

14  Evening Bell I grin back at her and nod confidently to mask the fact that I do not get the reference. The window of the study on the second floor of our maisonette rattles a little. A gale is starting to pick up outside, and the weather reports confirm that a big storm front hit the island in the next couple of hours. The streetlights outside makes the room glow with a bright orange hue. I moved upstairs with the intention to send Bob a quick message as soon as the dishwasher started its crepuscular chant. I sit at my computer (the gaming rig that I also sometimes use for work when I’m at home) and extract the meteorological data I brought back from the office on an external drive. A quick survey of the data allows me to form a general idea of what happened in Malta during the time period Bob is interested in. I scan through some the main atmospheric chemistry indicators, and I scribble a few notes on a piece of paper. The window keeps rattling. Through it, I occasionally look outside. It hasn’t rained in a while, and a mixture of sand and dust is blowing down the street in front of our building. “Okay,” I say to myself, “here we go.” from: to: date: subject:

Carla Mikkelsen Robert Hogan Oct 10, 2025, 21:20 Re: a friend in need (not a scam!)

Hey Bob! How’s it going? It has indeed been a long time since our last exchange. First of all, before I forget, I have a question re: serving as an external examiner for the University of Exeter. Do you know if it’s going to be possible for me to participate in the student’s doctoral defense online (i.e., the same format we used last year)? If so, of course you can count me in! I am happy to help as long as you’re happy with me not flying in. Remuneration was fine, don’t worry. I need to try and keep this short. Marija is waiting for me to join her and watch an episode of Children. So, with regard to your needs—​ Yes, I am going to help you with that unexpected and quite frankly rather puzzling request. I brought home a comprehensive set of meteorological data for the interval you indicated, and I will check it over the next couple of days. As you already pointed out, we’re going to have two nice and thick storm fronts coming in this weekend,

Evening Bell  15 which pretty much ensures that I am going to spend a lot of time in front of my computer. By the way, I could obviously be a lot more efficient at the task you’ve set me up for if you could tell me plain and simple what you want me to look for. I assume that your reticence is meant to avoid introducing bias into my analysis. Anyway, the fact that you are asking me to do it, already tells me that whatever it is you’re looking for has something related to atmospheric chemistry or solar radiation. In any case, I look forward to learning more about the alleged meteorological mystery that is bothering you to such a degree that you decided to reach out.:) Okay, I need to wrap this up or I’ll be asleep before the end of the episode. A quick heads-​up: I’ve already scanned through the local dataset for September 29th, which doesn’t seem in any way remarkable—​no unusual features apart from the unseasonably high temperature, but even that is well within the uncertainty range of the predictive models. The atmospheric chemistry appears unexceptional at first glance, at least as far as I can tell from the main indicators. Of course, I will have to take a closer look and also consider trends and events that took shape a few hours before and after the interval you mentioned and blah blah blah… Ok, so, you will hear from me in a day or two. Hope your curiosity is satisfied for now. I know mine isn’t, so let me know what’s up. Talk to you soon! Byeeeeeee Carla Mikkelsen, Ph.D., Associate Professor of Climate Science, Member of the Climate Research Group (formerly Malta Climate Team) L-​Universita’ ta’ Malta -​MALTA

I rush downstairs to join Marija on the couch, and we’re rolling. Tonight’s episode of Children marks a cruel turning point for two of the characters (a mother and daughter whom the series has followed from the first episode). It’s a riveting show, but it’s also very upsetting. Children deals with the Russian invasion of Ukraine in 2022. It’s excruciating stuff, but also beautiful in a peculiar way. We find it clever that, in the series, a character from one of the sub-​plots sometimes shares a night in a shelter or in a metro station with another character from a parallel narrative thread. They don’t know each other and merely exchange

16  Evening Bell a few words or are shown silently standing behind each other in a line for food and water. Moments like those make the show feel lonely and at the same time choral, somehow. Regardless of my emotional investment in Children, and with seven minutes left until the end of the episode, I am positively falling asleep against Marija’s shoulder. That is until I’m startled awake by the deep, reverberating sound of a familiar bell. It’s the sound of the bell that summons undead creatures, causing them to rise from the ground—​and also the email alert I use on my phone. What I mean to say is that it’s a sound effect taken from Syderoxylon Online, a fantasy multiplayer video game I play with some friends. I left my phone on the kitchen counter after acting out Bob’s email during dinner, forgetting to retrieve it and to turn it off. Although accidental, this amounts to a serious infringement of the weekend rules in this house. My apology to Marija consists of curling up into a little ball and burrowing my head against her side. She pets me affectionately without saying a word. The wind howls outside. I only check my phone later, when getting ready for bed. I sit on the toilet and click on the nagging email notification. It is, of course, a message from Bob. I must acknowledge that, although I find him annoying at times, his messages are more interesting than the perimenopause supplement spam I keep receiving. A low bar, but still. from: to: date: subject:

Robert Hogan Carla Mikkelsen Oct 10, 2025, 22:26 the clouds

Dear C, thank you for your quick and positive response and for already having gone through the data (however briefly). My reticence concerning the motives of my request for help were… Well, one of the aspects I considered was indeed trying not to influence your process, but mostly I did not want you to think your old friend had finally lost all his marbles. Heh… You know, one’s academic career also hinges on one’s reputation, and the fear of becoming a local joke deterred me from talking about this with my colleagues at the local Met Office or with other atmosphere scientists. Before you ask, I did consider bringing up my questions and concerns in an informal setting, perhaps as light-​hearted thought experiment or just for a laugh over some pints at the pub. But I decided against

Evening Bell  17 it and, instead, opted to torment myself over whether I should write to you. You’re the perfect recipient for what I’m about to tell you –​ someone I can trust who also happens to work in a closely related field. Additionally, you come with the additional benefit of not being in contact with the few people I hang around with. What a bargain!:) Just to be sure, this is not in any way supposed to imply that I do not hold your skills as a scientist and/​or your professional achievements in high regard. Back on track, now. As you correctly pointed out, something did bother me at work enough to act on it. For once, the upsetting factor wasn’t other human beings; it was data. The anomaly (if we agree to call it such for now) took place on 29th of September. If it happened at all, that is. Yes, it was almost two weeks ago, and trust me when I say I have been gnawing on this problem since then… with very little to show for it. Immediately after analysing the data (and being left incredulous at the findings) I took care of all the due diligence, as I suppose anyone else would have done. I went through the usual routine: verified the functionality and accuracy of the equipment used, compared the two datasets we collected (we used two probes for redundancy; more on this later on in my email) and verified that the data had not been tampered with. I thought the measurements must be wrong. As far as I could tell, however, everything seemed in order: the datasets of the two probes looked reliable and consistent. You might be wondering what the heck I am even talking about. Okay, I am talking about the clouds. Something happened to the clouds over the Midlands. Here’s the whole story. You may not be very familiar with this stuff, as it may not be within your specific area of expertise. You should, however, remember from your bachelor’s instruction that, between 0 and − 38 degrees Celsius, cloud particles can be in either solid (ice) or liquid form. There can also be ‘supercooled’ cloud droplets colder than 0 degrees Celsius that last for many hours. Yes, water vapour may be part of the mix, too, but I digress, and those are just details. To come to the point –​the external surface of small ice particles in the atmosphere is never perfectly smooth: the crystals are –​to spare you the technical lexicon –​naturally a bit rough. Their roughness can be inferred by how atmospheric ice reflects and scatters light. Oh, and are you friends with the people at Cranfield University? The data I’m talking about were

18  Evening Bell collected as part of an inter-​departmental collaboration with them on a large-​ish atmospheric crystallography project. There’s a bewildering variety of shapes of ice particles in the atmosphere, but I digress again. As part of the project, working with Cranfield, we frequently gather data through their Facility for Airborne Atmospheric Measurements (FAAM), a dedicated airplane packed full of cutting-​edge instruments to be used in-​flight. The current setup includes, among other gadgets, Doppler cloud radar, infrared spectrographs for greenhouse gases and solar irradiance meters both above and below each wing. Among these lovely instruments are also small ice detector (SID) probes. We mounted two of these on the FAAM –​one per wing. They are third-​generation probes and are things of beauty. These probes are crucial for our purpose, as they reveal information about atmospheric ice particles that no other instrument can. SID3 probes shoot laser beams at atmospheric ice and monitor how the ice crystals scatter light. What one typically gets from these observations is a mind-​boggling variety of light-​ scattering patterns, in terms of both shape and spread. To get to the point: smoother crystals correspond to less spread in light scattering. A ‘smooth’ cloud would therefore present less diffractive phenomena than a ‘rough’ one, so to speak, and let more sunlight through. Now, here comes the interesting bit. At 10:51 AM local time (11:51 your time), all the ice crystals analysed by our SID3 probes were perfectly and consistently smooth. This unusual smoothness could occur naturally, in the sense of it not being outside the range of possibilities. One needs to consider, however, that the chance that the surface of all ice crystals we collected after 11:51:24 (your time) happened to be perfectly smooth is so improbable that it wouldn’t be a stretch to consider it a statistical impossibility. If anything caused the smoothing of the crystals, its effect did not last very long. In the minutes following the event, the crystals we examined remained smoother than average, but their reflexivity soon tapered down to the expected statistical average. About an hour after the anomaly, no trace of anything unusual having happened was detectable. The exact same pattern, identical down to the second when the anomaly was first detected, is clearly recognisable in the datasets from both SID3 probes. And I copied those files myself from the on-​board computers as soon as the FAAM flight landed. What I mean to say here is that nobody had access to those observations before I did.

