The valve was stuck again. It had been taken apart, cleaned, repaired, and reassembled countless times. It clearly needed to be replaced, but the cost was too high. His carbon debt would skyrocket, and all his strict management would be for nothing. It was almost worth it at this point. Brewer put a rag over the lever and gave it another push, careful so as to not to slip and hit the surrounding lines with his knuckles. It didn't budge.
His hand reached for a length of pipe to apply some gentle persuasion. It lay out of reach, leaning against the hot liquor tank.
"Could you hand that to me?" he asked the man dressed in dusty overalls, checked shirt, and wide-brimmed straw hat. The other man harrumphed and didn't move.
Brewer let out a sigh. "Fine. Just means you stand there longer." He walked over and got the end of the pipe on the handle. It wasn't just this valve. All this ancient brewhouse equipment was balky at best. He halfway suspected it was intentionally kept that way by them. He shook his head. Best not to think of it. There were plenty of reasons why he didn't question things. Gently, ever so gently, listening to the metal complain, he turned it. Wort noisily gushed into the large open fermenter.
On a step stool, Brewer bent over the lip of the vat and stirred the cooling, dark liquid with his wooden paddle. A sweet, cereal smell with floral notes greeted his nose. He breathed in deeply. It smelled right. He straightened and looked across the brewery. A shaft of light from the afternoon sun in a high window glinted on the row of shiny pipes that wound their way in the large space to a whole row of empty equipment, all carefully cleaned yet all in some disrepair. He rested the paddle across the edge and wiped his hands on his apron. The man in the coveralls and hat stood on the floor a few paces away, watching.
"Farmer Sam, would you please fetch me the bucket over there?" He pointed toward a large, wooden container in the aisle as high as his knee.
Farmer Sam grunted, slipped a battered electronic tablet into his front pocket, and went to fetch him the bucket. It was full of a gray-white foaming mass giving off a earthy aroma. "I ain't supposed to be doing yer job."
Brewer took the offered bucket and tipped the contents into the large open vat he had been stirring. He used his paddle to mix the tank and pursed his lips as he moved the oversized spoon in the liquid. "Right. Your job is to grow the flowers for this. Remind me how I'm supposed to make this for the Cloister if you don't do your job?"
The farmer shook his head. "That were the last of them. I dun told you, the weather was bad this year."
"You said the same last year."
"Not ma fault. You're gonna have trouble gettin' grain this year, too. Even that didn't grow a lot. It's happening to everyone. Gonna be a hard winter."
Brewer silently lifted his paddle out of the stainless steel tub and pulled the CO2 sensor over it. He adjusted it so it was over the center. The rains hadn't been enough again. He briefly wondered what to say to the Abbot. He came down from his step, looking Farmer Sam in the eyes.
Farmer Sam spat on the floor, offending Brewer with the uncleanliness of it. The shock of it was quickly forgotten with the words that next came out of Farmer Sam's mouth.
"Maybe them folks could bring out one o' their fancy machines. Help us some."
Brewer froze. "You shouldn't say that. What if someone hears you?"
Farmer Sam snorted. "You gonna report me? Yer luggers gonna report me? What can they do anyway? Can't get worse. Ma kids already don't spend that much time in the creche. Not like some." He glared at Brewer.
Brewer absently rubbed the inside of his left wrist as he glanced at the Farmer's own wrist. "Hey, that's not right. I didn't have that much more time. You know how jobs work."
"Yeah, we ain't important. Lemme tell ya, farming's hard. It be a lot easier if we had more time. Be smarter." Farmer Sam grumbled. "You and yer fancy words."
Brewer knew better than to keep arguing when when it got to this point. Farmers could be a stubborn lot. "Fine, I'll talk to the Abbot. I'll look at my records and explain how the weather's going bad."
Farmer Sam must have been satisfied with his response. He pulled out the tablet and had Brewer sign it. Nodding his head, Farmer Sam left him.
