A Valley to Harness

Prologue

Ember and Mist

A solitary ember flickered in the cavern beneath Sediment Valley. Like this land and the people who inhabited it, the ember belonged to a man. He embodied it. He wore it on his face. The shifting line where ash met glowing coal cut across his cheeks, creating the illusion of a sharp, square jaw.

As the man with a scar crossed the damp chamber, his tactical boots left a desiccated trail, like footprints in the sand. But his embers flickered on the edge of extinction. Without words, they told of a battle to harness the forces of nature once and for all. He had taken a few blows, but the wind was at his back.

Ember plodded along.

Behind him, he dragged the battered body of another man who became the mist. He had been a worthy adversary. Mist had lashed Ember’s face with a ferocious, stinging rain. He had almost snuffed him out. As Ember trembled on the floor of Mist’s laboratory, his contempt stoked a new fire, and the resulting heat wave consumed his unsuspecting rival.

Where Ember’s hand now clutched Mist’s forearm, wisps of steam rose and dissipated within the chamber. The humidity was almost unbearable, but it would not disturb him for long. Ember would warp the climate to his liking.

Across the cavern’s vaulted ceiling, mineral-rich water seeped through the rock and hung from stalactites. The irregular drip, drip . . . drip echoed in the distance. With time he would plug every crevice. No leaks or cracks would mar the foundations of the new world he set out to make in his own image.

Ember stopped when his boot clanged against metal. He released Mist, and the man’s body puddled on the cavern floor. Ember leaned down to check the rise and fall of his prisoner’s chest. He needed him alive.

A small, green jewel wrapped in golden tendrils dangled from a chain around Ember’s neck. A feeble light pulsed from within, threatening to go dark. Its cadence matched the smoldering scar across his cheek. He showed no concern for the ticking clock.

Ember yanked a matching chain from around Mist’s neck and attached it to his own. The man gasped for air. Ember placed this man’s body within a large golden ring that rested on the ground. He bound his hands and his feet to the inside wall of the ring with rubber straps. Without flinching, he plunged a gastric tube into his prisoner’s stomach and a waste tube into his abdomen.

Ember kneeled in reverence before the golden ring that imprisoned the man formerly known as Mist. He dug his smoldering fingertips into the clay to siphon the Earth’s forces. The growing light from his scar and amulets refracted off the ring as it levitated.

Tendril-like green lights pushed through nodes attached to the clay below and the rock above. As Ember channeled the planet’s energy, the tendrils unfurled like fiddleheads rising from the moss, seeking connection with each other and the levitating ring.

The ring began to spin, and its prisoner stirred. Energy from the Earth coursed through his body. He let out a roar, guttural and tectonic, to loosen his bonds. His body became slick with sweat and dew, trying one last time to slip free.

The tendrils of light recoiled.

Ember was not dismayed. He dug deeper into the clay, flexing his physical form. His scar, deprived of oxygen, faded into the darkness of the cavern.

The tendrils receded toward the nodes.

Before they buried their heads, Ember found a source of unlimited energy. He grabbed hold of the Earth from deep within the bedrock. He clutched it, stood tall and outstretched his limbs to withdraw it from the cavern’s floor. He lifted his chin, exposing the coals that burst through his skin to the air. Flames licked his cheeks and spread across his taut core. Ember concentrated the heat and blasted his prisoner’s body to purge him of any lingering liquid power.

The man who had once become the mist dried and shrunk inside his chains. The golden ring gained speed as the tendrils of light resumed their agonizing crawl toward one another, writhing until they became entangled in a thick vine that stretched from floor to ceiling.

Mist would rise no more.

In the cavern beneath Sediment Valley, Ember’s amulets shone at full brightness. As his flames roared, he let out a triumphant laugh that echoed throughout the muggy chamber. Ember’s work had only just begun.

PART ONE

To Harness

Chapter 1

Henry

The log cabin balanced on Henry’s fingers as he lifted it from the turntable. Three days of work had come to fruition on his replica of the founder’s mansion atop the southeastern ridge. It had taken him one day to bake and cool all nine layers of lemon poppyseed sponge, which he soaked with a zingy syrup. On the second day, he plunged dowels deep into the cake’s crust as if tunneling through metamorphic rock. Then he carved the mountain’s slopes and frosted its ridges.