Evening Bell  19 In case what I’ve told you is not weird enough already, here’s another perplexing fact: No remarkable phenomena in the atmosphere match the timestamp of the anomaly. In other words, the ‘smoothening episode’ –​whatever it might be –​did not correspond to any significant changes of pressure or temperature in the atmosphere. The FAAM instruments showed no notable weather event or sudden variations, the Doppler radar didn’t reveal anything out of the ordinary and no changes beyond what could be considered regular variability affected the chemical composition of the atmosphere. Allow me to correct myself, here: We did detect somewhat of a drop in the quantity of sulphur dioxide. I know, I know. I already hear you mumbling that SO2 concentration, due to the quantity of factors that can influence it, cannot be considered a reliable sign of anything. Granted. At this point I am basically grasping for straws, as what I’m dealing with is evidence (questionable as it may be) of a change in the atmosphere so sudden and thorough that cannot be explained using the current models. And, on top of that, it is a change that a) does not have any precedent in scientific literature; b) did not, as I mentioned above, correspond to other significant atmospheric phenomena; and c) was not reported by any meteorological centre in the world (although, to be fair, it is possible that ours was the only research flight taking these kinds of measurements at the time of the event). With my only explanation for the phenomenon currently being witchcraft, I hope you can see why I was reluctant to talk about this. Do you still feel like helping, after reading this nonsense? Oh! It almost slipped my mind, sorry –​your external supervision work for the department can still be done remotely. Consider yourself booked for the spring session 😊 Have a lovely weekend, and thanks again. Looking forward to hearing from you soon! B. I read Bob’s interminable message twice. I’m not sure about what to think about what I’ve just read. His message has filled me in equal parts with

20  Evening Bell confusion and worry, mostly directed toward Robert himself rather than whatever atmospheric oddity he might have bumped into. My legs feel numb from sitting on the toilet for too long. During the second read-​ through, Marija knocked at the door, concerned with how quiet I was. She was making sure I hadn’t fallen asleep on the porcelain throne. Her words, not mine.

3 Descending Geese

Eight o’clock on a Saturday. The time on the digital alarm clock display looks like a big red “BOO.” It’s eight in the morning, and I have already been awake for a while. Regardless of the date on the calendar, my body insists on keeping a work schedule. It is eight o’clock on weekends, leave days, public holidays, and through the summer months too; BOO indeed. To be fair, this is not just about the sleep—​I’m not particularly good with any kind of change. The feeling that it’s time to get my day started is making me impatient. A plan of action quickly forms in my mind: I’ll take a shower, quietly prepare breakfast for the two of us, and then use the rest of my time alone to catch up on the next chapter of Marija’s novella. Leaving the bed undetected is a marital art that I have mastered well enough to elicit only a single grumpy groan from my sleeping partner. After my morning shower, I spend a few minutes peeling and chopping up half a cantaloupe and squeezing the juice from six oranges. Once all of this is neatly stashed in the fridge and I’ve finished cleaning up the kitchen counter, I put a chocolate chip cookie in my mouth, and, still in my bathrobe, slump into the big chair by the window, where Marija has left the most recent draft of the third chapter for me. =​=​ Chapter three =​=​ We owe SLAGG mostly to the leaps and bounds taken in quantum chemistry in the last century. One should not forget, however, that its invention was for the most part due to an accidental discovery. The very first time Steton heard about SLAGG, the year was 2056 and he just turned thirteen. He was sitting in the backseat of the family

DOI: 10.4324/9781003330202-3

22  Descending Geese sedan. It was the first family road trip without mom. It must have been early April, likely during spring break. He could guess the time of the year because he remembered not being able to stop sneezing and Bennart, his brother, teasing him about it to no end. Driving through the boundless, sun-​ scorched alluvial plain of the Mississippi River, Steton and Bennart’s father introduced the boys to the miraculous new substance that, he thought, was going to change the world. It was the doomed attempt of a high school chemistry teacher to keep his teenage boys entertained. At the time, the industrial use of SLAGG was in its infancy. ‘In a way, you can think of it as the opposite of glass,’ their dad explained; ‘hence the funny name.’ Bennart rolled his eyes. ‘In what sense, dad? I mean, is it … a pun or something?’ Steton inquired. ‘Well, you guys have talked about glass in class, right? With … what’s his name, Mr. Van Kielegat? Anyway, my point here is that glass is technically a liquid, right?’ ‘A liquid?’ Steton sat up, pushing his head between the front seats while holding the headrests. ‘Sure is!’ said the boys’ dad, turning to face Steton and then tapping on the windscreen with a knuckle. ‘Our old windscreen here is not made of solid material. The reason why it hasn’t splashed into our faces yet is that it is a … a rather special kind of liquid. With my students, I would use the term “viscous.” It is a very viscous material: At room temperature, it is an extremely thick liquid. So thick and stiff, in fact, that it is also quite easy to shatter.’ ‘That’s pretty weird,’ Steton said thoughtfully. ‘You’re pretty weird!’ echoed Bennart. ‘So, as I was saying,’ the boys’ father continued, ‘SLAGG can be considered the opposite of glass in the sense that it behaves like a liquid at room temperature despite having a molecular structure that looks nothing like that of a liquid.’ ‘Something like mercury, then?’ Bennart asked.

Descending Geese  23 ‘Well, sort of. Similar to mercury, it doesn’t react to acids or salts. However, SLAGG is not a metal, nor does it have metallic properties. One could say that the closest substance to it, chemically speaking, would be … maybe liquid crystals? You know, the thing that used to display the time on antique wristwatches.’ ‘Hm?’ ‘In fact, someone could probably make a SLAGG wristwatch, too, and it would likely be cheaper than using quartz crystals. In any case, the most incredible thing about SLAGG is that it is very close to being a perfect thermal conductor.’ ‘A thermal what?’ asked Steton, who was back in his seat and trying to hold back a big sneeze. ‘How can I explain … Okay, let’s try this. Last night, we roasted marshmallows over the fire using wooden sticks, right? One end of the stick, the one with the marshmallow, was over the fire. You held the other end of the stick in our bare hands. The reason we didn’t get severely burned is because the wooden sticks you were holding did not transfer heat very efficiently. I could explain more about wood’s molecular structure and water content, but let’s not get side-​tracked. If the stick were made of SLAGG, instead of wood …’ ‘Wait!’ Steton protested. ‘How could the stick be made of SLAGG? Didn’t you just tell us that SLAGG behaves like a liquid?!’ ‘Yeah, um, in retrospect wooden sticks might not have been a great example. In any case, supposing we could somehow roast a marshmallow with a stick made of SLAGG, both ends of that stick would always be the same temperature. What I mean to say is that thermal energy –​heat, if you will –​transfers through SLAGG instantaneously. Pretty much like electricity flows through those cables over there,’ he added, using a head gesture to indicate the high voltages lines on the side of the road. ‘Turns out you’re both weirdos,’ mumbled Bennart. ‘And so,’ continued the boys’ father, ‘if you held a hypothetical SLAGG stick to the fire, you would cook your hand as well as your marshmallow.’ Steton looked at the palm of his left hand, gave some additional thought to his dad’s words and then stared out the backseat window.

24  Descending Geese ‘Do you think that, in the future …’ he asked after a minute, ‘… well, will there be SLAGG cables next to electricity cables?’ ‘I’m not sure, Steton. Probably not. You see, heat is not a very convenient form of energy when it comes to transferring it. SLAGG offers a very efficient solution to the problem of transmission, but the fact that it also dissipates heat so easily is a big pain in the neck. To be fair, transporting energy as electricity also wastes energy in the form of heat, but to a much smaller degree than SLAGG, and—​’ ‘But! But you said SLAGG would change the world and even called it “miraculous”!’ ‘Yes?’ ‘And yet, all you’ve said makes it sounds wasteful and dangerous! What’s it even good for?’ ‘Not for roasting marshmallows. I can tell you that!’ Bennart replied mockingly. ‘I … Well, of course I can’t anticipate how we’re going to use SLAGG in the future. It’s a very new material. Imagine, for example, a situation where one wanted not to transport thermal energy, but to exchange it, to lose it.’ ‘To lose it?’ ‘Exactly! Many of the things we use on a daily basis function precisely because they do a pretty good job of losing heat.’ ‘Like a radiator?’ ‘Like a heating radiator, or –​conversely –​like the cooling system of this car.’ Not entirely sure about what his father meant, Steton turned towards Bennart. The latter –​just as confused but clearly not as interested –​turned towards the window, silently taking in the flat vastness of the St. Francis Lowlands. Their father’s intuition about SLAGG turned out to be largely accurate and, to some degree, even prescient. The new material soon became a

Descending Geese  25 commodity and a customary component of a variety of technologies that relied on the efficient exchange of heat. SLAGG became widely used wherever rapid and efficient warming up was needed: buildings, train compartments, airplane cabins and the habitable modules of space stations. SLAGG’s industrial success was further boosted by the discovery that SLAGG’s thermal capacity increased over time. What this meant was that, as time passed, it took less and less heat to raise the same volume of SLAGG by one degree Celsius. SLAGG’s thermal capacity increased day after day until reaching a plateau roughly fifteen years after its date of production. The exact period depended on the temperatures to which a particular batch of SLAGG was exposed: Operating at high temperatures, SLAGG reached its capacity plateau a few months (and sometimes even a full year) earlier than batches of SLAGG used at lower temperatures. At any rate, with time, SLAGG became more efficient as a medium for distributing heat, requiring less and less energy to achieve the same performance. One thing Steton and Bennart’s dad could not know as he drove with his kids on that spring day was that SLAGG not only displayed unique thermal properties and remarkable chemical inertness; it was also an extremely reliable electrical insulator. This last property ensured that SLAGG could be used in direct contact with electronic components without any risk or disadvantage. Quite the opposite, in fact: SLAGG would both isolate electronic parts and ensure that those parts would not oxidise. Having electronic parts soaked in SLAGG made devices safer and more durable. It also made them easier to cool down, as the translucent and extremely thermally conductive fluid they were immersed in could be paired with heat-​dissipating components of various kinds. This solution turned out to be so efficient, in fact, that new generations of computer microprocessors were designed to be natively and constantly submerged in SLAGG. This new kind of computer architecture used SLAGG as a heat sink, which resulted in a tremendous increase in the efficiency of heat extraction from microchips. Accordingly, the newest generations of processors were designed to be large and flat, with intricately corrugated surfaces. They were informally referred to as ‘wet chips’. The combination of SLAGG and wet chips boosted the computational power of microprocessors to new performance heights. This technological advance came after a long period of near stagnation in chip performance and spurred massive investments in both hardware solutions and software applications. In terms of its use as a crucial component of new, faster computers, however, the increase of SLAGG’s thermal capacity over time was an undesirable quality. Unlike what happened in its original use for warming up surfaces and environments, the longer one used the new material as a heat sink, the less efficient it got. With time, in other words, the fluid would become less and less effective at draining heat away