Brewer returned to the task at hand. He had to finish this batch and get ready for his trip up to the Cloister. It was the end of the week after all: Last Day. He went looking for his two luggers to help him. Peering up at them, he signed their instructions, thought back to what the farmer had said, and realized that Farmer Sam was wrong. There was worse than being Farmers. A little shudder and a deep breath cleared his thoughts. He went back to making beer.
The afternoon wore on. Brewer worked hard, preparing to take his handiwork to the Abbot. On a break, he looked over the ledger of his time at the brewery, started when he was a small boy, its scratchy handwriting much improved. Its pages indeed chronicled a steady decline in the amount of raw materials like the farmer said. It had been going on for a number of years, small at first. The last few years had been particularly harsh. He closed the book and put it back in the drawer of his desk in the corner.
The light grew golden. Each lugger grabbed a hogshead and lifted it onto the cart while he hitched his mare Maggie to it. The coming Two-Day demanded his delivery. When he first took over the job of brewmaster, it was hard to get everything done on schedule. There had been some yelling and threats of reprimand. He tried harder. Eventually, he had settled into a routine: work to produce the raw beer of one type, get it going in the right fermenter, switch to the one that was done bubbling, put it in the barrel and feed it during the Five-Day, a quick run up to the Cloister on Last Day, then clean everything over the Two-Day. If he worked especially hard, toward the end of the Two-Day, he might have some time to sit back and tend to his vegetable garden. He counted himself lucky that he had that much time to himself. Some didn't get any break.
He walked beside the mare between the buildings lining the cobblestone street. They looked ramshackle and bent with the weight of years, rust on the corrugated metal roofs, a window boarded up here, a patch of cement on a wall there. A couple of them had a knot of people in front, dressed in drab clothes, arms laden with purchases. They hurried away when they saw him, realizing the lateness. The street climbed the hill at the far end of the town to the Cloister, the landmark visible from everywhere in town. Smooth gray walls a couple of stories tall held up a familiar golden dome made of triangles cresting the hilltop. The wheels of the cart creaked under the weight of the cargo, loud in the evening quiet.
The buildings of the town ended abruptly at a swath of grass, brown now with the lateness of autumn, circling the huge round enclosure of the Cloister as though afraid to get too close. The nose-tickling scent of dried grass reminded him winter would soon be here. The sky had a hazy steel blue look to it. He had to hurry if he was going to make it back in time for Vespers. The sun almost touched the hill-dotted horizon. This was a race that Brewer wanted to win.
At the gate, two other luggers waited next to the Abbot. The Abbot adjusted a noseclip that held a tube coming from a satchel under one arm. Brewer knew that he didn't like being outside and would berate him if he was late. The only saving grace was that his goods were apparently very popular in the Cloister.
"Good evening, Brewer. May the Oxygen flow."
"May the Carbon shrink."
The Abbot went straight to business. "We are going to need you to double your production. In two weeks, that's the end of the Five-Days after this coming one, we want you to deliver four hogsheads each time."
Brewer brought his eyebrows together. "I know what a week is. I don't think I can do that."
A frown formed on the clean-shaven face of the Abbot. Lines on it folded and deepened. "We know what your capacity is. You have sufficient equipment. You just need to work more efficiently."
Brewer didn't think simply working efficiently would do it. "That may be. But I checked my records. It looks like the quantity of flowers available for the beer has been going down. For quite a number of harvests."
"You have records?" The Abbot cocked his head. "How did we miss you? Just use the more bitter flowers. You can come up with something different."
Brewer shook his head. "There are other issues. There wasn't enough rain this season. I'm going to have problems getting other supplies, like grain."
"That's ridiculous. We'll issue the orders to make sure you have all the grain necessary. Cloister's orders."
Brewer stared at the Abbot. "People are going to complain. The weather's been changing. Crops are failing all over."
The Abbot looked off into space. "How can that be? The climate model indicated we were entering a stable period. Everything was engineered for this climate. This could be serious. We may have to edit the genome again."