When he rose before dawn today, he still had to construct the mansion for the top tier. He poured molten isomalt sugar into triangular windowpanes that rose behind a pretzel-lined deck. He made solar panels from black-dyed fruit leather and a stone fence from malted chocolates and birdseed. He piped tiny clumps of moss and grass, planters overflowing with tulips, and squirrels frolicking in the yard. His deft hands had crafted a stunning little world, cozy and evergreen, that was meant to withstand the ages.

Henry steadied the back side of the mini mansion on one of the dowels, slipped his fingers from the bottom, and delicately removed the offset spatula without nicking a single blade of grass. His creation wobbled under its own weight. He held his breath and readied his hands to catch any of the thirty inches of cake standing before him. He hoped he had locked the bakery’s front door to prevent anyone from barging in at this crucial moment. He was indeed tucked safely inside and returned his attention to the showstopper. The bottom tier, bound in crisscrossing straps of tempered chocolate, finally absorbed the shock. He let out a deep sigh as the entire structure settled into place.

With one hour to spare, Henry fashioned a miniature Lady Duggery from modeling chocolate, sculpting the glamorous proprietor of Sediment Valley with utmost reverence. He replicated her slender body, dressed her in a fondant-tweed Chanel suit, and added a candy pearl necklace and earrings. The design was based off a full-page spread from the company magazine, SustainAble Times. He would never forget sitting in the break room and seeing her profile on the cover. The article promoted her newest project—an eco-friendly community nestled alongside a tributary of the Lehigh River. If successful, it could become a model for mid-twenty-first-century Appalachian living.

While Henry had appreciated her lofty goals, it was Lady Duggery’s ability to revive century-old fashion that had truly stolen his breath. As he read the piece, she drew him under her spell with the promise of a stable place to call home and an offer to work his dream job, in which he had trained even as the world fell apart around him. Before his unpaid lunch break ended, Henry safeguarded her portrait inside a plastic baggie and tore the perforated lottery application page from the magazine. They hired him two days later and arranged for his immediate transfer from the SustainAble plant-based proteins factory in Pittsburgh to his very own bakery in Sediment Valley.

Every luxury ingredient and specialty tool reminded him of his debt to Lady Duggery.

As he color-matched her hazel eyes to the glossy photograph, he realized he had made a rookie mistake. He had miscalculated the proportions. When stood beside the mansion, the figurine of Lady Duggery towered over the valley. There was too much ambiguity in her monumental height. She was at once supremely regal and terribly monstrous, the crown jewel and the all-seeing hegemon. Sculpting your patrons was a risky gambit—and one she had not requested of him.

Henry loved his new life, cradled in this valley like a chickadee in Lady Duggery’s soft hands. If it weren’t for her, he would still be elbow deep in processed food slime or locked up for lascivious behavior. He did not want her first impression of his work to be misinterpreted, so he appreciated the realism he had achieved and made a mental note of his mistake.

Underneath the counter where no one would see, he smushed her into an unrecognizable ball, crammed it into a dirty peanut butter jar, and chucked the whole thing in the trash. He missed, and the jar bounced off the side of the bin. He gasped when it hit the floor. It spun wildly until he picked it up and dropped it in the trash.

He admired the photograph of Lady Duggery one last time before returning it to the wall above the bakery’s main door.

The clock struck noon, and Henry shook off the nerves. His first major commission was complete. He had just enough time to box up the cake and deliver it to the actual mansion on top of a very real mountain. He taped together a few cake boxes to make one large enough to surround his masterpiece and lifted the hefty package onto a utility cart. He probably should have assembled it upon delivery, but it was too late now.

He untied his apron. The yellowing fabric against the pink undertones of his hands reminded him to get some sun this summer. Before, he had never considered sunning himself under smog-free skies, having to peel skin that burned from UV rays instead of chemical irritants in the air. This is the life, he thought. He threw on the oversized delivery coat, a repurposed letterman jacket from the previous century in hunter green with off-white leather trim. He buttoned the snaps to keep it from slipping off his bony shoulders.

On his way out, the light switch sparked. He felt electric, energized, and for the first time like his life might actually have meaning beyond mere survival. Lady Duggery will not regret hiring me, he said to himself. A little bell chimed as Henry wheeled his precious bundle outside.