26  Descending Geese from wet chips. To maintain the desired levels of performance as a heat sink, old SLAGG needed to be regularly drained from cooling systems and replaced with a new batch. Dedicated companies emerged with the specialty of collecting used SLAGG (often referred to as ‘cooked SLAGG’) and replacing it with a fresher batch after every two or three years of operation. These companies sold the cooked SLAGG they drained from cooling systems to companies working with heating technologies. At that point in its lifecycle, the SLAGG’s increased thermal capacity made it by far the most efficient heat conductor on the planet. Operations like pumping SLAGG in and out of the cooling system of a car or a computer posed a design problem which was promptly resolved with the invention of new kinds of valve. These new valves were specifically manufactured to deal with the viscosity of the new material and with the challenges posed by its frequent temperature fluctuations. These valves found applications in all kinds of SLAGG-​based systems. In heating systems, for example, they became the standard solution for selectively connecting or disconnecting pipes and panels. Simply put, the new valves made SLAGG technologies even more cost effective and flexible in a variety of uses. Many years after his chain-​sneezing episode in the backseat of the family car, Steton obtained a mechanical engineering degree with distinction. He then went on to pursue a postgraduate degree in computer engineering, with a final thesis that focused on innovative design features for the second generation of SLAGG valves. This particular specialisation landed him a well-​paid and impressive-​sounding job in a research centre on the east coast of the United States directly following graduation. Three years later, Steton accepted an engineering job that required him to be stationed for long periods in Akureyri, Iceland, where he would work on the SLAGG-​ based cooling system for the largest and fastest supercomputer in the world. Akureyri’s supercomputer, whose construction was sponsored almost entirely by one of the world’s leading hardware manufacturers, was designed to showcase the capabilities offered by the newest generation of wet chips. The computer itself occupied almost the entirety of the two upper floors of the newly built complex, housing more than forty thousand microprocessors, partitioned into eight independent sections (or lobes). As Steton saw it, the parts of the building dedicated to the wet chips amounted to a series of interconnected SLAGG tanks collectively containing the largest contiguous mass of the fluid on the planet. In addition to microprocessors and SLAGG chambers, these two floors featured a maze of narrow and well-​insulated corridors used for inspection, maintenance and the operations involved in draining and refilling the SLAGG.

Descending Geese  27 On the second floor, the complex also housed a state-​of-​the-​art control room from where the engineers on staff could activate the various lobes of the computer, manually distribute the computational load among the lobes and operate the SLAGG valves that controlled the connections among the parts of the complex designed to dissipate the heat produced by active chips. Several heat-​dissipating devices had been built for this purpose, the main ones being vertical radiators on the roof of the building and the tree-​ like metal structures in the sculpture garden. In extreme circumstances, the staff manning the control room could also open valves that allowed heat to flow through SLAGG pipes that ran under the complex’s quay and were constantly submerged in the icy waters of Eyja Fjord. This part of the SLAGG network was only designed as a failsafe, however, and was not supposed to be connected during routine operations. The choice of the coldest town in Iceland to build this kind of supercomputer was, thus, not a coincidence, and it was also certainly more than a lucky accident that Akureyri was home to a small but efficient airport. The airport was a highly desirable feature for the software company with regard to the efficient shipment of hardware components, fresh batches of SLAGG, furniture, and whatever else was needed to run their cutting-​edge project. The Akureyri building was scheduled to be officially inaugurated in a little over three weeks. This date was scheduled to correspond to the public release of the new –​and third –​expansion of Tales of the One Reborn, the company’s dark fantasy multiplayer online game. The latest addition to their popular franchise, which had been announced with the title of Canticles of the True Flesh, was by any measure the company’s grandest undertaking to date. Part of what made this inauguration unique and newsworthy was the game company’s aspiration to run the entirety of their gameworld exclusively on its supercomputer in Akureyri. A claim of that magnitude would clearly have been unthinkable before the invention and uptake of wet chips. And if running the entire world of Tales of the One Reborn –​one of the largest and most populated gameworlds in existence –​on a single computer were not enough, the project was made even more impressive by the fact that the new addition to the game was not a mere appendix to the old game, but essentially an entire new gameworld in its own right. To be more accurate, the latest expansion could be defined as a disturbing new take on the gameworld of Tales of the One Reborn. Despite sharing many features with the game players had learned and grown to love over the past decade, the world of Canticles of the True Flesh existed in a somewhat autonomous and ambiguous relationship with the original game. It was as if Tales of the One Reborn had been retold and partially re-​invented by a different narrator, whose mental sanity and reliability the player was encouraged to question throughout

28  Descending Geese gameplay. What Canticles of the True Flesh appeared to claim, by means of clues left in its ruinous architecture and disquieting statuary, is that the world of the One Reborn is a lie, an illusion, the fever dream of a dying god. Among the most disconcerting features of the new expansion was the gameworld appearing to be suspended in a permanent twilight and extensively consumed by a rotting disease affecting all forms of biological life. While some of the hallmark areas of the original game were still recognisable in the new gameworld, original and disquieting locations were specifically developed for Canticles of the True Flesh. Among these were the Ailing Archipelago, the Abandoned Ramparts (which was monumental, and certainly the most impressive new area in the expansion) and the city of Zayoleen, a fetid and maggot-​encrusted Piranesian nightmare. Upon reading the last few lines, I decide to stop for a minute. I look out the rain-​dotted window wondering whether the rest of the chapter will make it hard for me to eat my breakfast. Truth be told, I also found this last section quite boring and definitely too long. I draw in a long breath, exhale, and take a peek at the next page of Marija’s chapter. The layout of the text to come suggests the presence of dialogue. In the hope that the story will finally go back to Steton’s disappointing new life on the Icelandic complex, I skip a few paragraphs and resume reading at the start of the next section. ★ In what could be described as a mildly impressive feat of will, Steton managed to hoist himself out of bed. He stood up, coughed lightly, picked up his sweater from the ground and put it on. He then walked towards the common room, motivated not so much by hunger as by the onset of a mild headache that he diagnosed as a symptom of caffeine withdrawal. Hanging from a rack in the kitchen was a series of twelve mugs that the company had presumably purchased from a local shop. This was suggested to Steton by the fact that the mugs were decorated with old textbook etchings of Icelandic fauna, paired with the Latin nomenclature for the specimen represented on each cup. Steton picked one and positioned it under the beverage nozzle of the automatic dispenser. His selection depicted a couple of Icelandic greylag geese (Anser anser), a male and a female. ‘Hey, Buddy!’ ‘Good morning, Steton.’ ‘Coffee, please. Regular roast, strong. No milk. No sugar.’

Descending Geese  29 ‘Coming right up. For your information, the outside temperature today is going to peak at around 0 degrees Celsius, that is 32 degrees Fahrenheit, with chances of snow towards midday. There might be ice outside, so be careful.’ ‘I was thinking of having dinner in town tonight, and if I do, I will keep your warning in mind, Buddy. Thank you.’ ‘About this evening, please be informed that Chief Engineer Vamvera Zamdem has scheduled a lobe activation test at 19:30 local time. Your presence is required. If you are planning to spend the evening outside of the complex, then I am afraid you have a clash in your agenda.’ ‘Huh?! She did? Can you tell me when that test was scheduled?’ ‘4 minutes and 17 seconds ago.’ ‘I see …’ Steton mumbled thoughtfully. He then picked up his coffee and walked to one of the glass wall on the west side of the common room. Leaning against the window, Steton could see about half of the metal trees in the sculpture garden and, in the distance, the town of Akureyri. On the opposite side of the room, the corridor came alive as a dozen lighting panels turned on in a linear sequence. A thin, white human female slowly ambled out of one of the living quarter chambers into the newly lit corridor wearing a dark-​red T-​shirt. The T-​shirt –​many sizes larger than the woman in question –​slipped off of her left shoulder as she yawned. Steton did not see her yawn or notice the lights turning on for that matter, but he did hear the thumping rhythm of her gait as she walked into the common room. ‘Morning,’ he said, turning towards her. ‘Hey! Had a good night?’ ‘Peachy, and yourself?’ ‘It wouldn’t have been too bad, had it not been for a couple of late-​night conference calls with US headquarters that I need to tell you about.’ ‘I guess I got the gist of it already: There’s a lobe activation test scheduled for this evening.’

30  Descending Geese She nodded and yawned again, this time covering her mouth with the back of her right hand. Vamvera Zamdem was in her mid-​thirties, thin, and of average height. Her pale skin was dotted with freckles. On that particular morning, chief engineer Zamdem was barefoot, and her oversized T-​shirt covered her legs almost down to her knees. Five years prior, because of a particularly aggressive kind of bone cancer, one of her legs had been amputated and replaced with a robotic implant. Despite a natural grace in her movements, the artificial limb inevitably affected her walk, giving it a distinctive cadence. On Vamvera’s dark-​red T-​shirt, a picture of an angry female centaur wielding a war hammer was printed in black. Below the centauress, there were two words in stylised typography, faded to the point of illegibility from too many washings. Departing from the canonical representation of centaurs in ancient Greek mythology, the illustration on Vamvera’s shirt endowed both the woman part of the mythological woman–​horse creature and the horse one with unreasonably large breasts. She picked a cup from the rack and put it under the dispenser. Printed on her cup was a picture of two specimens of Atlantic puffins (Fratercula arctica), and a special symbol that marked this species as being on the verge of extinction. ‘Buddy, a lukewarm chai latte and a raisin bagel, cut in half and toasted, please. And three scrambled eggs.’ ‘Acknowledged. Coming right up.’ Steton looked at Vamvera as she waited for her breakfast. He was thinking about her T-​shirt, which looked like a cheap print for a heavy metal band. Was it a band she liked? Maybe a band she played in? He also wondered about the maximalist approach to breasts proposed by the drawing of the centauress and how that would work in the case of other mythological creatures. The same approach, he thought, would not be as good a fit in cases where the creature had a non-​mammalian bottom part, for example a mermaid or a harpy. ‘Take a holoscan, Jacksonville. It’ll last longer!’ Realising he’d been staring at her, Steton started to feel his cheeks burning. ‘I-​I … I’m sorry, I was just …’

