They Said Photosynthesis Would End Hunger. Then They Started Selling the Sun.

The Sunward Ones

At noon, wind knocked a plastic cup off the rooftop. Lin Zhao pulled his jacket to his shoulders and pressed the green membrane on his back against the concrete. The guard lifted a megaphone. Turn over. Three minutes. Don’t burn.

A row of people turned. Skin pale green, like leaves just rinsed. Someone snored. Someone covered his face with a lunchbox lid. Lin Zhao watched the sky. Thin clouds. Sun like a white nail. He counted. Forty minutes today. Three mouthfuls saved. Back to the eighteenth floor. Just enough.

Lunch was half a bowl of rice and a tube of nutrient solution. The solution tasted like rust. Old Chen crushed his empty tube. Not enough light rations today. Afternoon in the underground warehouse. Bring your own flashlight. Lin Zhao asked, Does a flashlight count as light? Old Chen laughed. It counts as electricity. Electricity costs money. Light costs money too.

South-facing workstations lined the roof edge. Glass cubicles. The people inside did not lie down. They sat with full lighting panels behind them. Company benefits: Sunward subsidy, three hundred a month. Lin Zhao’s workstation sat at the end of the corridor. The next building blocked the window. He had applied three times. HR said, Get in line.

At three, Lin Zhao went to the Shadow District to repair a light pipe. Buildings pressed together. The sky was a crack. In an alley, a girl crouched against the wall. Her jacket spread over her knees. One calf showed. The green on her skin was faint, like an old tattoo. She looked up, eyes narrow. A guard came from the other end, flashlight swinging. The girl grabbed her jacket and ran. Lin Zhao stepped aside. The guard shouted, Stop! Light thief!

She did not stop. Grass and sweat drifted past. Lin Zhao kept walking. The light pipe flickered overhead. He opened the panel. Dust. The meter spun fast. Old Chen’s words came back. The electric bill is the food bill. Here, no one could pay either.

At night, Lin Zhao went back to his rented room. The window faced north. He took off his shirt and stood before the mirror. The green membrane on his back had yellowed. The edges peeled. He spread ointment. Cool. His phone buzzed. Company group. Tomorrow sunny. Rooftop hours extended. Someone replied, Received. Someone replied, Can we bring food? The admin replied, No. Light does not replace food.

Lin Zhao lay down. His stomach was empty. He counted cracks in the ceiling. Tomorrow, maybe ten extra minutes.

On the weekend, Lin Zhao went to the Sunward District to deliver and repair light pipes. Tall buildings. Bright glass. Green street trees. The noon ball was on a rooftop. He swiped in. The elevator smelled of nutrient solution and clean cotton. Pale green people in thin clothes, light ports on their backs. A woman asked, What number? Maintenance, he said. She said Oh and turned away.

White tiles covered the roof. Light bounced up. A band played in the corner. Violin, dry. People turned slowly, like sunflowers. Someone raised a glass. Blue nutrient solution. Lin Zhao crouched behind the distribution box and turned screws. A man walked over. From the Shadow District? Lin Zhao nodded. Don’t touch that panel. It’s expensive. I know. The man said, How many light rations do you get? Twenty minutes a day. The man laughed. We don’t have a limit.

Midway through the ball, someone shouted, Blocking the light! Everyone looked up. A drone cut across the sun. Its shadow fell on the crowd. A guard raised a gun. The drone fled. People went back to turning. Lin Zhao finished the screws and stood. His shadow was short on the white tiles. He looked at it. Then he left.

A Ye was the girl who stole light. She lived in Building Seven, Shadow District, basement. Her mother worked for a light-debt company. Every day she called to collect. Her father lay in bed. Skin gray white. Chloroplasts long dead. Every day A Ye climbed to the roof and searched the cracks. She had an old light meter. Twenty minutes. Past twenty, it beeped. She had tried to take it apart. It stayed whole.

That day she ran home with a scraped knee. Her mother asked, Stealing light again? No. Her mother slammed the medicine bottle on the table. If the rations drop again next month, you are done with school. A Ye said nothing. She opened her notebook. Photosynthesis is the process by which plants use light energy to convert carbon dioxide and water into organic matter. Half a line. The pen ran dry.

She thought of Lin Zhao. The repairman who stepped aside. The yellowing membrane on his back. Maybe he was short on light too.

Lu Yuanzhou maintained the artificial sun at the North City Energy Tower. Three hundred meters. LED arrays on top. By day they drank light. By night they gave it back. He wore sunglasses and a protective suit. He climbed to replace panels. The panels were hot. Each one he changed, the meter jumped. Below, the city lit up once.

Control room screen. Today’s supplemental light: four hours. Light ration balance: seventeen percent. The supervisor said, Conserve. Rain next week. Lu Yuanzhou asked, What about the Shadow District? By quota. Lu Yuanzhou said nothing. He remembered his grandmother’s house. Countryside. Kerosene lamp. Short wick. Small light. Save oil, she said. He had not understood. Now he understood electricity.

After work, Lu Yuanzhou went to night school. Old warehouse. Windows covered with black cloth. Candles inside. The teacher was an old man, once a botanist. Did you know, people used to eat without light rations. Someone laughed. It’s true. Someone asked, How did they live? They ate grain. Grain comes from photosynthesis too. They just did not photosynthesize themselves.

Lu Yuanzhou raised his hand. And now? Now you photosynthesize yourselves, but the light is sold. Then what do we do? The old man blew out the candle. The warehouse went dark. Remember the dark. He lit it again. The flame was small on a few green faces.

The hospital stood in the east. Lin Zhao went for a follow-up. The doctor shone a light on his back. The rejection has worsened. I recommend removal. After removal? Keep eating. Nutrient solution. No sun. What about my light rations? They will still be issued. You will not be able to use them. Lin Zhao dressed. In the corridor, a row of people sat with yellowing skin, like autumn leaves. A child cried. The mother said, Don’t scratch. It will itch more.

Lin Zhao walked out. The sun was good. He stood on the steps and took off his jacket. The green membrane on his back shone. Five minutes. The light meter beeped. He put his clothes on and left.

The Slow People’s Village lay in the south. Very green skin. Slow movements. They walked like trees in wind. No factories. No power towers. Six hours of sun a day. A few mineral tablets. A child was placed on a light bed at birth. Walking came at three. Full sentences at five.

A child asked his mother, Why don’t we run anymore? One run costs three days of sun. I want to run. Run. The child ran out and fell on the grass. He laughed. The mother watched and laughed. Then she carried him back to the light bed. Can I run again tomorrow? Depends on the sun.

North City Museum, basement. A dried leaf in a glass case. Label: Natural leaf, twentieth century. Children lined up. A boy asked, Is this what food used to be? Not food. A factory. What kind? A factory that turns light into sugar. What about us? We are factories too. Then why do we still have to buy light? The docent did not answer. The closing bell rang. The children walked out. Cloudy outside. The boy looked up. Can we come again tomorrow? We’re closed tomorrow. The door shut. The leaf lay in the glass case.