The Revolutionary

Steam rose from the mug, slowly winding toward the low ceiling which still faintly shook as the wind outside subsided.

The revolutionary stared absently at the screen as they drank, watching the output numbers slowly tick back up as the dust began to settle and the solar farm once more resumed generation. Red became amber and the counter slowed to a halt. Forty-three percent. Just a minor storm, really.

An urgent sounding alert issued from the screen as the system recalculated power generation versus drain and compared the number unfavorably to its remaining battery capacity. The revolutionary grunted. Three hours, maybe less.

With a final motion the revolutionary drank the last of their coffee and placed the mug back on the table among the fading, ring shaped stains. Not for the first time the revolutionary considered these rings and was called to think of marks scratched on a wall, just one more way to measure the passing of time.

Massaging their shoulder in a vain attempt to loosen it, the revolutionary prepared for work. Goggles, Mask, Suit. The holy trinity of maintenance.

Vacuum seals clamped shut with a reassuring sound as the goggles whirred to life, automatically adjusting against the glare of the sun. A rapidly scrolling checklist flashed across their eyes as the suit confirmed it was safe to be outside, a thin barrier against whatever might be carried on the air, hidden inside the dust. Quiet, hissing static filled their ear as the revolutionary left the small Easi-home, a poor substitute for the familiar companionship of the radio. Broadcasters had yet to resume activity, or perhaps the local repeater was down again.

Trudging toward the nearby bank of panels, it became clear that the dust alone was not responsible for the reduction in output, the dull green glow emanating from each panel an affirmation of their function. Clean up of the panels would have to wait until the source of power loss could be found.

Tapping at the goggles to bring up the grid display, the revolutionary paused. No response from the inverter. This could mean a malfunction, but the homemade hard-line to the screen inside had been working, which meant that only wireless connectivity was down. Alone this might be nothing, but the soft static in their ear began to whisper a sinister thought. Sabotage.

The inverter shed was over a small rise, further away from the bank of panels than it should have been, a longstanding cause of frustration and testament to a grand vision that had crumbled, unfulfilled.

Straining to move quickly uphill against the constraints of the cumbersome suit and deceptively deep pockets of dust, years old memories came unbidden. A heart shaped locket, blackened with soot, placed in an empty grave. The surge of a crowd against a seemingly immovable wall of riot shields. The feeling of triumph as the shields began to fall. Flashes of pain and disjointed sensations from a hospital bed. A single word, first shouted in anger and then in celebration: Change. Years of bitter realization that winning was never enough, while all they had fought for was slowly eroded till it was as ephemeral as the dust that now choked the skies.

Finally, the shed was visible, a geometric anomaly against a once verdant backdrop that was slowly becoming a featureless waste. Tire tracks clearly visible despite the recent storm confirmed their fears. Someone had come here to either damage equipment or steal power. Either option could spell disaster for the people in the city that relied on this farm to provide power free of corporate control.

Moving cautiously now, the revolutionary approached the shed, circling it at a distance to make sure no vehicles remained. Satisfied that the coast was clear they moved to the door, vigilant identi-lock showing no sign of its betrayal. Professionals, likely, to bypass the lock without visible damage.

With an apologetic beep the door slid open, dim lights flickering on inside the shed revealing a massacre of aluminum panels and circuitry. It was to its own credit that the inverter still worked at all, dissected as it was. An incomplete murder, though one that might still result in death if the damage couldn't be repaired before the stored power ran dry.

Wincing with effort, the revolutionary lowered onto aching knees to examine the carnage, reading electronic entrails to determine their future. At first glance it seemed to be wanton destruction, but it soon became clear that the damage was not irreparable. Cables deftly removed and circuit boards unbroken, strewn loosely about. Strange. It would have been simpler to rip and tear until the light faded, but the impression given was of organization hidden in chaos.

Time later to try and understand the intention of the saboteur, now was the time for swift but careful action. The ever-helpful goggles whirred and clicked as they were shown the organs of the machine, indicating which cable was paired with which socket, and which slot housed each board. A tedious march against time as each minor repair brought a small glimmer of hope.

The small, repetitive movements granted the revolutionary a forehead beading with sweat and a body stiff and sore, joints a chorus of protest at every effort. After close to two hours the work was complete, though several components were missing entirely. Visible reminders of the wounds inflicted upon the machine.

The built-in display on the inverter stabilized at seventy-four percent, slightly more than was needed to provide a net gain of power, indicated by a cheerful green pulse, almost keeping time with a heartbeat that could now slow. Crisis averted.

Static continued to bubble through the radio receiver, and the goggles remained unable to connect to the inverter, and so the hunt began for a jamming device.

The sun hung barely visible behind the ever-present clouds of smoke and dust, ineffective barriers against the heat. The tire tracks were already becoming harder to see, a slight breeze working as co-conspirator to erase all trace of the intrusion.

The jamming device could not be found inside, disabling communications before breaching the lock would be an obvious choice. Emerging to circle the shed, the revolutionary scanned the ground for anything out of place, any sign of human tampering with what could be generously labelled as nature. Nothing.

Stopping for a moment to lean against the wall, a sigh that was nearly a scream escaped the revolutionary's lips, their fists clenching and slowly releasing as their head tipped back to look at the sky. A murmur of music, barely audible over the hiss of static caused them to freeze. The soulless, familiar jingle once again crept down from the roof to their ears, sending them scrambling to climb.

Perched atop the building like an insect poised to strike, the jammer was an expertly crafted array of antennae wrapped around a battery pack and secured to the roof with a powerful adhesive gel, ensuring it would not be dislodged by the storm.

The tell-tale jingle emanated from a programmable business card slotted into the jammer, proudly signalling which faceless corporation had left behind this gift.

As the revolutionary reached to remove the jammer, the business card sprang to life, a coldly cheerful message informing them that employees of the corporation received a significant discount on replacement electronics, followed by a variety of ways to apply for a position.

Back in the Easi-home the revolutionary contemplated the jammer. With no obvious off switch, it had been tempting to destroy it, but it contained valuable electronics that could be put to more honorable use.

An hour of work with a series of tools that now cluttered the table had eventually convinced the jammer to reveal the connection to the battery, two small wires and a few lumps of solder all that was required to turn solitude into isolation.

The revolutionary cut the wires savagely, seized by an urge to damage something. The effect was immediate. Their earpiece crackled to life, a synthesized voice informing any listeners of an incoming thunder storm, dispassionately suggesting citizens should stay indoors.

The radio continued its comforting drone as the revolutionary prepared a meal, plant-based protein cubes and wholemeal rice, made palatable with a variety of spices held in antique jars. Sitting down with their food, they turned their attention to the screen, wondering how to report the day to the union.

A conspicuous alert drove thoughts of compiling reports from their mind, eyes widening as they read. A proposal had been adopted by the city, allowing corporations to take over independent power generators that were operating at less than eighty percent of their rated capacity. The radio interjected with a description of protests within the city and news of a corporate enforced curfew.

Standing to pace the room, the revolutionary's eyes landed upon their equipment. Goggles, Mask, Suit. The holy trinity of maintenance. Perhaps they could be used again for something more.

The Revolutionary stepped outside, beginning their march toward the city, a dull haze of light and smoke against the gathering storm clouds on the horizon.