Descending Geese  31 She chortled and smiled. ‘Come on, dude. I’m just messing with you!’ She carried her breakfast tray to the table and gestured for Steton to take a seat facing her. He took a long and embarrassed sip of coffee. ‘So, wa-​wasn’t the first lobe activation test scheduled in, like, three days or something?’ ‘Yeah,’ she said while spreading butter on her bagel, ‘but apparently our encouraging progress reports convinced HQ to move it up. That’s basically the whole story. As far as my work is concerned, I don’t see any danger or downside in running a lobe test today. Do you?’ ‘No. I mean, not really. Do you happen to know which parts of our reports they referred to, in particular?’ ‘I can tell you the details later if you want. I have an entire morning of meetings coming up and, if that’s okay with you, I would rather not think about that just yet. What about a quick game instead?’ ‘I’ve had half a cup of coffee. I don’t think I would be at my best …’ ‘I didn’t take you for a chicken.’ ‘Well, if you put it that way … Choose a harbour, and I’ll take first pick.’ Vamvera quickly gobbled up some of the scrambled eggs on her plate and said ‘Hey Buddy, please activate the hologame and launch Returning Sails.’ ‘Acknowledged.’ ‘Let’s play in Vanuatu. Destination harbour: Port Vila.’ ‘Make it evening,’ Steton requested. ‘As you wish,’ she replied, raising her shoulders. ‘Time of day: evening. The Jacksonville boy on first pick.’ ‘Coming right up,’ promised the disembodied, artificial voice. ‘Generating weather.’ It was a good game. It lasted less than half an hour, and they were head-​ to-​head up until the last phases of docking. The game was so tense and

32  Descending Geese close, in fact, that Steton forgot about his coffee. He also forgot about having a cup nearby until he inadvertently knocked it off the table. The geese-​decorated cup fell to the ground and shattered. Vamvera instinctively put her feet on her chair, her anodized metal knee peeking up from under the edge of the table, in full view between them and no longer partly covered by her T-​shirt. Blushing with embarrassment, Steton wished he had never left his bed. ‘Don’t worry about it, dude. You can clean it up once I’m done defeating you,’ Vamvera said without looking at the mess of glazed ceramic pieces and cold coffee on the floor. Sure enough, Steton’s defeat happened shortly thereafter, followed by Vamvera cautiously pushing back her chair and heading towards her morning shower, careful not to step on cup shards or slip on the spilled coffee. The rest of Steton’s morning passed with no particularly noteworthy events. The stress tests performed on the groups of valves scheduled for the day produced results in line with, and occasionally exceeding, expectations. At lunchtime, ahead of schedule with his work, he took a long, cold walk to have a sandwich in a café in town, not too far from the church. Vamvera’s shared agenda for the afternoon looked a lot busier than his, and listed a handful of preliminary-​tests on lobe 7. That was the group of microprocessors that had been chosen for the evening test. Specific information about the test itself that they both received around noon indicated 19:30 (local time) as the start of operation, that is when the main computer at HQ would redirect a progressively larger number of North American players of Tales of the One Reborn onto the seventh lobe of the new Akureyri machine. The procedure would start with a few thousand players, mostly from the San Francisco Bay Area, and then gradually increase the load until about one-​third of the playing population was hosted on the Icelandic supercomputer. During the test, Vamvera and Steton would closely monitor the computational load, the temperature changes in the lobe’s SLAGG and the efficiency of the tree-​like heat dissipation mechanisms from the control room. About two hours into the test, still according to the schedule proposed by management, the process would be reversed, and Vamvera would gradually redirect players back to their original server until none remained on the Akureyri supercomputer. After that, lobe 7 will be shut down. Steton could already see that the following couple of days had been recently cleared in Vamvera’s agenda to allow for data analysis. ‘Roll back three more moves.’

Descending Geese  33 ‘Acknowledged.’ The view of the harbour of Port Vila changed almost imperceptibly, zooming out slightly to allow the holographic view to capture the position of all the sails in play. ‘And this is where she decided to dump part of the cargo. A pretty radical move, although not a fully unexpected one, given the circumstances. Buddy, how much cargo did she throw overboard?’ ‘In this turn, chief engineer Zamdem dumped 24% of the weight carried by her second barge and about 14% from her tailing single-​mast boat.’ Steton looked at the holographic projection, his chin perched on both hands. ‘Sneaky. Just out of curiosity, Buddy, could you simulate what would have happened if she had just kept sailing? That is, without dumping part of her load.’ ‘I sure can.’ Using the replay function, Returning Sails showed a projection of how the game could have developed given the new parameters, displaying the constantly decreasing percentages indicating how confident the simulation was about the reliability of the projected course of events. ‘The loss of her cargo on the single-​mast boat was practically irrelevant in terms of the endgame and the final score. The big barge dump, however, allowed her to dock at this slot…’ A particular area in one of the docks lit up in the holographic scene. ‘…a turn before your clipper could attempt to do the same. In this scenario, that would have been the optimal mooring for your sail. Based on the game’s prediction, her decision cost you two full turns down the line.’ ‘And I was already behind at that point.’ Steton shook his head and stood up, placing both hands on the table. He then moved towards the automated kitchen, grabbed a new cup, and positioned it under the dispenser. ‘Coffee, please. Regular roast, strong. No milk. No sugar.’ ‘Acknowledged.’

34  Descending Geese After a bit of thinking, while waiting for his coffee, Steton put forward another request. ‘Okay, call this a hunch, but could you list all the games I’ve played against Vamvera where the in-​game time happened to be evening?’ ‘Coming right up.’ A list of ten games taking place in an evening scenario appeared, ordered chronologically. Eight of them rendered in light blue, two shining with a reddish hue. ‘Just as I suspected! Both of the games I managed to win against her are in this list! And I know she dumped cargo in at least one of those, too. She is the better player, no doubt, but I am starting to think that our performance gap might not be as wide under low-​wind conditions.’ ‘Would you like me to run a statistical analysis to confirm?’ ‘Please go ahead, and make sure to factor in—​’ ‘I am sorry to interrupt. Chief engineer Zamdem just asked me to inform you that the tests are commencing in less than 15 minutes and that she is already in the control room.’ ‘Oh, crud! Time flies when you’re having fun, huh?’ ‘Apologies, but I do not feel competent to comment on that.’ ‘That was just a turn of… Look, ne-​never mind that, Buddy. Shut down the hologame, please.’ ‘Acknowledged.’ Carrying his fresh cup of coffee, this time decorated with a picture of the Atlantic salmon (Salmo salar), Steton made his way to the second floor. ‘Hi. Been here long?’ ‘You know what they say. It’s the early bird that gets the worm.’ Steton took a seat in his position. ‘Um, with the metaphorical worm representing what, in the current situation?’

Descending Geese  35 ‘The worm? I mean, I don’t know, dude. It’s just a turn of phrase. Relax!’ Vamvera put a pencil sideways in her mouth and typed some command lines into the diagnostic dialog panel glowing on the console screen before her. ‘Maybe …’ Steton added tentatively, ‘Maybe the worm is a technical issue that you might be able to spot before anyone from the HQ side does? And get recognition for?’ She spat the pencil out. ‘Sure, whatever. Look, all I care about right now is that you keep that coffee away from me and this keyboard –​Are we clear?’ Vamvera was intently monitoring the boot sequence of the six thousand chips involved in today’s impromptu test. Steton, in contrast, had little to do in preparation for the trial. The SLAGG systems and related monitoring devices had already been up and running since morning. Unless there was an emergency, all he was expected to take care of during the procedure was to ensure that the heat conducted by SLAGG reached the desired number of dispersing trees in the sculpture garden. The metal trees were management’s chosen dissipation method for this test. According to the simulations run by Buddy over the course of the last two weeks, three or four trees would be enough to keep a lobe working within its optimal operational temperature range. His role in the test was pretty unexciting, all in all. It was so unexciting, in fact, that Steton’s mind wandered back to the bit of popular wisdom concerning birds and worms. The idea of getting to a feeding ground before other birds sounded like a great plan –​but only if one considered a bird exclusively in relation to worms. It could potentially be a very bad plan if considered in relation to, say, hunters. The early bird might be the first to get shot. In a similar vein, the scenario does not consider what happens to the early worm. Its chances did not look great either, thought Steton. A quarter of an hour later, Vamvera and Steton were in a video conference call with HQ. On the screens of the control room in Iceland were three figures: a chief network engineer physically located in San Francisco, one of the community managers for the game (a quite well-​known figure among the playing populace of Tales of the One Reborn), also in San Francisco, and the company’s chief technical officer, joining the meeting from her home office in Quebec City, Canada. After reviewing all protocols and agreeing on a general schedule, the test started with a delay of about ten minutes compared with the initial plan. Steton kept monitoring the SLAGG temperature of the lobe and easily directed the excess heat to two of the trees revolving in the sculpture garden. For about thirty minutes,

36  Descending Geese two trees were enough to keep all the activated wet chips within their optimal range of operating temperature. As the number of players hosted on the Icelandic supercomputer was further increased, Steton opened the SLAGG valves connecting a third tree, and eventually a fourth. A pretty mindless job, this will eventually be part of a series of autonomic responses that will be part of Buddy’s responsibilities. Everything appeared to be under control and largely in accordance with the graphs extracted from the simulations that the San Francisco team ran a couple of days before. Then, just a few seconds before the expected peak computational output for the lobe was reached, something happened and all the lights suddenly went out.

4 Evening Snow

Carla Mikkelsen, the morning showerer. Good old Carla, that’s me, quibbling over spilled milk and split hairs. Carla, the annoying early riser. Guilty as charged, yes, but let’s also add Carla, the practical friend and, reliable colleague and affectional partner. A helpful daughter, too, and—​ may I add—​a pretty badass Syderoxylon Online player. It’s Sunday afternoon, and it has been raining nonstop since Friday evening. The storm has been both a blessing and a curse. For me, it meant cancelling that the weekly hike with the climbing club—​a definite bummer. For the island’s vegetation, however, the storm must feel like a long-​overdue break from the furious heat that lasted well beyond the summer months. As anticipated, this weekend’s weather has also granted me, overzealous little Carla, the time for a more serious look at the atmospheric data I brought home in response Bob’s request for help. Every cloud, they say, has a silver lining: after almost two entire days of rain spent home together, Marija unexpectedly agreed to go out for dinner tonight. On a regular weekend, she would oppose the idea of driving all the way to Valletta and risk being stuck in traffic to be overcharged for mediocre food. Not that she’s wrong about that or anything; in fact, her assessment is mercilessly accurate. Still, it’s no secret that I would like to go out and be social together more than we currently do. Most of the time, I’m the one pushing for more activity: be it climbing, eating out, or just taking a walk to the Mosta Bride Garden, literally ten minutes away from our maisonette. The prospect of having to remain indoors for a couple of days (and, specifically, having to remain indoors with cabin-​feverish me) must have convinced her to accept my invitation. Alone in the study, I turn on my computer and start writing the email I promised to Bob.

