Climate fiction – or cli-fi – is an emerging genre of literature exploring issues raised by climate change. In this short story, New Zealand author Tim Jones imagines life in 2030.

Mike nosed his electric van into the garage.

Amy and Oliver were already home, he saw, their bikes next to each other. Mike's SUV stood in the other parking bay, waiting for tomorrow night.

The van, with its ladders in the back, its pipes and guttering, its toolbox, its battery that needed to be charged every night, was work. The SUV was freedom.

Today had been a long, hot day, lots of people trying to cope with the effects of the last downpour, lots of people trying to get ahead of the next one. He wanted to grab some food, knock the invoicing off and head for bed. But he'd promised Amy he'd be there for the start of her meeting instead.

Amy was buzzing around in the high-tension way he recognised so well, the way that made him want to find a quiet corner till the air was less electric. But she'd spotted him.

"There you are! Get a shower quick, and then see if you can get that boy of our moving."

"He's old enough to get himself moving."

"Just talk to him."

Three-minute showers? No problem. Mike emerged twenty seconds under the limit, changed into his second-best clothes and went to roust out his son.

Who'd fallen asleep on his bed again. That boy could sleep for his country. He was sure as hell going to get a rude awakening next year – lots of rude awakenings.

"Whaaaa – oh. It's you."

"It's me. Your mother needs you to get up and get moving. Have you forgotten you promised to open up the hall and get the zip on and the kettles ready? What with yesterday's announcement, the place will be full of people falling over each other to complain."

"It's not enough," said Oliver.

"Not enough?"

"An 8 per cent cut in carbon allocation next year is nowhere near enough. We need a 12 per cent reduction per year, minimum, worldwide. And richer countries like us..."

Richer countries? Jeez. Everyone else must be in pretty bad shape, then. His son was off on one, banging on about contraction and convergence.

Mike's gaze swept around Oliver's room. So many books: books were back, now streaming used up too many carbon credits. The New Colonialism. The Great Burning. Silent Summer.

"You read too much," Mike said. "Come on, get moving."

Amy had already eaten and was off getting her papers together. Mike made dinner for himself and Oliver, then shooed the boy out the door in the direction of the school hall.

"What do you think?" asked Amy, coming back into the room and giving a little twirl.

"I think you look beautiful."

"You know that's not what I mean," she smiled.

"I think – yeah, I think it works. Maybe the dark grey jacket, though, not the blue?"

Amy's face sobered. "This is where they're going to start hating me, isn't it? Last week at the marae was the good part. Now comes the part where I have to convince people to make do with less. No wonder Kahu was so keen for me to take over."

"It's not like you'll be up on the stage by yourself," Mike pointed out. "Kahu will be there too, and she won't let you come to any harm."

"I wish you'd stay for the whole meeting."

"But you know I..."

"Have got to get your invoices done. But you could do those tomorrow night if you weren't taking that bloody credit-guzzler out to meet up with the boys."

"Do we really have to get into this tonight?" asked Mike. "Really?"

He was aware his voice was rising. He hated moments like this, when he started to echo his father.

Amy crossed her arms, looked at him, and sighed.

"We don't," she said. "But it can't wait forever. Now I'm neighbourhood captain, whatever you do is going to reflect on me. Anything from Emily?"

Mike shook his head. "Bit early yet. Hey... ." He crossed the room and reached out his arms. She snuggled against him. "I'm proud of you. You're going to be great at this. And if it gets really nasty tonight, I'll stay."

* * * * *

The school hall was an oasis of light in the night-time darkness. Inside, adults stood in couples and clusters while kids ran around.

Mike nodded to Prakash Kumar, who was arguing with Dave Bruce, as usual – you'd never know they'd been friends for 20 years. He chatted for a while with Zhang Liao – just as Oliver was facing the prospect of service in the Climate Corps next year, so was Mr Zhang's daughter.

"I'm after a coffee," said Mike, and excused himself.

He studied his son for a moment before crossing the room. Oliver was 17 now, a young man. He inhabited his body as if it were an ill-fitting suit.

He had so nearly not made it.

From the incubator to his early teens, Oliver's life had been a battle for air. Four years ago, when a salbutamol shortage had coincided with the start of fire season, Oliver had spent three terrifying nights in hospital.

He'd never been as bad again, but next year, he would be assigned to some collapsing corner of the country and expected to plant trees or shore up seawalls or re-wild wetlands. With his asthma, he could have applied for a medical exemption and got a desk job, but Oliver had refused.

Mike didn't know whether to admire him or tell him he was an idiot.

"You talk to him," Mike had said to Amy. "He listens to you." But so far, Oliver hadn't budged.

Fathers and sons, a continuing story.

Mike's own Dad had been massive on sport. When Mike was young, the Bathurst 1000 had been their appointment viewing. He remembered curling up in the crook of his father's arm on the couch as the Holdens and Fords roared round the Mount Panorama circuit, the gums in the background hazed by heat and exhaust fumes.

