Left photo, courtesy of http://superfamous.com/. Right photo property of A.C. Harrison.
The desert is a cracked and desecrated wasteland. The air itself greedily pulls the moisture from anything foolish enough to be alive within the vast expanse of sand and rock that consumes the American southwest, spanning from Texas to California. Among the animals and plants that claw hungrily to survival are humans, nomads forced to survive after losing their homes and livelihoods.
Along the coasts, from New York to California, twisted weather patterns cloak the sky in clouds that readily vomit forth an acid rain that infuriatingly wears on the endless desalination plants that churn away in the water, fading away into the distant haze of pollution as far as the unaugmented eye can see. The plants are more precious than food or energy, delivering just enough potable water to the millions of huddled masses that live and die in the gutters and potholes of the cities, cloaked in rags and rashes from highly resistant strains of bacteria.
This is the reality that exists in the cyberpunk world of “Jupiter Symphony,” my premier dystopian novel. In writing it, I came to have an appreciate for how much gravity the setting can lend a story, from the ultra-luxurious heights of the superscrapers that wealthy corporate moguls inhabit, to the deep recesses of flooded subway routes, lost to the rise in water levels worldwide. Not only did I discover that the setting was as much a character as anyone else in the book, but I also realized that my viewpoint on survival and life has been heavily influenced by my own surroundings.
Growing up in the desert of Arizona, I’ve come to unconsciously handle water and shade in ways different from most people. I didn’t realize I was doing it until a colleague asked me if I was an environmentalist. I laughed and had to answer that, “No, but I live in the desert. It would be pretty stupid of me to not think about water.” Coming from the Mississippi river delta, this person had zero experience with a limited water supply, and modern society had done nothing to change that. I bet she really pays attention when it starts to flood, though. Me? I’d be wondering why I was suddenly treading water.
Growing up in the desert of Arizona, I’ve come to unconsciously handle water and shade in ways different from most people. I didn’t realize I was doing it until a colleague asked me if I was an environmentalist. I laughed and had to answer that, “No, but I live in the desert. It would be pretty stupid of me to not think about water.” Coming from the Mississippi river delta, this person had zero experience with a limited water supply, and modern society had done nothing to change that. I bet she really pays attention when it starts to flood, though. Me? I’d be wondering why I was suddenly treading water.
As opposed to the desert I grew up in, I have also spent quite some time in the largest cities on the planet, including LA, Tokyo, and São Paulo. Naturally, all three of these mega cities are on the coast, where trade, climate, and transportation allow them to thrive and grow. The sheer population density is amazing to me, as well as the pure numbers when it comes to things like energy used, cars on the road, garbage generated, and amount of food consumed. The whole crazy macrocyclic event is fascinating and wild and a little bit scary, and so I have to be a part of it.
The buildings, skyscrapers, and transit systems allow all of this biomass to move and flow. In many places, the amount of money on display is staggering. In others, like São Paulo, the contrast of the poor and destitute is gut wrenching and overwhelming. It’s wild to see the mega rich living next door to the dirt poor, each one acting as if the other didn’t exist. Like the desert, though, the favelas, slums, and ghettos illustrate that in any environment, humans adapt and survive.
The buildings, skyscrapers, and transit systems allow all of this biomass to move and flow. In many places, the amount of money on display is staggering. In others, like São Paulo, the contrast of the poor and destitute is gut wrenching and overwhelming. It’s wild to see the mega rich living next door to the dirt poor, each one acting as if the other didn’t exist. Like the desert, though, the favelas, slums, and ghettos illustrate that in any environment, humans adapt and survive.
These contrasting experiences form the foundation of the setting I use in my novels, stretching what I know out into the dark future, creating a world that has lost the fight to climate change. No consensus was ever agreed upon. No cutbacks were ever large enough. Nobody was willing to compromise or change. The world in my novels is one of letting something terrible happen because then we’re all in that terrible spot together, and so one cannot blame the other. It’s a world slain by apathy. And yet, like the people I see living in cardboard sheds below freeway overpasses, humanity adapts and survives. It’s a thrilling, vicious place where anything can happen.
I think that, in retrospect, these environments were channeled into the cover of my novel, encapsulating those environments, showcasing the dark future that awaits.
I think that, in retrospect, these environments were channeled into the cover of my novel, encapsulating those environments, showcasing the dark future that awaits.
Should you be stockpiling water and food, preparing your escape from collapse? Truthfully, that’s not for me to say. I will say that you might want to pick up a digital copy of “Jupiter Symphony” so that you can remember what things were like when it was all just cyberpunk science fiction.
A.C. Harrison
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A.C. Harrison
Like what you see here? Spread the word and support indie authors! Follow me on Facebook or Twitter. Find me on Smashwords and Kindlemojo.
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