DOI: 10.4324/9781003330202-4

38  Evening Snow from: to: date: subject:

Carla Mikkelsen Robert Hogan Oct 12, 2025, 16:17 Re: the clouds

Hey! To start this off, I want to let you know that I’m glad you felt comfortable enough to tell me what all the fuss was about. In this “quest” of yours you indeed seem to be walking a fine line between being an extremely dedicated scientist and running around wearing a foil hat and screaming that the sky is falling. With that out of the way, I also want you to know that I am happy to help, and I will continue to do so, regardless of how strange it gets. After all, isn’t that what friends are for? :) To your question concerning Cranfield University, I have of course heard of their Environment Studies Center, but I don’t know anyone working there personally. I briefly met Kristie at the last EAPS conference, I think, or it was Christine? I’m not sure, and I guess it doesn’t matter much anyway. What matters is that I did perform a more thorough analysis of the local atmospheric data you asked me to examine. Spoiler alert: as I anticipated, nothing stands out as noteworthy. There’s one thing, however, that made me curious in your last email: you said that small ice crystals in the atmosphere are more reflective when they are smoother—​right? If that’s the case, then the event you described, where every single ice crystal in the sky instantly became perfectly smooth, should correspond to a general increase in the brightness of the atmosphere. Yesterday, with this hypothesis gnawing at the back of my mind, I found something that might be worth a second look. For obvious reasons, here in Malta, we take sunlight quite seriously—​so much so, in fact, that our little island boasts five surface solar radiation sites, which is a lot, given the island’s size. The data from three of the five stations are publicly available and accessible online, and these meters take relatively frequent samples (i.e. a reading every minute or two). What I did is looking into the solar flux data for the period you’re interested in, and the results were, again, nothing to write home about. It was a partially cloudy day, and we experienced regular fluctuations. In the particular interval you are interested in, a thin cirrus was over Malta, and the radiation sites I could access all registered a perfectly normal reduction in flux between 3 and 4 percent.

Evening Snow  39 Not to leave any stones unturned, I downloaded pictures taken from the all-​sky imager that I maintain at the Met Office corresponding to that same period, and spotted something you might want to look into. There was an intensification of the 22-​degree halo around the interval you indicated. In a way that seems compatible with your observations regarding the smoothness of atmospheric ice, the intensity of the halo tapered off over the next forty minutes or so. I am not (and I repeat—​I am not) trying to argue that what was recorded is a consequence of a mysterious, global “ice particle-​smoothening episode.” The clues I am presenting to you are anecdotal at best. What I am suggesting here, instead, is that you could use your solar irradiance data to further look into this matter. Listen, you wrote that the FAAM flight you were using as an airborne meteorological station had two pairs of solar irradiance meters—​one above and one below each wing. You also wrote that a cloud made of smoother ice particles would be less diffractive, and let more sunlight through than a regular cloud, right? Well, then a good way to test whether your light-​scattering data are correct would be to check the solar flux readings in the same interval. What I mean to say is that, as it was flying through the clouds during and after the alleged “episode,” your FAAM flight should have also registered a statistical increase in solar irradiance. To be more accurate, the radiometers on top of the wings (which measures the downward travelling solar radiation), should report an increase in radiation, whereas the radiometers on the bottom-​side of the wings should have registered a decrease due to the lesser amount of sunlight diffracted. Does this sound right? Please keep me informed about any developments. Also, you are very welcome to share any new hypotheses or conjectures—​I always like a good puzzle :) Byeeee Carla Mikkelsen, Ph.D., Associate Professor of Climate Science, Member of the Climate Research Group (formerly Malta Climate Team) L-​Universita’ ta’ Malta -​MALTA

40  Evening Snow After pressing the “send” button on my email client, with a storm raging outside and with more than two hours before Marija and I need to get ready for our dinner out, I pick up my fancy light-​up headphones and launch Syderoxylon Online. My team and I have recently pulled in decent results playing in a couple of local competitions, and I figure we could do even better with some additional practice. My in-​game character is a gigantic and scantily clad necromancer. The way I play her mostly consists in wielding a massive shield made of leather and large animal bones to provide cover for my teammates. The necromancer is so strong that she can manage her grotesque shield with her right arm alone. In her left hand, I typically use a large bell—​an arcane catalyst used to summon and control undead creatures of various kinds. When rung to awaken the dead, the bell produces the sound that I use as an alert on my mobile phone. The other two players on our team are Yue, my friend (a term used quite liberally, here, given that he’s a data scientist), and a teenage boy from Norway that we’ve never met in “meatspace,” as he calls it. His name is Eirik. Both of my teammates play archer characters. Yue is a dual-​class archer-​healer. In its competitive multiplayer format, Syderoxylon Online pitches two compatibly ranked three-​player teams against each another. The arenas in which these competitions (or battles) take place are some of the most scenic locations from the game’s single-​player campaign. There are competitive arenas set in a couple of derelict hamlets and battlegrounds consisting of a network of boardwalks hanging from gigantic trees, or partially collapsed colosseums. I suspect that Marija used the little she knows of the desolate gameworld of Syderoxylon Online as inspiration for Tales of the One Reborn, the fictional video game in her story. A team composed of two archers and a necromancer is a long way from being viable for competitive play. We have very low damage output, cannot keep control of important areas of the map for very long, and only one of us—​namely my character—​has any defensive skills worth mentioning. Another questionable consequence of our team setup is that, out of necessity, most of our strategic play consists of setting up various “bait-​and-​trap” situations. We do our best to avoid direct confrontation with opponents, keeping a safe distance whenever possible and for as long as possible. When hand-​to-​hand combat becomes inevitable, I ring my arcane bell and summon undead creatures that raise from the ground and attack the opposing team. This usually allows the archers to retreat and go back into hiding. This playstyle is working well for us, but it’s risky business: our success solely depends on my character’s ability to sustain damage and offer protection throughout the match. Once she’s down or incapacitated, we’re toast.

Evening Snow  41 Using the game’s practice mode, I experiment with a couple of new summoning strategies. I saw a very good necromancer performing something similar to what I want to achieve in a qualifying match for a large tournament. A little over twenty minutes into practicing, a popup window informs me that I have new email. I pause Syderoxylon Online with the expectation of coming back to it within a minute, maximum two. from: to: date: subject:

Robert Hogan Carla Mikkelsen Oct 12, 2025, 16:46 RE: Re: the clouds

Carla, oh my gosh! Your idea of correlating the crystal smoothness data to solar irradiance readings is brilliant (no pun intended)! Wish I had thought of it myself –​and sooner! The good news is I have all I need on my computer at work and will be able to check on those data the first thing on Monday morning. You will be the first to know! I’m positively excited –​Can you tell?:) Again, thanks for making time for me in your otherwise frenetically eventful weekend. I’m being sarcastic, but really, I owe you one! More on this soon. Ta, B. Okay, nice. Thankfully, it’s not an email that requires any action on my part. With a flick of the wrist I am back to Syderoxylon Online. About an hour later, I feel like I have gathered enough evidence to conclude that the marginal advantages offered by the strategy I’ve been trying out are overshadowed by how easy it would be for adversaries to interrupt my character in the process and for me to make mistakes during the summoning process. I could try to get better and more consistent with my inputs, but this feels like it’s going to be more trouble than it’s worth. Eager to discuss this with Yue and Eirik, I log into the chat server we share and, in our team’s private room, I post a pretty extensive description of what I tried to do, along with a summary of why I think the new strategy might better be left out of our collective arsenal. As a running tease in our group, I also throw in the suggestion that, for the sake of winning more games, Yue should finally put his archery days behind him and switch to a more useful character like the slave master. Eirik

42  Evening Snow instantly adds a laughing emoji reaction to that part of my message. The slave master is a ridiculous character, slow, with shoddy offensive options and a joke of a grab that for some reason looks like a loving hug. That’s when the idea strikes me—​A chat server would be a great place for Bob to present his unusual findings and bounce hypotheses off the “hive mind.” Using a chat system would also allow him to harvest ideas and without compromising his anonymity. Chances are that nothing is going to come out of it, but the only thing that could be lost through trying is time. Worth a try, I mumble to myself. I reopen my email client and send Bob yet another message. from: to: date: subject:

Carla Mikkelsen Robert Hogan Oct 12, 2025, 18:11 Re: RE: Re: the clouds

Bob, I’m glad my suggestions met with your approval. In the vein of potentially useful hints, here’s another one for you. It’s on the house! Some friends and I (mostly people from the University of Malta) run a chat server dedicated to physics and general science. It’s in English, relatively small, and usually friendly, by which I mean it’s not too hostile. We use it mostly to promote local events, share nerdy stuff and talk trash about streaming series. I was thinking that if you joined the server, you could talk about the atmospheric ice issue and invite possible interpretations of what you think happened without revealing your actual identity. You could, for example, pretend to be a budding sci-​fi author in need of some back-​up from some bona fide scientists (or “scientits,” a term that the chat group repeats and continually finds funny, for whatever reason). Well aware that this will likely be a waste of time, a few people from the climate research group do participate in the server, and a couple of particle physicists are there, too. And my friend Yue! What I am saying is that joining would be a low-​investment effort that might produce fresh new insights and would do so without posing any threats to your respectability as a scientit. See what I did there?:D

Evening Snow  43 Okay, you’ll receive an invitation to join the server from my account shortly. By all means, feel free to disregard it; this was just a random idea. Byeee! Carla Mikkelsen, Ph.D., Associate Professor of Climate Science, Member of the Climate Research Group (formerly Malta Climate Team), L-​Universita’ ta’ Malta -​MALTA

A few minutes later, a notification from our chat server beeps in my headphones, jolting me out of a moment of torpor. -​-​-​-​-​-​-​-​-​-​-​-​-​-​-​-​-​​-​-​-​-​-​-​-​-​-​-​-​-​-​-​-​-​-​ October 12, 2025-​-​-​-​-​-​-​-​-​--​-​-​-​-​-​-​-​-​-​​-​-​-​-​-​-​-​-​-​-​-​-​-​-​-​-​-​-​-​ Science Malta #general Evening_​Snow just showed up! -​10/​12/​2025 Evening_​Snow -​ 10/​12/​2025 Hello! Carla_​M -​ 10/​12/​2025 Hey hello! Welcome to the server @Evening_​Snow [Carla_​M waves] Evening_​Snow -​ 10/​12/​2025 Thank you, and greetings, everyone. It is nice to make your (ersatz) acquaintance. [Carla_​M reacts with a smile] AlienSpawn -​ 10/​12/​2025 hey, what’s going on @Evening_​Snow? :) welcome! Evening_​Snow -​ 10/​12/​2025 Thank you :) AlienSpawn -​ 10/​12/​2025 are u maltese?