Brewer listened to the holy words, nodding as though he understood what was being said. He remembered what Farmer Sam had said. "Would it be possible for us to get some help? Maybe directly?"
The Abbot glared at him. "Careful, Brewer. You know full well that we can't increase our footprint. You need to go to Vespers and recite the words of the Carbon Cycle as penance for your blasphemy."
"Yes, Abbot."
"Good, I see the luggers have finished unloading your cart. Remember, next fortnight, delivery is four hogsheads. Got that?"
The luggers stood yoked by their cart with the beer on it.
Brewer was dismayed. He pasted on a smile. "Of course, Abbot."
"May your footprint diminish."
"Recycle all."
Brewer turned his cart and started down the hill. He could spot the large, A-frame building where services were held. He still had time to make Vespers.
* * *
Vespers were well attended despite it being the end of the harvest, traditionally a very busy time as the large amount of foodstuffs were prepared and preserved. Or maybe because of the lack this year, many were supplicating Gaia for help against the encroaching hunger of winter. The evening service gave Brewer small comfort as the words of the Carbon Cycle automatically came to his tongue. Usually, human voices lifted in prayer eased his soul.
The middle-aged priest dressed in a green chasuble over a white cassock stood at the pulpit on the raised floor at the far end of the church. His voice emanated from beat-up panels on either side of the apse while he read from his tablet, performing the closing benedictions. Everyone looked around, eyes darting here and there on the fading, peeling scenes of a bygone world. The pictures continued all the way up to where the walls met each other. A line of hanging LED lamps cast their stark light on the congregation below. One of the light bulbs needed replacement, letting the darkness from outside the windows in.
"We ask for your forgiveness when we do not meet our quotas."
"Amen."
"We pray for an increase in our efforts to meet our quarterly expectations."
"Amen."
"May the rules and regulations cover all contingencies."
"Amen."
"Are these terms agreeable?"
"We find the terms and conditions acceptable but reserve the right."
"So say you all?"
"So say we all."
Everyone bowed their heads while the priest waved his hand over the congregation in the sign of the triangle. "Reduce, Recycle, Reuse. Go in peace, to serve and protect the environment."
There was sombre music from instruments that no longer existed issuing from the derelict speakers as the priest left the dais and proceeded to the front of the converted warehouse with his helpers to greet the worshippers. Brewer let the sounds of the Before Time harmonies wash over him. He waited until the whole song finished.
Brewer genuflected as he exited his pew and went to wish the priest a good evening.
Ahead, just inside the church space, a knot of Farmers waited by the door of the nave. Behind them, their families stood in small groups, the stair-step effect of their children not complete. Winters and Cloister had claimed some. Unhappy events in hard lives.
The kids of different families traded glances before looking away, looking down. A couple of those looks lingered between some. The heads of households moved to intercept him, cutting Brewer off from the foyer and the safety of the priest.
"Brewer, don't you be going off somewheres. We needs to talk." It looked like Farmer Sam would be talking for the group.
"Can't this wait until tomorrow? It's dark already."
"Don't think so. We heard something real ugly. We wants to know the truth of it. We heard you be about to double your take." Farmer Sam's lower jaw jutted out. His lips were a thin line.
Brewer gave a brief sigh. "I was told to. By the Abbot himself."
Every one of the men blocking his escape shook their heads.
"It's been a bad harvest. Crops withered and died from lack of rain. Barely enough to feed our own selves and make it through the winter."
"It ain't right!" another Farmer called from the back of the group.
"What can I do? What would you have me tell the Abbot? You could just buy food from them."
Farmer Sam scowled at him and shook his finger at him. "And increase our footprint? We're Farmers. We supposed to be reducing each gen." Farmer Sam pulled back, struck by a new thought. "You tell him they ain't having more beer!"
Brewer and the rest of the Farmers were taken aback. They all gave Farmer Sam some room. Farmer Sam crossed his arms in front of him and stared at Brewer, daring him.
