Love in an Undead Age, A.M. Geever [best contemporary novels txt] 📗

The same could not be said for the irrigation system on this floor, however, and the tech was not in yet, so she would look at it herself. The place buzzed with activity as people tried to catch up on the morning’s work. Miranda liked when it was busy like this. It reminded her of when they were first trying to get the farms off the ground.

Some had scoffed when she first suggested the idea of a vertical farm. Who was she, a snot-nosed college kid who’d never even graduated, to think she should be in charge of growing enough food for everyone? Holders of that opinion were not impressed by Miranda’s internship at the Chez Panisse Foundation’s Edible Schoolyard Program. Others were daunted at the thought of building anything so ambitious. Miranda had come across vertical farms her freshman year and fallen in love with the concept immediately. The idea was so elegant and made so much sense that Miranda was sure it would never become a reality on the scale that it should. Not in America, anyway.

The idea was to have multi-story buildings in cities that were essentially huge greenhouses to grow food. The controlled environment would mitigate crop failure, making organic farming easier. Farmland could be allowed to return to its natural state, restoring ecological systems. Burning fossil fuels to transport food would be reduced because it would not have to be shipped all over the world. And if there was ever a disruption in supply lines because of a disaster, cities wouldn’t run out of food within days.

Miranda spent hours poring over schematics for glass and steel buildings with thermodynamic heating and cooling systems, solar-powered irrigation systems, and wind-powered electrical systems. She thought the designs were inspired, never thinking she’d get the chance to manage one, never mind build one. Farm #1 was in the converted North Parking Garage on the San Jose State University campus. When the first harvest from the pilot was compared to those that were grown traditionally, the project picked up steam. The vertical out-produced the regular farm by thirty percent, better than they’d projected. Even without the use of heavy machinery, building from scratch proved more efficient than conversions. Once they started using purpose-built buildings, the percentage jumped to forty-five.

There were still traditional farms. Replacing them had never been the idea; having a more secure food source was. There were five verticals between the San Jose State and Santa Clara University campuses so far, as well as the farm at UC Berkeley. Just thinking about the success of the project made Miranda so happy she thought she would burst.

She squatted next to the pump for the sixth floor and took off the casing. No blockages on the intake and outtake tubes she discovered after a quick visual inspection. The pump had power and the water pressure was good, so it was not a leak. It had to be mechanical. Miranda pried off the motor cover to take a look. Worst case scenario we swap the whole thing out and have maintenance do the repairs.

She had the motor almost half taken apart when she heard footsteps and voices coming her way. One voice belonged to Alan Reynolds, the City Council Administrative Liaison.

Privately, Miranda referred to Alan as ‘The Troll.’ His predecessors had understood that the job was a bone the Jesuits of Santa Clara University—who ran the farms—threw to placate the City. The City, in turn, used the liaison to spy on the Jesuits. There had not been much to report of late since the rocky relationship between the Council and the Jesuits was calm just now, but that could change in a heartbeat. Everyone knew how it worked except Alan. He had ideas about how to run the Farm and thought his position gave him a say about Ops. Miranda had decided that Alan was not that smart. Self-important and well-connected? Absolutely. But smart? Not in this lifetime.

“It is hard to find a good gardener!” Alan’s droning voice floated down the aisle. “Every time I find an adequate one, it takes a month to get them to do things the way I want. I get maybe six months, and then one day some random person shows up saying my gardener turned, but he’ll be happy to take over.”

Alan sounded aggrieved, as if his gardener woes would be the death of him. Miranda had abandoned all pretense of trying to work with Alan months ago and instead concentrated her efforts on finding some pretext to get rid of him. If he’d just get caught out in something even the City can’t defend, like kiddie porn, she thought.

A deep pang of longing blossomed in her chest. Lately she’d begun fantasizing about arranging an accident to take care of the Alan problem but when she made a wisecrack to that effect, Father Walter had not been amused. She grinned, remembering the look of horror on his face, as well as his sharp admonishment that she would do no such thing.

As if I’d ever stoop as low as murder for that waste of space.

The footsteps drew closer. Even though she knew it was coming, it still put every nerve on edge.

“Knock knock!”