44  Evening Snow Evening_​Snow -​ 10/​12/​2025 I have friends there, but I’m not Maltese myself. I visit every now and again. You? AlienSpawn -​ 10/​12/​2025 born and raised, gh ¯ all-​grazzja t’alla!! [Ill_​Ballut reacts with a thumbs up] I’m taken completely by surprise—​ startled, even—​ when Marija taps me on the shoulder. I had forgotten I was still wearing my headphones, and I didn’t hear her call my name, climb the stairs, or walk behind me. She is wearing a pair of jeans, a white shirt with a floral pattern, and an open, mustard-​colored tightly fitting leather jacket. I slide my headphones down. “Sorry, I couldn’t hear you. Also, you almost gave me a heart attack.” She’s holding a light blue linen dress in one hand and our neon pink umbrella in the other. “Then I guess I’ll take advantage of your still being alive and ask you for advice: Which looks nicer with the umbrella,” she asks, “this dress here or what I’m already wearing?” “Is this a trick question?” I ask half-​jokingly. “Don’t be daft!” “Hm, so let me ask this: Do you … Do you intend to also wear the jacket over the dress?” “That’s the idea, yes.” “Then I prefer the dress, by which I’m not implying that you don’t look great in what you’re already wearing.” “What are you saying now?” she says as she walks menacingly towards me. “I mean … You know, to be fair it is not that I—​” She plants a kiss on my still moving lips. Then we kiss again, a real one this time. And then again. And maybe a bit too passionately, given that our table in Valletta is reserved for forty minutes from now.

5 Night Rain

Late. It’s so late! We hurry down Republic Street and it’s raining buckets. Never mind the rain—​what I can’t stand is our tardiness. The first time I walked down Republic Street it was on the afternoon of one of the last days of August. That was over six years ago, and I remember scruffy cats asleep under battered old cars. Like most of the human inhabitants of the city, they were resigned to waiting for the blazing afternoon sun to finally set behind the roofs of Valletta’s stone buildings. In the shade of one of the old fig trees on St. John’s Street, four old men had been playing cards on a plastic table. I was dragging my feet and cursing myself for not waiting until later in the evening—​or better still, later in the month—​for my first visit to the capital of the smallest state of the European Union. I had flown in from the UK two days prior to taking my new academic post at the University of Malta. In retrospect, there were many things for which I wasn’t fully prepared. The oppressive heat was certainly one of them, although probably not the most harrowing. The current downpour is the tail end of the second storm front that hit the island over the weekend, just as the weather models anticipated. According to the latest forecast, the weather will start to clear tomorrow morning, and it should be bright and sunny by noon. I relay this information to Marija, mostly to change the subject from the topic of how annoyed I am with our being unpunctual. She holds onto my arm with one hand while struggling to keep the neon pink umbrella over our heads with the other. “This is Malta—​relax! Who cares if we’re a little late?” she says, trying to reassure me. “If,” she says! If we’re a little late. We are over forty minutes late, for fuck’s sake. Marija cannot stop giggling at how worked up I am. This is part of our comedic routine, I guess—​one in which I get upset about things like how recklessly people drive, and she … well, she just finds it very amusing.

DOI: 10.4324/9781003330202-5

46  Night Rain We finally make it to our favorite Japanese restaurant on the island. We are late and soaked. As I feared, they no longer have a table for us. The soft-​ spoken German waiter presents us with two options: We can either come back in about an hour, or—​if we don’t mind—​we are welcome to stay now and enjoy our dinner at the bar. We do not mind the second option at all, and actually prefer sitting next to one another. It’s cozier than being separated by a table, and it’s much easier to share food when one doesn’t have to go around a barrier of glasses, candles, bottles, and plastic flowers. We take our seats and order two Midori Sours and a serving of edamame. Marija looks happy as she wipes her misty glasses with the hem of her light blue linen dress. I draw in a long breath and allow myself to relax, at last. “Hey, have I ever told you how pretty you look in that shirt?” She is referring to the vintage “Fritz Lang’s METROPOLIS” black T-​shirt she bought for me in London last spring. “It is great, isn’t it? It totally brings out the black smudges of my liquefied eyeliner,” I say while grabbing a paper napkin to repair some of the damage the rain has done to my makeup. “One of the perks of wearing glasses, I guess.” “Yeah, not to mention that other one. What was it? Hmm … Ah, of course—​being able to see and read stuff!” “Hah, indeed! To eyesight!” she says, raising her cocktail glass. “To eyesight,” I echo. Our cocktails are strong and delicious, and I feel the alcohol going straight to my head. “So,” I say, putting my glass down on the bar, “I finished your third chapter. Do you think this is a good time to talk about it?” “I can’t think of a better one, actually,” she replies, adjusting the way she is sitting to turn toward me. “Well, I just hope this isn’t going to kill the mood.” “Eek, am I in trouble?” “Hrm … I guess it’s better if we leave it for later. Tomorrow, maybe?”

Night Rain  47 “Nah, just go ahead. Come on—​I’m a big girl. I can take it.” “Well, the thing is that I didn’t like it as much as the previous two, and I think I can identify a couple of reasons why.” She nods, and I realize that, as an overture, this may have been a little too brutal. I try to start afresh. “Okay, let me begin by saying that I liked your descriptive writing. That was very nice. Maybe … Maybe part of the problem I have with that text is that it was raining when I read it.” She looks unconvinced. “In any case, here it comes.” I say, and then clear my throat a little “Okay, first of all, I wasn’t very happy with the beginning of the chapter. I mean that part on the new futuristic substance.” “SLAGG?” “Yes, that one. I did find it was very clever how you introduced that sci-​fi feature to the reader by … Well, by having someone explain it to children. That was cool. At the same time, though, that part felt too long. At least if you keep it as it is and do not decide to make the father into a fully-​fledged character. Consider that, in the current version of the chapter, he’s speaking for almost three pages without even having been graced with a first name.” Marija listens attentively. “Please take this criticism with a pinch of salt. It might just be me, and you know I barely read any fiction. It is not that the chapter was bad, but it felt lengthy and somewhat unresolved. It was also a little boring. When reading that part, I was hoping that the story would soon go back to the ‘present-​day’ narrative, so to speak. I mean to the part of the narrative with the engineers and their supercomputer.” “I see …” The waiter is back, asking in a strong German accent if we are ready to order our food. Marija looks at me inquisitively. “I guess we’re ready, yes,” I say, smiling at the waiter. “We’ll have two orders of dumplings to start.”

48  Night Rain “I can ask for my own appetizer, dear,” Marija says calmly. “You sure can. Both orders of dumplings are for me. Ah, and a large bottle of plain water, thanks.” The waiter nimbly registers my choices on a digital device and then turns to Marija. “For me, fried chicken as an appetizer and … hmm, do you have peach-​ flavored iced tea?” The waiter nods. “Then I will have it with ice, please. We might need to think a bit more about the main courses. Could you leave one menu with us? Thank you.” Once the waiter is gone, Marija puts a hand on my leg, looks into my eyes, and says “Okay, so you want me to either shorten the part on SLAGG or make it into a bigger thing where the father plays a more relevant role and is not just a glorified narrative dummy. Do I get it right?” “I couldn’t have said it better myself.” She nods and gazes thoughtfully out the window. In the streets of Valletta, it’s still raining just as hard as when we arrived. I try to remember what else I wanted to say about her chapter—​a task hampered by the presence of Japanese liqueur in my otherwise empty stomach. “Ah, another thing that I thought needed some work is the way you characterize Steton. I’m not talking about his personality and quirks. I like that he’s a weirdo who often loses contact with reality.” “Do I sense a ‘but’ coming?” “Well, you did establish those traits clearly in the first two chapters. As a reader, I feel that you are … I don’t know … maybe that you’re trying too hard? Is there a thing like ‘over-​characterization’? I mean, if you think about it, in the third chapter, Steton is always daydreaming or talking to himself. It’s quirky tangent after quirky tangent. Like, literally at any possible occasion—​first on the bed, then while drinking his coffee, then during the tests of the supercomputer …” “I believe I told you that he’s loosely based on you, didn’t I?” “Yeah, I get that. But even so …” I shrug and take the last sip of my drink.

Night Rain  49 “Unsubtle, huh?” “Well, I feel like you could get rid of one or two of those—​let’s call them ‘Steton moments’—​and be better off for it.” “Makes sense.” She pauses for a bit, thinking. “And, if you were me, which of those ‘moments’ would you edit out?” The answer seems pretty obvious to me. “Personally, I don’t think that the bit on early birds and early worms is necessary. Neither is the digression on the tits of mythological creatures, to be fair, but at least that one serves as an excuse for a bit of dialogue that adds detail to the relationship between the characters. As I see it, the early worm thing does nothing for the text if not making it clumsier and slower to read.” “Hmm …” “If your problem is that you need more text in that chapter, I would consider talking about those strange mechanical trees in the garden. Those made me curious. Or, you know, spend some time hinting at something going on between Steton and the other engineer, even just one-​sided physical attraction.” “Writing more on the memorial trees in this chapter might actually be a nice idea.” “The memorial trees?” I ask while chewing on the last few edamame. “Yeah, the revolving metal things in the sculpture garden of the complex. Same thing. I need to write more about those machines later in the story anyway, so I might as well start dumping some information about them in this early chapter.” “I hope this wasn’t too harsh, babe.” “No, no … This was very helpful, and I know your honesty is meant to make the story more balanced and smoother to read …” I look at her intently. “Am I the one sensing an incoming ‘but’ now?” “Heh, no. No buts!” She smiles. “I agree with you, and I even expected some of the points you raised. Some others, though, made me realize