The bakery sat on the town square in the wooded valley, though square was a bit of a misnomer. One long stretch of local businesses—a grocery, an exchange, a clinic, and others—lined the base of the southern ridge. Across the street, an oblong park, filled with dogwoods and phlox on the cusp of blooming, spread before the stores. At the far end, a grassy knoll, ideal for lunchtime picnics under dappled sunlight, attracted friend and family groups to share a bite at the river’s edge.

The square was busier than usual. Long, sapphire-blue banners with a black X on them draped from every storefront and streetlamp. Little girls wore white bows in their hair, and the boys fastened azure bands around their forearms. Today was Founder’s Day, and Lady Duggery had invited the bigwigs from the Pennsylvanian Militia to a dinner party at her mansion. They protected Sediment Valley from the world that burned just beyond the surrounding peaks. They would be treated to a feast in her honor capped by champagne and a slice of Henry’s cake. The honor was all Henry’s.

Once a cluster of cyclists whooshed past him, Henry hopped into the eastbound lane and powerwalked with his cart. The road veered toward the river’s edge, the valley widening just east of the Square, and Henry gripped the cart to keep it from running away as the elevation dropped. A handful of renovated campers dotted the lower parts of the ridges. A young man, affixing a Militia armband to a scarecrow, waved at Henry as he passed. A communal garden would soon sprout with corn, green beans, soy, cabbage, and tomatoes in the terraced fields. They grew most of what they needed within the valley, but weekly shipments from SustainAble’s greenhouses bolstered their stocks with plant-based proteins and specialty products.

Behind him, Henry heard egregious honking from a cyclist. He was already as far to the right as he could be. He had no patience, especially not today, for rule-breakers and delinquents. He prepared to let this hooligan know their behavior was unbecoming of a resident of the Valley when he heard a familiar voice.

Wait up! A golden helmet screeched to a halt beside him. It was Brisa. Out of breath, she must have been pedaling hard. Her bronzed skin glistened in the afternoon sun.

I’m a bit busy right now. Henry kept walking. He did not dislike Brisa so much as he preferred his own company. Her cheerfulness, burning hotter than even his commercial oven, sapped his energy. She needed to befriend everyone in the valley. She tried relentlessly to get him to join her bike club or take a hike with a big group of people. He could probably use some fresh air, but he just wanted to keep his head down and focus on his bakes. He had never known the world to be so quiet that birdsong could wake you before dawn, and he wanted to absorb as much of that peace as he could. Not to mention the patron he intended to impress.

I won’t slow you down, she said. She hopped off the bike and walked alongside him. Is that for the Founder’s Day party?

Henry nodded. In her presence, he confronted the idea that others would see his creation. He worried the replica would be too chintzy for such a prestigious event. Maybe he should have chosen a more elegant design, something more conservative. All white with fresh flowers. Or a more patriotic tribute to the flag of the Midwestern Federation. As Henry and Brisa approached the gated entrance to the mansion, he considered dumping the entire cake into the river, never to be seen again.

Well? asked Brisa.

Henry snapped out of his spiral of self-doubt and gave her a confused look. Brisa stopped dead in her tracks, balancing her bike against her hip.

Do you want some help or not?

Henry opened his mouth to say no. Refusing assistance was a knee-jerk reaction. He had grown accustomed to relying only on himself. But the shale path that wound its way into the woods and up the side of the mountain opened his mind. You must have better things to do, he offered.

It’s no problem, she insisted.

I guess, he said. It sounded rude, but he was already fixating on the weight of the cake he so stupidly stacked into one massive package. There was no way around it. He would have to rely on Brisa or beg one of the guards to help him, and everyone knew it was best to be under as little surveillance from the Militia as possible. All things considered, it was a lucky coincidence that Brisa showed up right when she did.

Brisa leaned her bike against the fence. The bikes belonged to everyone, so there was no concern over theft. Still, Henry had to stop himself from reminding her to lock it up.

Behind the arched gate stood a security booth wrapped in windows and aluminum siding. Flapping black and blue banners draped from every possible ledge. Why did I not cover the cake in the Militia’s signature colors? he thought. He heard his older brother’s voice, a distant echo from childhood, chiding him as he had always done: Henrietta screwed it up again, folks. He felt so small.

Brisa nudged Henry to pay attention. Two guards, jacketed in bullet-proof armor, approached Henry, Brisa, and the cake.

ID, said one of the guards through speakers built into the side of his midnight blue helmet. In the visor, Henry’s face reflected back at him. No marking or detail distinguished one guard from another. They may as well have been produced in a factory. They practically had been, steeped as they were in the Militia’s curriculum and media over the previous decade.