Thankfully, Brewer could see the priest walking toward them. Brewer nodded his head toward the Father and spoke in low tones aimed at the Farmers. "I think we need to get a move on. I'm sure everyone here has some stuff to do before lights out."
Brewer bowed to the group and they moved out. Farmer Sam grumbled but led his family out, his missus in a worn and patched gingham on his arm. The priest adjusted his tube, arching an eyebrow but otherwise said nothing. Brewer nodded at him and left through the now unimpeded front doors.
The stars of the Plough rose to the north above the roofs. He wanted to get home and have a bit of warm food before things shut down for the night. The Farmers were right. This coming winter was going to be hard for all concerned, outside of the Cloister. Nobody wanted to end the year owing more than they started. Part of the reason he preferred the open fermentation vats. Less likely to register all the CO2 he let off. Maybe, if he was lucky, all he'd have to do was plant a few trees in the spring to counter his offset for the year.
He snorted at the thought. The Accountants always seemed to find new ways to increase what he owed, no matter how well he worked.
But now, he just wanted to get home. He didn't know what the future held. He only knew what he could do at the moment. He'd figure something out tomorrow. His shoulders slumped as he walked home.
Definitely tomorrow.
* * *
Mid-morning chores were interrupted with fanfare from the town gate. The pattern told of an armed wagon caravan from beyond the town walls arriving, not for trade. The gates opened, and the streets swallowed them. A short time later, the train of wagons pulled by luggers reappeared on the avenue leading up to the Cloister. The green and yellow camouflage of the wagons seemed strange against the grays and browns of the buildings.
Brewer grimly watched the passing caravan from his door. Visitors meant more beer which entailed brewing out of turn. And the Farmers would be even angrier than before. He assembled the luggers and told them to start filling the hot liquor tank. Time to go down to the grain room to start milling. A simple red mild, quick to ferment, not using too much grain or flowers. He opened the window to let the grain dust out. Adjusting the milling plates, he started to shovel the malt into the hopper.
Not long after he started, the door to the room opened. A runner stood in the frame. Brewer wiped his face.
"Master Brewer, you're wanted on the hill."
Brewer leaned on his shovel. "I'll be by later. I'm busy."
"The Abbot said for you to come right away."
Brewer tossed the shovel down and tugged on the cloth straps, undoing the knot to his apron. He balled up it up and tossed it toward the work table. "Fine. I'm coming." He assembled his luggers, hands moving rapidly. "Finish filling the tank. Fill the hopper. I'll be back. Soon." He glared at the messenger as he said the words aloud. The messenger didn't notice. Grumbling, Brewer followed him.
Brewer realized, as they made their way to the Cloister, it must have something to do with the visitors. Otherwise, why would he be called for? He knew the routine. The incline fell under his tread. The timing of the arrival was strange too. Usually, the infrequent caravans arrived late in the day. So that was different. What in Gaia's name could it be?
The wagons were parked on the lawn around the Cloister. The luggers had their yokes off and were making some food. Standing by the door next to the messenger, Brewer forced himself to calm down. He really needed to get back to his beer making if they expected him to meet the demand.
The door sighed open. In the small room beyond the door stood the Abbot.
"Brewer, I'm so glad you could make it."
"Hmm."
"Our visitors brought something very special. They wanted to meet you to see if you were up to the task before turning it over to you."
Brewer's eyebrows came together, and he pursed his lips. What was the Abbot talking about?
"Come in, come in." The Abbot beckoned him into the entrance.
Brewer's heart skipped a beat. "Abbot?"
"Don't dawdle. Step over the lip."
Hesitantly, Brewer stepped through the rounded rectangular hole of the door frame. The Abbot pressed a button on the far wall behind him, and the door to the outside swung shut. Dim blueish light filled the space. When the outside door shut with a resolute clang, orange lights mounted on the rear wall started flashing. A hissing sound followed, and after a moment, a heavy door opposite the one he came through swung outward.