50  Night Rain I might be too close to the text. Those I did not anticipate. I think I am so close to the story, in fact, that it’s hard for me to ‘see’ it from the reader’s perspective. I guess that what I’m trying to say I feel a bit, you know, inside my head. Stuck.” We remain silent for a while. She smiles, but I can tell she doesn’t mean it. Suddenly, we both become aware that the waiter is standing behind us. He is holding two trays of dumplings and a white bowl full of fried chicken dressed with vinegar and chopped parsley. I can’t tell how long he’s been standing there, what he heard, or whether he is puzzled by our exchange. Regardless, we help him make space for the food by moving glasses, napkins and chopsticks out of the way. After that, all Marija and I talk about is how good the food is. A hungry stomach is the best spice, they say. At this point of the evening we are both convinced that the food and the drinks were well worth the effort of driving here, frantically looking for a parking spot, and being rained on hard on the way to this place. In an outstanding display of magnanimity, I even allow Marija to have two of my dumplings. She teaches English in a secondary school in Mosta, the town where we live. I envy that she can walk to work. Her teaching job leaves her with enough time for writing, which she used to do as an odd job when she was a university student, making extra money by selling essays and short opinion pieces to a couple of local newspapers. She has published two short stories in a fiction magazine, one in English and one in Maltese. That was before I knew her. More recently, a story of hers was published in an edited volume of science-​fiction stories written by authors from former British protectorates. Most of the chapters in that collection are demoralizing narratives set on an outpost at the fringes of a galactic empire, and deal—​ each in their own way—​with the themes of marginality and social identity. “Have you ever felt stuck on a project of this kind before?” I proceed cautiously. “I mean, with any of your other fiction pieces?” “Um, not really. But you need to keep in mind that those were smaller texts, and for those I had the plot figured out well in advance of putting anything down on paper. This time, I challenged myself to write in a more spontaneous, less controlled fashion, so to speak. It doesn’t look like it’s working out all that well, though, does it?” I look at her, unsure of what to say. “And again, to be sure,” she adds, “this is not about your comments and suggestions, which I appreciate. Really.”

Night Rain  51 I silently wish that the “really” had not been necessary there. Marija grabs the last piece of fried chicken with her fingers and takes a bite of a bony wing. “In fact, I knew cracks in both the plot and the writing would soon start to show, which is fine. I think it’s normal,” she says while chewing, raising her shoulders again. “I guess what bothers me is that I was hoping to be further along with the text by the start of the school year. But it is what it is. And, you know, I’m not quite sure about how to write the part after ‘all the lights suddenly went out,’ ” she confesses, setting the last phrase apart with greasy-​finger air quotes. “Do you maybe feel like talking about it?” “I … I’m afraid I might feel a little too self-​conscious discussing half-​baked ideas. They are literally a collection of assorted thoughts right now. They are like strangers standing uncomfortably next to one another waiting for a bus to take them somewhere.” “I’m not going to insist,” I say leaning back against my stool’s backrest, “but please keep in mind that, if you feel like sharing, I’m very happy to listen. This afternoon, I was trying to convince Bob about pretty much the same thing. Potential high returns for relatively low risks!” “Oh, but this might not be a low-​risk situation at all! There is a very concrete chance that I would start crying and ruin our evening. And, to be sure—​I might just start crying regardless.” I stand up and give her a tight hug. Her chin quivers on my shoulder. “And, even for you …” she says as I sit back down on my stool, “I’d spoil the plot if I talked about parts of the story I’m yet to write.” “Oh, I’m sure you can always get a fresh pair of eyes for your novella once you get unstuck.” “Unstuck like Billy Pilgrim?” she says with a smile, holding back her tears. “Like who?” “Heh … Never mind, qalbi. I need to go to the toilet. I’m sorry for being so emotional.” “Oh, no—​please don’t apologize for that. Hmm, do you think that maybe, just maybe, a beer could help?”

52  Night Rain She gets up from her seat, nods with a smile, and heads downstairs. While Marija is gone, I call the waiter over, hand him our empty plates, and ask for two beers and a 12-​piece nigiri platter to share. Then, I take out my cell phone. There’s nothing in particular I need to do with it—​I guess I’m just trying to lessen the awkwardness of sitting alone. I notice, however, a couple of direct messages from Yue. In our Syderoxylon Online team chat, he has responded to my banter by calling me a coward for not also playing an archer, and finally fulfill the prophecy of Jakub the Wise. Jakub works in accounting at uni. A few minutes later, Marija is back, and I quickly put my phone away. “Cheers!” she says, raising the beer bottle that she found waiting for her. “Is something funny?” “Yue is being a clown as usual.” “When’s the next competition again?” “End of October.” She nods, takes another sip, and then asks, “So, do you still want to know what happens after all the lights go out in the Akureyri supercomputer complex?” “I thought you’d never ask!” I say emphasizing my complete attention towards by straightening my posture and turning towards her. “Okay, here’s what I have in mind for the next part. Please remember that I haven’t worked it out in its entirety and that some parts might change, and …” “I will. Scout’s Honor!” “Okay. Here goes—​Steton wakes up in Florida and he is eleven years old.” “He what?!” “Yup. His memories are intact, but he is a child. He has gone back in time and space to the suburban house where he grew up on the outskirts of Jacksonville. He is in his childhood bedroom, but he remembers Iceland and the console monitoring the SLAGG cooling system. He remembers Vamvera, the metal trees, the broken coffee cup, and all the rest.”

Night Rain  53 “He must be freaking out,” I impulsively comment. “Of course he is. Lying in bed, he is barely managing to hold back a panic attack, and it takes a while before he is able to calm down enough to analyze the situation with a degree of critical distance. His first guess is that he must be hallucinating. Something must have gone wrong with the supercomputer. He has probably been exposed to a massive dose of radiation, or something may have blown up and caused him to hit his head. He could be in a coma, for all he knows. Trying to make sense of his situation, he gets out of bed and opens some of the books he finds on his bedroom shelves. They’re full of words, and the words can be read and understood. They are not scrambled nonsense. Then, he walks to his brother’s room and talks to Bennart. Everything feels maddeningly normal. Time passes, and his new reality doesn’t fade or decline in detail or consistency. As his next working hypothesis, he convinces himself that whatever happened in Iceland must be an act of God. Steton has never been a religious person, but he has also never witnessed an event so shocking and out of the ordinary. “I guess one needs to start from somewhere.” I am positively tipsy. “With nothing else to go on, he decides that the Lord’s grace must have sent him back in time with a divine mission—​saving his parent’s marriage. Why else would he be there just a few months before his family fell apart? His plan, however, does not succeed. Despite his attempts to protect his family and keep it from sliding into toxicity and resentment, his mom and dad’s anger towards one another does not subside. Their fights grow progressively longer, and more frequent, and, in one or two cases, they escalate into physical violence. About six months later, his parents file for divorce. His mom moves out several weeks before the divorce is final. Steton’s dad gets sole custody of both kids, and the whole thing is just miserable. Our hero spends an increasing amount of time alone, confused about why he is still in the past and what his purpose there might be. He feels that he needs to reconsider his assumptions. After all, what cruel god would deliberately put him through his parent’s divorce again? And for what reason?” Our sushi platter arrives as a pleasant surprise to Marija. “Hey, this was a great idea!” she says as she grabs a piece of shrimp nigiri. “Where was I?” she continues. “Ah, yes … So, Steton feels even more lost and confused. Then a thought occurs to him—​Vamvera was also in the control room when the lights went out. Chances are, he thinks, that she

54  Night Rain was also sent back to the past. They could be sharing the same timeline. If that is the case, she must be somewhere in Montana, presumably also wondering why the hell she was sent back in time. At least he thinks it was Montana. Following this hunch, Steton starts looking for Vamvera in the hope she can provide some clues to solve this absurd puzzle. Nothing shows up when he searches for the surname ‘Zamdem’ in Montana. He gets a few hits in Wisconsin and Minnesota, but they soon turn out to be dead ends.” The sushi pieces are quickly disappearing from the tray. I nod at Marija as I take my fourth. “He is losing hope, and he doesn’t have much of that left to lose at that point. The situation is even bleaker, from his perspective, because Vamvera has not shown up at his door or found a way to contact him. She is older than Steton, and very resourceful. He is also sure that Vamvera knows he’s from Jacksonville. She used to call him Jacksonville, after all … Or maybe she did look for him but couldn’t find him.” I nod again. I am intrigued. “So, with the assumption that Vamvera was also sent back in time and with the intention to make it easier for her to find him, Steton quickly sets up a simple website. On its two pages, he lists his name, her name, and some oblique references to the future events they shared. He curses himself for not having thought of this earlier, and hopes the website’s contents and keywords will make it easier for Vamvera to reach out. Obviously, he also puts his email address there.” “Obviously.” “I was thinking it might be funny if his brother, Bennart, finds the website and writes to him, pretending to be Vamvera for his own sadistic amusement. Whatever, that’s not important now. Plus, you’ve already eaten six pieces of nigiri. Leave some for me, will you?” I guiltily retreat my hand from the platter. “Anyway, a few weeks pass, and Vamvera—​the Vamvera of this timeline—​ does not contact him. It’s early spring, and Steton’s father decides to try to shake off the gloom and apathy that has settled over their household by taking the kids camping and hiking. They plan to spend two weeks together on a road trip—​their first trip without their mother.”

Night Rain  55 “Hey, I recognize this part! This is the bit where you introduced SLAGG in the third chapter. Are we going to go through that same scene from a different point of view?” “That is exactly right—​The reader is indeed supposed to recognize this episode,” she replies with a smile, “but this is not going to be the same scene as the first time around. This time, they do not hear about SLAGG on the radio, or wherever it was, and the dad does not try to keep the kids engaged by talking about it.” “Interesting. So this is not exactly the same past that Steton originally lived through.” “Right, and yet Steton remembers the corresponding moments of his past life vividly—​the sneezing, the endless alluvial plain, his fascination with the new substance that was supposed to change the world …” “That must feel so weird! Does he bring up the topic of SLAGG himself? Does he ask his dad about it? I definitely would!” “As I imagine that part of the story, I am also convinced that he pretty much has to. He wants to find out what’s going on, so he asks his dad what he knows about the new miraculous fluid, but his father doesn’t know what he’s talking about. Steton will later look SLAGG up on his phone, only to realize that there’s nothing of the sort in this version of his past. Perhaps later in the story, when he’s a little older, he’ll find out that, not only was the substance never invented, but it would be physically impossible to produce. Its properties are incompatible with some basic functioning of the universe.” “What do you mean?” “I … I don’t know. I mean, I imagine that Steton still has his memories from the future and knows in detail how SLAGG works in terms of its chemistry and physics. At some point, he must realize that, in the universe where he now finds himself, SLAGG could never exist in a stable form. He comes to terms with the idea that there is a significant difference between how physics used to work and how it functions in this new version of the past.” “As a scientist, it’s my duty to warn you, here. If anything were to be different—​however slightly—​than it is at the level of universal constants, then our universe would ...”