But that had been before the big fires came, when Kiwis still thought Australia was the land of opportunity.

Oliver noticed Mike staring at him and stared back. "Want something?"

"A coffee?"

"Oh," said Oliver. "Sure."

A hush rippled outwards from the stage: it was time for the karakia.

Mike took a seat in the third row, between Dave Bruce and an elderly woman he didn't know, and followed the formalities as best he could. His reo was very much a work in progress: he was confident enough with his pepeha, but soon got lost after that.

Now Amy had risen to the heights of neighbourhood captain, it was another way he was going to have to step up. She could move smoothly in two worlds, while he could barely avoid tripping over himself in one.

"Thank you," Amy said in English. "Thank you for putting your trust in me. If I didn't already know I have big shoes to fill, Kahu's example makes that very clear."

Amy paused for a moment. Here comes the hard part, thought Mike.

"Now the Citizens' Assembly has decided the base carbon-credit allocation will be reduced by a further 8 per cent next year, we need to decide what we're going to do as a community to make sure we can meet that target and help those who find it hardest."

Someone down the back shouted: "We've cut to the bone already! What else are we supposed to do? Stop eating?"

"Quiet!" called Kahu, and the audience piped down. Amy would have to learn to command a crowd like that.

"We all knew this was going to be tough," Amy said. "The key is that we share the burden, share the pain. Common effort for the common good, right?"

"Unless you've got mates in the black market!"

"Which is why the Government is also announcing an expanded tribunal system for dealing with black marketeers."

"So you want us to dob in our neighbours, is that it?"

On it went.

Mike was in two minds. He cheered as loud as anyone when they announced black marketeers had been put on trial, but at the same time, he knew people who knew people who could get you things and, once or twice, when he was desperate for parts, he'd made use of them. All at arms' length, of course, nothing that could be traced back to him … he hoped.

But now Amy was neighbourhood captain, that would have to stop. All eyes would be on them.

The crowd simmered down. All across the city, all across the country, meetings like this would be happening, knitting communities together even as the climate emergency tried to tear them apart.

Mike loved Amy and admired her skill with people, the way she could read them, the way she could talk them round. But all he really wanted was a couple of beers and a chance to de-stress with the boys.

He stayed till the tea break then caught Amy's eye. Heading towards the door, he navigated little eddies of conversation.

"Of course I agree it's an emergency, Prakash. But what I want to know is, how long will it last?"

"Some Government of National Unity - they spend all their time arguing with each other!"

"... then she told me she was hapū. I said, Julia, you know we can't… "

"Those billionaires have just hunkered down. They haven't gone away."

No message from Emily. What the heck, he thought, and called her as soon as he got home. She answered right away.

"We're just getting dinner, Dad. Hey, I'll head out on the verandah. Did you know this used to be a milking shed?"

"You look tired," he said.

"I'm working hard, Dad. Humans aren't as good at pollinating fruit trees as bees were. I saw some though!"

"Saw some what?"

"Bees! Large as life. One nearly stung me. But that's a good sign, isn't it?"

Mike remembered a day when no-one was excited to see a bee. What a world.

"How's that girlfriend of yours?"

"She's good. Hey, Camila!"

Camila was full of words, as usual. How two people could stand to be so bubbly together was beyond Mike, but he was glad Emily had found her, especially after that horrible thing with Emily's team leader last year. Finally Camila handed the phone back.

"How was Mum's meeting?"

"She's in her element. I came back early. Got to get the invoicing done."

"It's your night with the boys tomorrow night, isn't it? The Double-Cab Club?"

"Sure is. I'm going to enjoy it while I still can. Are they giving you any breaks?"

"Day off on Saturday. We're off to a barn dance!"

"Where do you get the energy?"

"Good genes, Dad. Love you!"

His daughter's face, smiling, an orange sky behind. Was that just the fabled southern twilight, or had fire season already started in the Catlins?

With luck, Oliver would get posted to the West Coast. Down there, they had what everybody else wanted: more water than they could use themselves, and no long droughts to endure before it arrived.

* * * * *

Late Friday afternoon. Mike was tired and hot and sweaty. He'd passed a couple of late jobs on to a mate so he could get home in good time to hit the road. Amy was deep in admin, Oliver was – wherever Oliver was.

Mike gave his SUV an unnecessary polish before setting out. God, she was beautiful.

They made things to last in those days.

Rush hour wasn't what it used to be. Suburbanites made their way home by bike, bus and foot. Mike passed a painter on a cargo bike, his cans and brushes in the cargo compartment, his ladders on a spindly trailer behind. That must save a bunch on carbon credits, thought Mike.

It was getting to the point where he was starting to feel conspicuous in an SUV. Kids were giving him the gimlet eye.

As he waited at the crossing for the packed intercity train to crawl through, Mike could see the thunderheads forming again. He was heading straight into the weather. When the rain fell these days, it really fell.

