TK Special #6 - jinnis... Bottle of Jinn

Game

Game

The man strolls down the windswept path, dry leaves swirling around scuffed boots. Of course, the boots are an illusion, so is his wrinkled face framed by tousled hair and a pair of John Lennon glasses. He could change the face including the glasses and the rest of his appearance in the wink of an eye if necessary. But this is the one disguise he learned to like. 'Like' might be too strong though. He feels comfortable with it. Yes, that's it, comfortable.

Ancient trees rustle and groan in strong gusts. More than one of them will lose a limb before the storm recedes. The man isn't bothered. On a larger scale, even one completely destroyed forest won't tip the balance of the big game, this game aptly named climate change.

Together with his best friend, he's been at it for over fifty Earth years. Not really that long, considered they originally started the project as part of their xenosociology homework. Although they both loathed xenosoc, this actually turned out fun.

He enjoyed to observe the growing eco-awareness of the sixties, resulting in the hippy culture. In particular, he fondly remembers Woodstock, and not only for the music and the little blonde he met there. Then came the seventies' campaigns against nuclear tests and commercial whaling. The thrill he experienced while steering his inflatable between a big Japanese whaler and its prey still found no equal in his activist's career.

By this time, he was getting good, secretly nudging here, pushing a fraction there.

This was also the decade they started the bet. During the following years, his friend supported the fast developing industry while he fought on the green side of things. And what an epic fight it was!

The eighties were shaped by first political backlash and—in a foreseeable answer—radicalisation of environmental organisations. The nineties brought heated discussion of global warming and the Kyoto protocol.

Both partners enjoyed living in the thick of it. Each of them scored points and accepted defeat in the ups and downs of political tides.

His pet projects in the last decades of the old and first of the new millennium centred on the development of alternative energy sources. From solar panels to wind and tidal plants, he'd done it all. The creative points to be won in this discipline were all his. Solely human incompetence was to blame that setbacks like Chernobyl and Fukushima didn't throw his competitor out of the game for good.

Next on his list is another trip to the Amazon basin: saving the rainforest campaigns are a favourite hobby, these days. As an additional benefit, the climate is warmer there.

He reaches the bus station only to realise he missed his ride by a few minutes. The next is due in an hour. To make things worse, a drizzle starts. Marking the always environmentally conscious public-transport-user has its setbacks.

He pushes his hands into the pockets of his ancient trademark—fake—navy coat and picks up the long walk to town. After a few steps, a vibration rattles his left collarbone. He stops to take the call.

'Hey, Daaareen, what about a shaeel on the rocks, preferably on sundeck of Siiraamin? I'm getting bored.'

The man—Daaareen—checks his phone: 2. April 2017. The trip to Siiraamin won't take more than seven or eight Earth years, then a shaeel or two, maybe chat up some nice girls. They can easily be back within a hundred years or so, ample time to finish their project.

He presses a finger against the complant beneath his collarbone.

'Okay, Hiiiruun, count me in. Humans can manipulate their planet themselves for a while.'

'Copied. Want to bet what state ol' planet Earth will be in when we return?'

Daaareen carefully folds his beloved glasses and stows them in a pocket of his body suit before he changes his appearance. With a long, broad-tipped green finger he taps the com button, now situated besides his left eyestalk.

'Let's discuss this later, mate. Beam me up!'