She didn’t know where Alan had picked up the habit of slinking up behind people and treating the beginning of a knock-knock joke as a legitimate greeting. Business school, most likely.

“What do you want?” she asked, not bothering to hide her annoyance.

“I want to introduce you to Mary, our new irrigation tech.”

A new irrigation tech? Alan had Miranda’s attention now.

“What are you talking about?” she said as she stood up. “You don’t hire for Ops and we don’t need an irrigation tech, especially now.”

“Ah, yes, about that… I’m afraid I had to let Timmy go.”

Alan looked down at his shoes, then up at the ceiling. He was so tall that his raised head left her looking at the bottom of his bobbing Adam’s apple. His habit of not looking her in the eye was almost as annoying as the knock knock crap.

“You had to let Timmy go? I’m gonna use short sentences so you understand me. You don’t hire for the Farm. Ido.”

“You know that Timmy was bitten—”

“And he got to the hospital in time so they could dose him.”

Alan lowered his beady blue eyes to hers, his lips pursed like he’d been sucking a lemon.

“We’ve never had a doser working at the Farm and I don’t think it’s a good idea to set a precedent. I don’t have to remind you that his Level 1 skill rating is the only reason he was eligible for post-bite sponsorship in the first place, and that comes out of the general fund, not the Ops budget.” Seeing Miranda’s stunned expression, Alan’s voice became bold. “You should have consulted me before you signed off on treatment.”

For a moment, Miranda was too stunned to speak. “You want to get rid of him because it costs us money?” she demanded. “If we don’t sponsor him, he’ll be a slave or turn into a zombie! What the fuck is wrong with you?”

Heads popped out from the tomato plants, seeking the source of the raised voices. The would-be irrigation tech backed away from Alan.

“You can’t talk that way to me!” Alan snapped. “The last thing we need is to have someone working here who’s going to turn into a zombie if he misses a dose! I won’t have it!”

“There is zero chance of him turning if he gets his dose every day. I’ve talked to Timmy, and despite the fact that he’ll now be treated like shit by most everyone and has to go live in that goddamn camp, his motivation to avoid becoming a zombie is very high. You don’t have authority over Ops staffing, which includes vaccine sponsorship, so I don’t give a shit what you’ll have.”

“I don’t appreciate your attempts to undermine my authority, Miranda,” Alan countered, looming over her. “It’s unfortunate that he was infected but—”

“No, Alan, you listen to me.” Miranda moved into his space so that he had to take a step back. Her voice dripped menace, and her right index finger jabbed into his chest for emphasis. “I don’t give a fuck what you want, what you like, or how you want things done. I don’t care if they put a biohazard tattoo in the middle of his fucking forehead! Nobody is going to turn on my watch to save a few a bucks. Now take your flunky and fuck off before I throw you out the goddamn window.”

Alan vibrated with fury and embarrassment, his face as purple as the eggplants that grew on the other side of the building. “You haven’t heard the last of this, Miranda! You can’t treat me like this and get away with it!” he snarled.

He turned on his heel and scuttled toward the door, very much like an oversized beetle, taking note of the sizable audience their shouting match had drawn. Miranda shouted after him.

“Yeah, Alan, I have heard the last of it! The City doesn’t control the Farms and I don’t care what Councilman you’re blowing, you fucking troll!”

“Goddamn him,” she hissed as the door slammed shut. She kicked a wrench that lay on the floor, sending it skittering across the deck grating that let water drip through to the level below. Blood pounded in Miranda’s ears, her body brimming with adrenaline. She looked up and for the first time noticed the staff standing there.

“What?” she blurted. At the back of the group came a clap, followed by another. Within seconds she was receiving an enthusiastic standing ovation. Miranda felt a grin tug at one corner of her mouth. “That was pretty bad, wasn’t it?”

The young woman nearest to her grinned. “That was epic, boss! That was like, folk hero stuff.”

“I don’t know about that,” Miranda laughed. She looked at her staff, their faces alight with laughter and adoration. “Okay, you guys. I blew my stack and there’s still work to do. Nothing to see here anymore.”

The clapping, though not the laughter and excited chatter, subsided as people drifted back to their work.

“Hey,” Miranda said to the young woman. “Will you call maintenance for me, have them come swap out