I emerged from New York’s intestines into the seventy-degree February day, the air sweating. People carried jackets under their arms while mopping their brows, still expecting the humidity to turn to rain. In the back of the Midtown restaurant, there was a room away from the other diners, walls scattered with images of Big Apple history—Boss Tweed political cartoons and workers dancing on beams of the soon-to-be Empire State Building. And there were my old friends.
Rekia Reynolds, Coral Sloane, and Tom Levine stood to greet me, and I could feel the wave of nervous energy in my gut surge into my face. Holly Pietrus stood behind them, waiting for whatever drama to play out. We all had this moment of tension, combat veterans reuniting in a bar with the anticipation of war stories. It was the first time I’d seen any of them since Kate’s firing. That was almost three years ago.
We all laughed, and the room deflated. Rekia was the closest and came to me first.
“Matty, oh God.” She took me in her arms and held me, twisting my body back and forth. I’d spent so many nights staring at the ceiling, hating her for what had happened, swearing I would avenge Kate. But the years went by, and my anger melted, and as soon as I saw her, there was nothing but bottomless love for this powerful and brilliant woman. “It’s so good to see you, babe. I love this.” She put her hand on my beard, which was old to me but new to her. No one would mistake me for a lumberjack, but it mitigated some of the boyishness I’d never been able to shake. Rek wiped a tear from her eye. She wore a bright red dress and her hair in long braids, twisted into a spiral atop her skull with the sides shaved. Enormous earrings like rectilinear city grids hung from each ear. She had an engagement ring on her finger. “Sorry, sorry! I missed you.”
“You too. Don’t—” I laughed as my eyes misted. “Rek, don’t. You’re going to make me cry.” We both laughed. “You know I’m so sorry for how we left every—”
“Matty…” She held up her hand. “Stop. I’m sorry too. Everyone’s sorry. I love you, and I always will, okay?” Then I did have tears coming out and quickly wiped them away, nodding furiously and pulling her into an embrace again.
Coral was of course dressed like a surly teenager in baggy khakis and a plain blue button-up. They’d removed the lip ring, but their hair was still a messy bowl, bangs curling on their forehead, a FREE THE CLIMATE HEROES electronic bracelet glittered on one wrist as the small, curved screen cycled through this proclamation along with JUSTICE FOR JASON AND LAMARR. Coral held my shoulder first, and in their froggy voice said, “I almost brought my VR in case you wanted to get in a quick game of Avenging Angel?”
“You and me just skip lunch and sit in a corner?”
“Missed you, buddy,” they said.
Tom was next, and we faked our greeting. “It’s been too long,” was all he said, slapping me on the back before sitting down. He adjusted the new Apple ARs, with their bold, thick-rimmed frames and took a seat, resting a hand on the back of Rekia’s chair.
I’d never met Holly Pietrus, so we shook hands. Dressed in a sheer rose-colored blouse and a black pencil skirt, she looked young and bony. She’d been director of the New York office for a couple years but had the anxious bearing of an undergrad trying to pull an all-nighter before a final. Of course, her father was one of those climate heroes Coral’s bracelet was advocating for, and I knew this was likely causing her sleepless nights. In addition to being biracial, she didn’t look much like him, which was undoubtedly a good thing, but I could see his humorless scowl in her face now, like his DNA shimmered through her in moments of upset.
Coral held up their phone and a signal-blocking bag. “Can we all agree?”
We slid our phones across the table, Tom adding his glasses and Coral their bracelet.
“So when’s the wedding?” I asked.
“Next year,” said Tom. “Black women plan weddings like NASA and SpaceX plan contingencies for going to Mars.”
“It’s. My. Sisters,” said Rekia, clapping her hands with each word. “I’m the baby, so they’ll be up our asses the rest of our lives—just deal with it.”
“Sorry for the paranoia,” Coral said, setting the Faraday bag aside.
“What’s paranoia when you got robots shooting people in the streets of Dallas,” said Rekia. “I swear every day and want to start fucking screaming.”
“Weird how you wake up and you’re living in a bad movie about the future,” said Tom.
“The original RoboCop was a classic for a reason,” Coral said grimly. Even under the circumstances, it was hard not to smile at Coral and recall our Verhoeven film fests. I’d been planning a trip home to Carolina when Coral asked if I’d come to New York to meet with the old crew—and not tell Kate. One of Rekia’s first decisions as ED was to move the core operations to New York City, mostly to be closer to the financial capital. It was the markets, after all, that were now doing much of the heavy lifting on renewables deployment and adaptation. In a few weeks, they would sponsor the Conference on Climate Mitigation, a multiday event with over three hundred speakers on dozens of panels meant to “bring together all stakeholders, from activists to government to business, to discuss and facilitate solutions, transformations, and ameliorations for climate change.” It would even include members of the Sustainable Future Coalition. A gala was to follow.
“There’s a hedge fund dropping a million dollars on the cocktails with this vodka made from carbon-sequestering potatoes,” said Tom.
“And Love is not speaking, correct?”
“No. There’s no way,” said Coral. “There would be boycotts.”
“We said we’d walk out.” These were the first words Holly had spoken since we sat down.
“So what do we know?” I asked. “Your dad’s case is working its way through the courts, right?”
“Not fast enough,” she said. The detention of left-wing organizers, Islamic leaders, and climate activists held at undisclosed locations had yet to let up. Headlines trumpeted the outrage, but the arrests continued a drip at a time anyway.
“Banana republic oppression,” said Tom. “They’re testing the legal limits of PRIRA.”
I asked, “And how many people are we talking?”
“They don’t have to show the evidence for national security concerns—quote, unquote,” said Coral. “So all our lawyers are in the dark in a box built by Kafka. And as for how many?” They looked to Rekia, who returned their troubled expression. “We think somewhere between thirty to forty people have been detained under the statute, but it could be many more. Maybe more have disappeared. Journalists are looking. We’re looking.”