The air-conditioning hummed, the tracklist from one of his Dad's old driving compilations filling the cab.

He sat back, one hand on the wheel, and drove like there was no tomorrow, his mind already on pulling up to the roadhouse, on blowing the rest of his month's personal carbon budget on a succulent, miraculous steak. Beers and bros, a long evening of banter before he had to face the journey home.

The road was wet now: his lights showed pools of water forming. A crack of thunder drowned out Cold Chisel. Hail hammered the windscreen.

Bugger, thought Mike, and switched his full attention to the road. The roadhouse was another 30 minutes away through bumpy hills and steep-sided valleys.

Not so many people came this way any more. The road was beginning to fall into disrepair, potholes eating away at the edges of the tarmac.

Mike gunned the engine and climbed up a switchback hill cloaked with regenerating bush, then coasted down into the next valley. The streams and little rivers were filling rapidly. Some farmer's crop, too dark to make out in the twilight, was in a lot of danger.

The rain grew heavier, Mike's wipers barely keeping pace. He turned up his music to drown out the deluge: Chisel had never sounded better.

Sometimes, he wished the world had just ignored the terrible events of the early '20s – fire, flood and pestilence – and put up two fingers to the future. Eat lots of meat, drink lots of milk, burn hydrocarbons and be merry, for tomorrow we die: a short life, but an exciting one.

Even with all these cuts, all this drawing in of belts, there was no guarantee they would succeed. The world was still getting warmer year-by-year, and it would be a long time before the blanket of carbon started to thin. A very long time.

Mike shook his head to clear it of the gloom. Ten more minutes and he'd be pulling in for food and beers.

If he'd been paying closer attention, he might have seen the washout. Mike turned a sharp left-hander and discovered the bridge ahead of him, probably weakened by storm after storm, had disappeared down-river.

He jammed on the brakes, but it wasn't enough. His SUV slid on the wet road, went over the edge, and nosedived into the rapidly rising water, barely remaining upright.

The torrent swept the vehicle downstream, only Mike's seatbelt saving him from being smashed against dashboard and windscreen and steering wheel. He braced himself and hoped, prayed, for the battering to stop.

It did. With a shuddering thump, the vehicle hit the bank: not hard enough to trigger the airbags, but hard enough to shake Mike up.

As the driver's side began to sink into the deeper flow of water that was scouring out the bank, Mike scrambled to the passenger side, opened the door as the weight of water lifted, and managed to scramble out.

He tried to balance on the tilting vehicle but it was no use: his legs went from under him and he fell into the muddy, swirling torrent, banging his head on the vehicle as he went down. For a sickening moment, he thought he was going to drown right there – then the current washed him up against a tree that had fallen from the bank.

He clung on, managed to lever himself up.

Light dazzled him. Upstream, his SUV had broken free of its resting place. Now it was floating towards him, picking up speed as it went. If it hit him, he would be either crushed or drowned.

Amy. Emily. Oliver.

With a final effort, he heaved himself along the trunk. Trailing roots still clung to the bank. He jammed his hands and feet into any gaps he could find and hauled himself to the relative safety of the bank above.

He lay and watched his SUV's tail-lights disappear downstream. As they cut out, he heard a chunk of the bank fall in the water. He dragged himself further away. God, he was cold.

"Move," he told himself. "Move."

He climbed to his feet, pain beginning to cut through the adrenaline.

Across the fields, barely visible in the driving rain, he could see a shed. It offered the possibility of shelter. Mike trudged across the sodden field. Dark sky above, drowning world below.

The shed was locked, but when he rounded it, he saw a farmhouse ahead, a welcome glimmer of light in one window. It was going to be embarrassing to admit what a careless fool he'd been, but there was no time to delay: he was shivering.

Mike knocked loudly on the farmhouse door.

* * * * *

As summer drew to a close, they saw Oliver off at the train station. Their son had been assigned up north, where things were getting really desperate. He was equal parts elated and scared stiff.

It would be the making, or the breaking, of him.

An empty nest, then, at least for now.

"Emily's got leave in a month," Mike said. "Let's make it easy for her and invite Camila as well."

Amy nodded.

"OK," she said. "Back into it. The Karaitiana whānau have invited me over, and then we're all meeting with the community gardens crew to see if we can get yields up again. The trouble is, the individual allotments…."

Mike listened with half an ear. He was catching up with the boys again tomorrow, for the first time since the accident. Finally, they'd decided to let him live down the loss of his SUV.

Beers and a barbecue, he'd promised them, though the beers would be low-alcohol and the steaks vegan. He thought they'd cope with that.

The real worry would be what they'd say about the new trailer he was constructing for his cargo bike.

* Tim Jones is a Wellington writer and advocate for a just transition to a low-carbon future. His latest book is the cli-fi novella Where We Land (The Cuba Press, 2019).