56  Night Rain “Qalbi, please don’t get too hung up on this idea—​As I said, this is all in flux, and I have not done any research to back up these ramblings.” “Yeah sure, I just wanted—​” “And you can rest assured that I will ask for your advice when I get to it. For now, just accept that SLAGG is not possible in Steton’s new timeline and, as far as he is concerned, it has unhappened.” “Wait.” I put down my beer glass. “Unhappened? What does that even mean?” “Unhappened as in ‘ceased to have happened.’ ” I pause for a moment, thinking to myself how paradoxical and confusing that term is. Even the phrasing of it is ridiculous! All she means to say is that it happened in a different timeline and that this is not the case in this one. I wonder if she plans to use that term in the novella and hope that she does not. A part of me, though, is screaming at me to keep my mouth shut and be supportive—​“Marija is being vulnerable here, and you have already spoken your mind a bit harshly on too many occasions tonight. Bad Carla. Unsympathetic Carla. Unloving.” I bite my lower lip and tense up a little. “Shall I continue?” “P-​please.” “So, at this point in the story, Steton recognizes that his presence, or rather his having a memory of another future, is not the only discrepancy between the first version of the past he experienced and the one in which he currently finds himself. The impossibility of SLAGG is another difference, right? Everything else, as far as he can tell or as far as he can remember, seems unchanged.” “I see …” “… So, that’s pretty much all I have for now! The loose plan moving forward from here involves developing the story on two levels. At the first level, Steton tries to find Vamvera. The second, I imagine, could take the form of an inner monologue in which Steton considers a variety of theories about the incredible, unnatural situation he is experiencing. Is he living in a sort of recurring dream à la Calderón de la Barca? Or is the

Night Rain  57 world he perceives being fed to his brain by a computer simulation that was recently reset and adjusted for some reason? Or did the heating up of an unprecedently large quantity of SLAGG trigger a quantum accident of some kind?” She finishes her beer with one last, long swig. “At one point …” She wipes her mouth with the back of her hand. “At one point, as part of Steton’s speculative endeavors, I would like him to wonder whether he could be the protagonist in a science-​fiction story. Specifically, a science-​fiction story whose authors changed their minds about SLAGG halfway through the first draft and then decided to take another trajectory for the plot—​one that is somewhat similar to the initial effort but that does not include the new, futuristic substance. In that scenario, I guess Steton could even talk directly to the hypothetical authors of the story of which he is pondering being a part. He could talk to me! He could stare—​I don’t know … at the sky or at the ceiling and explicitly ask me why I am toying with his destiny and what I intend to do with him. Asking for clues or a sign of sorts.” “And what will you answer?”“As I’ve said, I’m still thinking about it. These are just ideas—​tentative and half-​formed. Maybe I’ll make something odd happen to him the next day, and he will take that to be a message from the authors. I don’t know. Perhaps this is stupid.” Something changes swiftly, and Marija seems to be aching to leave, projecting unmistakable body signals of impatience. “You know what?” she says, “I feel like writing tonight. Let’s go home!” I gulp down the little beer I have left. She grabs her jacket and I ask for the check. Outside, the night rain eased to a drizzle.

6 Autumn Moon

On Monday morning, the sky is still overcast. For some reason, the traffic is less awful than usual, and my drive from home to the Malta Met Office takes only about thirty minutes. What miraculous alignment of coincidences made this possible, I may never know. It’s not that my commute this morning is particularly fast, but it never grinds to a standstill either—​and that’s something. During the slowest parts of the drive, I can catch glimpses of the refugee shelters that have popped up like mushrooms beside the highway ramps and viaducts in the last three weeks. Some of the residual urban spaces that they occupy are indistinguishable from muddy junkyards, at least from up here on the overpass. The strong winds must have wreaked havoc on the lighter structures and there is stuff lying all over the place. Some of the plastic tarps that were being used as makeshift roofs have been torn away and now hang on for dear life to streetlights and railings against the cloudy sky. I have a knot in my throat and feel awful for having complained about my weekend. I need to concentrate on driving now. Fuck. I take a mental note—​I will donate to the volunteer associations helping these people. I will do it tonight. Having made this resolution helps me to feel partly absolved of my sins, but I am still troubled. It is hard to pinpoint or describe exactly how I am feeling, even less so while at the wheel. All I know is it has something to do with the comfort and safety of my clearly privileged life. Thoughts about my own routine, my social environment, and my home appliances. It might be described as the sudden, rattled recognition that those things that make my life easier and more appealing are also weapons that I willingly pointed against myself. The relative safety of my two jobs, the escapist pleasure of playing games, my relationship with Marija are also aspects of my life that make me docile and numb. Here’s a related thought: I read somewhere that “tact” is a form of interpersonal diplomacy. It is a social strategy devised to not remind other people of

DOI: 10.4324/9781003330202-6

Autumn Moon  59 the fact that we are organisms and, as such, have bodily functions, stink, reproduce sexually, and will inevitably die. Tact is thus a form of voluntary blindness—​it is self-​imposed numbness. It is there to protect us from the realization that illness, irrationality, misfortune, and loss are not states of exception. That they are not fringe occurrences, but the background over which all our lives play out. Cubicles of motion; cubicles in motion. An ambulance speeds by in one of the lanes moving in the opposite direction. Just then, I let an enormous fart escape. It feels great. I quickly roll down my window, though, trying to avoid being fully confronted with my inner workings. Can one be tactful toward oneself, I wonder? And why do they even call it a train of thought? Trains have rails, whereas this is more like a messy traffic jam of thoughts. Some ideas try to speed through like ambulances, while others move to the side, irregularly wedged next to other thoughts. Regardless of which metaphor works best, I stop thinking about this stuff as I reach the Malta International Airport parking lot. All I can think about now is that I need to find a Toyota Vitz-​shaped hole. The main parking lot at the airport also serves the Met Office, a rather ordinary-​ looking two-​ story building not far from the runway. As an employee, I can park there for free, which is of course no guarantee that a spot will be available. Our office’s location next to the airport is not in any way exceptional. It is very often the case that publicly funded meteorology offices are built next to—​or in some cases housed inside—​airports. Okay, I finally find a parking spot, roll my window back up, and get out of the car. Unreflexively, I walk to the usual kiosk and buy a to-​go coffee from the usual person. I smile, he smiles. Nothing strange or atypical but I still can’t shake the feelings and thoughts that accompanied my commute. For now, I make the conscious decision to ignore them and focus on the more vividly pressing needs imposed on me by my jobs. On my plate, in terms of the work that awaits me today, is completing and editing an already overdue atmospheric pollution report to be sent to a couple of ministries. I am not far from finishing it, really, and a colleague has already offered to help with proofreading and polishing the document. If everything goes as planned, in the afternoon I should also have time to make some progress with grading a few of the remaining assignments completed by my university students. I work industriously and quickly, uninterrupted by urgent emails, unexpected phone calls, or unsettling thoughts about self-​deception. I work in such a diligent and focused way, in fact, that after lunch I am almost done with grading. That’s when the first spots of sunshine begin to appear on

60  Autumn Moon the runway outside my window. That’s also when I begin to feel like I’m starting to lose steam. The planes taking off and landing seem to suddenly have a stronger claim to my conscious attention, and so do the people talking outside my office door. The decision to open the chat interface in a new browser tab is the last nail in the coffin of my productivity for today. I draw in a deep breath and exhale in resignation. There are several unread messages in the general channel of the Science Malta server. Okay, I mumble to myself, let’s see what’s going down in nerd town. -​-​-​-​-​-​-​-​-​-​-​-​-​-​-​-​-​-​-​-​-​-​-​-​-​ October 12, 2025-​-​-​-​-​-​-​-​-​-​-​-​-​-​-​-​-​-​-​-​< NEW MESSAGES] Science Malta #general QIUYUE -​ 10/​12/​2025 Welcome @Evening_​Snow What brings you to these parts? Evening_​Snow -​ 10/​12/​2025 Greetings! I’m a retired journalist who is trying to get a science-​fiction story published (now that I have some free time on my hands). I was hoping that someone on this science-​dedicated channel could assist me. I need a helping hand with atmospheric physics in particular. [Sylvia Gatt reacts with a facepalm] AlienSpawn -​ 10/​12/​2025 first off please stop talking as if you were sending an email and second why look for help here of all places? very sus [Sylvia_​Gatt reacts with a SUS icon] [Ill_​Ballut reacts with SUS icon] Ill_​Ballut -​ 10/​12/​2025 omg could this be the prophesized return of that guy wtf was his name? Impost0r? QIUYUE -​ 10/​12/​2025 Imp_​poster [Ill_​Ballut reacts with a thumbs up] Evening_​Snow -​ 10/​12/​2025 Look, a friend suggested that I could find people willing to help here.

Autumn Moon  61 They told me that scientists from the local university often visit this chat server and that many of you share an interest in science fiction. As I see it, this is neither strange nor all that exciting. AlienSpawn -​ 10/​12/​2025 in fact this is already quite boring if you ask me Evening_​Snow -​ 10/​12/​2025 Are you folks normally this friendly Or was I just lucky to pop in on a particularly good day? [Ill_​Ballut reacts with a sad face] Sylvia_​Gatt -​ 10/​12/​2025 hey, @Evening_​Snow, the nineties just DM’d me they say they want their attempt at humor back [AlienSpawn reacts with a laugh] Evening_​Snow -​ 10/​12/​2025 I see that this was a great use of my time. Oh well, goodbye. Xuereb_​André -​ 10/​12/​2025 Wait, @Evening_​Snow! I’m sorry. I don’t know why people on this server feel the need to behave like complete idiots, really. Sylvia_​Gatt -​ 10/​12/​2025 Why don’t you go climb a wall of dicks, André >> Sylvia Gatt has been banned from Science Malta for 48 hours