Captain, son of Bronco and Branca, toiled in the aisles of the supermarket. He just didn’t understand the light. It had no texture, no point of entry, bright and unforgiving, so deprived of class and touch, light that didn’t shine, but glared. He walked through each aisle looking for him. He heard a low hum, intercepted with intermittent addresses over the tannoy. He saw people bent over fiddling through freezers. He tasted the sterile, recycled air, like the soporific drinks they’d give him in hospital if he got too loud. Pandemonium had never looked so understated. Bronco was not here. Home was fourteen minutes away by foot. Outside was bright white. The front door of the house was black bar the chips at its base. He rang twice before an answer. ‘Where is he Mum?’ ‘Where’s who?’ ‘You know who. He’s stolen the weather.’ ‘Who’s stolen the weather?’ ‘Dad’s stolen the weather. He doesn’t want me
to go. I searched the supermarket for him.’ ‘He’s away Captain. Here, I printed off these
sums for you.’ ‘Not now. Look outside. There’s nothing
there.’ ‘You’ll sleep in your bed if you don’t do these
sums. It’s the basic principles of polar coordinates.’ ‘Mum, he won’t let me...’
She held his wrists against the table. ‘Do the sums Captain. Find the stars.’ ‘You promise I can sleep in the garage?’
She replied with a curt nod. He itched at his wrists and set about his calculations. Around an hour passed before he declared himself
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complete. ‘And you sourced the azimuth from the merid-
ian?’ said Branca. ‘Don’t mess around mother.’ ‘Don’t call me mother.’ ‘Where is he?’ ‘He’s away, at least I think so. We’re going hun-
gry Captain. I need a star.’ ‘I can’t locate any dying sun without the weath-
er for it to be in. He’s stolen our weather supply.’ Each family in this portion of the present was
allocated by the government a perception of the weath- er to spend as they wished on days they decided best fit. After warheads had desecrated the world’s already waning reserves of beauty, a democratic vote ensued and the world decided that each person was to be fitted with an alternate reality chip. This ensured that escaping the horrors of existence was an elementary exercise, a switch of a button. To feed, families were forced to cap- ture energy from one of the many million stars that still lay across the universe. Space travel was commercial and considered a necessity rather than a luxury. Not a single other suitable-for-living planet in the Earth’s his- tory had been found in the universe. They had looked and looked and looked, but it appeared that they were alone.
Weather was now the most revered of virtual
possessions. The energy from a harnessed star was cultivated and used to power the mirage of an ancient supermarket, where people could gorge themselves on the foodstuffs of legend; chorizo, scotch eggs and cia- battas . If a family could no longer procure solar energy, through age or weakness, it was customary for them to
use up their weather reserves and die in ecstasy under- neath a baking sun, thirsty and twitching underneath the closest star the government would allow. It was by now considered the most noble thing to do, to expire with the dignity of happiness. The Maladies were fortunate to have given birth
to Captain, the son of Bronco and Branca, physically and mentally one of the finest specimens available and adept not only at extensive mathematical preparation but also the tiresome journeys through galaxies. They would have been a rich and gluttonous family were it not for Bronco’s addiction to weather and his aptitude for isolation. His regular misuse of atmosphere and condi-
tions meant that Captain had little scope to work in; he could not find stars without a sky to see them and this is why his speed and accuracy was so admired – the ma- jority of families used up a lot of their pleasure reserves on securing survival. ‘I will find him. My guess is he’s in Equatorial
Guinea.’
‘Don’t hurt him Captain. Be quick.’ Equatorial Guinea was the world’s most desired
weather point, a place where government officials would congregate to holiday. In reality, it was underwater, but technology had made it available in its perfect, remem- bered form. There, a dainty breeze would kiss your cheek and slip away again, the sun sat in a cloudless sky all day and resting trees lined the shores of every beach. People would come here to forget the nothing- ness of their own quarters, that were now a compulsory four rooms and a garage. Captain had been before, but only to find his father. He had just enough left in the
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