Henry tapped his wristwatch to the guard’s tablet to confirm his identity. I have the cake Lady Duggery ordered. His voice shook.

The other guard shot a picture of Henry’s right eye, verified his identity, and then aimed it at Brisa.

This is Brisa . . . um?

Brisa Arroyo, she said, tapping her wristwatch as well.

My assistant. Henry nodded toward the steep ridge.

The guards tapped their tablets, and the one in the booth gave the thumbs up.

Henry considered the massive box before him, the steep hill, and his skinny arms. He had half a mind to abandon the cake and run away. Before he could, Brisa pulled at his sleeve.

Let’s do this, she said, and together they took their first, cautious steps toward the rocky path.

Chapter 2

Colson

Colson knocked outside Lady Duggery’s chamber. He held a serving platter with savory bites for her to sample before the Founder’s Day party. He resisted the urge to loosen the cheap polyester bowtie that scratched at his throat. This old-timey butler outfit was beyond indignity, but she expected him to play the role for their guests. And he would play it well.

After a moment, the door unlocked and swung open. Lady Duggery stared at herself in a tri-partite mirror that housed a series of virtual displays. Some of them were connected to the surveillance feeds around the valley, allowing Colson to catch a glimpse of his kitchen staff, a scene from the lake’s edge where a mother and son fished, and what looked like an overwrought metal door in a dimly lit hallway. Or maybe it was a tunnel. He couldn’t tell. Then he noticed himself framed in the doorway from the front and behind. The bags under his eyes were visible even from across the room.

Full mirror, Lady Duggery ordered with an accent that Colson still struggled to identify. Her intonation aspired toward the transatlantic. There was a softness to the letter A, but her Os still maintained some of that Philadelphia sound. Colson had once tried to catch her pronunciation of the word water. Would she flatten out the A into an ah or say it like wooder? He had concocted a theory that she simply avoided the word altogether to maintain her affected accentuation. The displays faded, leaving only the ticker for cryptocurrency markets and her daily meditation reminder: Nuture yourself and the rest will follow.

The image of Lady Duggery in triplicate now stared back at him. She sat on a chartreuse velvet stool with her hair wrapped in a plump towel. An eggshell silk robe lightly grazed her taught frame. She faced her mid-century modern vanity and vigorously rubbed a skin-lightening cream into her naturally porcelain face. She was not content to be white; she aspired to the ethereal transparency of a jellyfish, allowing her to float up behind her enemies, launch a many-tentacled assault, and disappear before they even knew she was there.

The smooth edges of her walnut-stained vanity provided a veneer of simplicity. Clean lines carried across the entire room to the low-lying bed, the simple sheer window dressings, and the minimalist dresser. She had extended the aesthetic even to her break-in-case-of-emergency satphone which rested neatly inside a wooden box.

Colson had earned enough trust to see her in this state, half-dressed beside open drawers crammed with tiny palettes, crumpled squeeze tubes, dirty brushes, and stained sponges. He only wished she would allow him to fill the space with some greenery—an orchid or two, at the very least. But right now, he had more important matters on his mind.

Normally, he had no problem speaking directly to her face, but today he was at his wit’s end managing the final preparations for Founder’s Day. The staff never met his expectations. He simply could not absorb a triple dose of Lady Duggery’s intensity reflected back at him, so he shifted his attention toward the assortment of powders and floral perfumes.

Did you bring me something delicious? she asked.

Ma’am, these will take your breath away, said Colson in his best imitation of a 1950s butler. He lifted the cloche to reveal a spread of canapés and amuses-bouches alongside a lowball glass of whiskey, neat. He kicked open a folding tray and rested the platter beside her.

What’s with all the seeds?

He hoped she would notice them. She reached for the lowball, gave it a swirl, and threw it back in one swallow. If she got the shakes from it, she did not let it show.

The seeds represent tonight’s theme: regeneration, new growth, potential for expansion, said Colson. He underscored the words with a swish of his free hand. He had rehearsed this speech in his head many times. They seemed like a fitting symbol to celebrate the start of this new era in Sediment Valley. The massive construction projects are finished. There is a waiting list a mile long to even get in the lottery for the few remaining positions. The renewable power grid is purring like a kitten. The public is on your side, both here and across Pennsylvania. The future is full of unlimited potential for growth and endless possibilities, especially for you.