Brewer peered through the opening. Lush, verdant vegetation covered the ground, despite it being autumn. The smell of flowers permeated the air. Diffuse brightness fell from the ceiling. A wide path of some black material wound away from the inner door. Tall constructs composed of stacked cylinders of gleaming metal and some shiny, white substance dotted the landscape. He realized they must be machines of some sort when one of them moved a metallic appendage over the plants next to it and misted them. None of the scene was familiar to him. He hadn't been inside the dome since he left the creche as a baby.
"We have to hurry. We can't keep them waiting."
"Who?"
"The See-oh. It would be bad form."
Puzzled, Brewer mutely followed, his previous irritation replaced by wonder and more than a bit of apprehension.
There were people scattered in the garden. They were dressed in fine, light clothes. Some of the tunics sported dazzling patterns, but most had solid colors. The people all stared at him. One girl with red hair, a color he had never seen, stood in some bushes by the springy path. She had an especially busy patterned shirt, and she glared at him with hatred in her eyes.
Brewer tried to be inconspicuous, but he stuck out in his rough beige pants and shirt. He suddenly realized he was the only one with a beard. He hurried to catch up to the Abbot.
The Abbot wound through the park on the smooth, black path between bushes festooned with flowers to a grassy meadow with an ornate pavilion set up. Golden flags hung from its poles, and a rich brocade made up the walls of the tent. It was enormous, almost the size of the brewery.
Standing outside of the flap of the tent, the Abbot bowed his head. Two large, bare-chested men, not luggers, also stood outside,their oiled muscles glistening as they held two batons crossed in front of the entrance. A woman in black armor with her blond hair in a long braided ponytail stood nearby. Something small and unfamiliar buzzed past him. It was yellow with black stripes.
"I'm here with the brewer."
A voice from inside called out, "Let them in."
The woman nodded. The guards relaxed and lifted the batons.
Rich carpets covered the ground. Wall hangings depicted scenes of places and things Brewer had only heard about or seen in rundown images on the walls of the church. Abbot marched straight ahead.
In the back of the space, illuminated by glowing vertical sticks on tripods, two men lounged on low, overstuffed couches. One man was dressed in an iridescent shirt and shiny, black pants, the other in a brilliant, textured white robe. They shared a laugh.
The Abbot went to the man in the fantastic shirt, went down on one knee, and bowed his head. Brewer stood a pace behind him. Abbot hissed and waved at him.
Brewer took the hint and followed suit.
The lounging men's laughter died down.
The man in the robe gestured at the kneeling pair. "I take it this is your brewer?"
The other man looked at them. "Yes, he makes quite good beer. Remarkable, considering." He took a drink from his cup.
"So, you think he's up to the task?"
The man in the jewel-like chemise turned to Brewer and studied him in detail. "Yes. But only one way to find out."
The robed man nodded. "Can he read?"
"You, brewer, can you? Do you know your letters, boy?"
Brewer glanced at the Abbot. The Abbot's face furrowed. He nodded his head at Brewer.
"Yes. Sir."
"Good. This will make it easy." The robed man clapped, and a servant in livery stepped out from behind one of the tapestries. The servant held a clear cylindrical container filled with a golden, transparent fluid. Brewer estimated there were two gallons of it. As the man stepped forward, the liquid didn't slosh around. Whatever it was, it was thick.
"I am providing this to you as an experiment. If you are successful, there will be more. Geoff, you will provide him with the appropriate culture?"
The other reclining man, Geoff, swirled his beer mug. "Of course. I trust the instructions are accurate?"
"As well as we could determine."
"Excellent." Geoff motioned at Brewer. "Well, don't just stand there. Come get it and get going. I sincerely hope that you succeed."
Brewer stood and approached the servant. He lifted the jar from the waiting man's arms. It was surprisingly heavy.
The two reclining men had already returned to their conversation and were ignoring Brewer.
Brewer coughed. "Excuse me, what is this?"
"Honey."