Hmm, was all she uttered. She waved her French-manicured pointer finger over each of the samples as if completing a mental checklist in her head.

It was vital he convince her of his theme of the seeds, or his true plans would fall apart. Colson had considered seeking her approval in advance, but that ran the risk of her shooting it down. Lady Duggery held strong opinions and was not afraid to voice them. But he had also cultivated a solid connection with her. Not quite friendly. No, Lady Duggery did not have friends. But a close working acquaintanceship, which seemed as intimate as anyone could be with her. He was attentive to what she said between the lines and anticipated her desires, like the lunchtime whiskey. He wagered she would not force him to redo the entire menu mere hours before the highest-ranking military officers of the Militia and the bigwigs at SustainAble feted her successes.

She turned back to the mirror without tasting anything. Nix the part about regeneration.

Excuse me?

"You said the theme was regeneration, new growth, and potential for expansion. Nix the regeneration part. It implies we have allowed something to lapse that must be repaired."

Of course, ma’am. I should have caught that myself. Colson, relieved at her minor criticism, lifted a flask from his apron.

Lady Duggery waved him away from her lowball and pointed to her bronzed bar cart by the window. You look like you could use something to take the edge off, she said.

That’s your special collection, he said, shaking his head.

Come now, you deserve it.

Maybe one.

Moderation is only key for those who have to conserve their resources. She gestured again for him to pour two glasses from the crystal whiskey decanter.

They clinked a cheer and drank to her health. Colson let out a little yip of excitement. That’ll wake you up!

Now about your clothes.

Colson looked down at the formal uniform, which he only wore on special occasions, worrying he had placed the cummerbund too high. It never felt right. He could not find any stains or wrinkles. Nothing out of place. But Lady Duggery always caught the smallest inconsistencies.

You look like you’re wearing a costume. I had something more fashionable made for you. Over there. She gestured to a gift-wrapped box with an oversized bow laying on her bed. It’s one thing to revive a timeless fashion, but it’s another entirely to look like you’re desperate to get back to a world that no longer exists. I cannot have the head of my staff sending the wrong impression.

He held up the cream and navy outfit. It wasn’t his style, if he even knew what that would be anymore, but it was an improvement over the itchy tuxedo jacket.

Try it on.

He stepped behind her dressing screen while she continued her beauty regimen.

What do you think?

At first glance, the navy turtleneck complemented the cool undertones of his deep black skin. The cream jacket and slacks were made of the softest, most luxurious cotton he had ever worn, used to synthetics as he was. Still, the new outfit constricted his neck. He tugged to stretch it out, but it retained its grip. He cleared his throat. Then he double-checked the fly and stepped out from the screen.

Give me a little twirl, her three reflected faces said.

He spun in place, pausing at different angles to allow for her appraisal.

Yes, I think that will work very well. I’ve already had one of the servants hang the other outfits in your room.

You’re too kind, ma’am. He gave a little bow, but that word, servant, prickled at the back of his neck.

I’ve been quite pleased with your work so far, Colson. Continue on this path, and there will be a place for you by my side as we expand our empire beyond the walls of this little valley. I think you know we’re only at the beginning. It’s not impossible that you could be sitting in your own mountaintop mansion one day.

My focus is on the Founder’s Day party, right now, ma’am. He bowed his head once more. But I thank you for your confidence in me. He was not sure if it was the whiskey, the new clothes, or the unexpected pep talk—and from Lady Duggery of all people—but his confidence improved. He was energized to meet the rest of the day, despite his exhaustion, and blow this place up from the inside.

They won’t see me coming, he thought. Not even her.

A buzzer sounded from Lady Duggery’s display, and the security feed from the main gate replaced the center screen. Two unknown figures stood beside an enormous box resting on a utility cart. The Militia guards working the booth asked if Lady Duggery expected a delivery.

Do you know about this?

That must be the cake, said Colson. He checked his wristwatch. They’re almost late.

A cake? Lady Duggery approved the delivery and turned on her stool. Let me guess. She tapped the back of her powder brush on her knee. Lemon poppyseed, right?

A vibrating panic coursed down his spine. Um, yes, ma’am. Colson swallowed hard. She had eyes and ears all over town. He feared this meant his cover had been blown, his plans for the party discovered. The major power players would arrive in only