Operation Hecuba
Operation Hecuba was launched in the summer of 2052, when the energy crisis was in full swing and even the big cities—New York, London, San Francisco—were graying out at least once a day due to shortages. The idea had been circulating for years in various forms: the possibility of generating energy by harnessing human emotions which had, by that time, proved more consistent and more reliable than our rational modes of thought. There was debate as to how, exactly, to proceed from this thesis. Would parental love be the most electric? Would the grid light up with the power of hope?
The answer: of course not. From the most preliminary tests, it was clear that the feelings that had the most potential to generate an electrical current were negative ones. Righteous fury proved to be the most effective of the various subcategories. Frustration tended to burn out too quickly, and guilt seemed to weaken the current.
In the literature, which preferred more neutral terminology, they were called the subjects, but in the press, they had other names: the generatrixes, the Hecubites, or simply, the women. For as the early tests had gone on, it had become clear that, on average, women were by far the more effective generators. Men were unreliable, too quick to flare up and peter out. The electrical charge of a woman wronged—that was what the world needed. And so, the decision was made that this, like so much else, would be woman’s work: the work of lighting up the world again.
The layout of the plants was relatively simple. Wide open floors were filled with what the literature referred to as workstations, but what the women themselves called Hellboxes: enlarged cubicles where they strapped themselves into harnesses and headsets, affixing wires to key pressure points. There were screens where the women could track their output and simulations they were encouraged to run—series of images, conversations, videos that might incite the sort of righteous anger that made the generators hum to life.
Shifts were structured as eight-hour blocks, with two hours on and one hour off: the analytics indicated that sustaining anger for any longer than two hours at a time was tricky, resulting in peaks and valleys of energy that required too much recalibration. It was exhausting, but in time, the subjects found that summoning up a slow, steady burn became as familiar as filing expense reports or grading math tests or performing titrations. One could, perhaps, get used to anything.
When the first plant had opened, there were concerns—history repeats itself after all, and hadn’t we both asked and then ultimately, ignored the same questions about nuclear power? What were the long-term effects on the subjects? On the rest of the population? Was there danger of spillage? Did anger radiate? Would we be able to tell if it did?
Yet as it became clear that Operation Hecuba would be effective, public response took on an overwhelmingly positive tone. Who could complain about more power, fewer grayouts? A chance at the kind of quality of life that our parents had enjoyed before the first Outage? The Department of Energy was delighted with the results, and in year four, Dr. Maisie Els, who had been placed in charge of the operation, won an open seat in the Senate. It was, the press reported, a brilliant solution: no toxic waste and a far smaller carbon footprint than either coal or natural gas. A boost to employment rates in areas where well paying opportunities were few and far between.
In the early days, women sometimes traveled across state lines in order to try out for one of the facilities. It was the rare job with no educational requirements—admission rested entirely on your performance in the testing and a brief psychological exam. As far as the public knew, there had never been problems thus far, but Dr. Els and her team went on the record to say that, while some candidates might be particularly prolific in energy production, a certain level of emotional stability was key to the long-term viability of the project.
The women were housed onsite in dormitories and encouraged to devote their off hours to activities like meditation and yoga. Home visits took place once a week, although the longer the women worked at the plants, the less frequently they chose to take advantage of them. Psych evaluations and wellness activities notwithstanding, it was punishing to live inside anger day in and day out. Some women quit, but others embraced the feeling: dark with purple edges, like the most vibrant kind of bruise, pressed over and over.
By year five of the program, there was a plant in every state, with almost 1200 across the country. Hellboxes were installed in old schools and retail fulfillment centers and warehouses. Energy flowed into the grid, and Dr. Els was elected to a second Senate term, awarded honorary doctorates by prestigious universities.
In the plants themselves, the women had begun to organize. As they grew used to the work, they could fill their off hours not just with meditation and with yoga, but with reading, whispers. They powered the country from coast to coast: how could they fail to recognize the scope of their power? Their fury could light up a city, their indignation powered office buildings and medical labs and digital printing facilities and coffeemakers. They had buried their hearts deep, but now they dug them up and peeled back the layers, showing one another the sources of their anger: here, he hit me; here, he left her crying; here, they never listened; here, I found her pulpy, battered, dead.
Together, they would write a new history, in which one witch is burned, but many witches make the world burn around them. Hot, bright: the powerlines still strung up above rural highways, deep underground where the subways ran, in the White House, where wires connected security cameras, computers, the reading lamp over the President’s desk. In their rage, the women were a barely controlled flame; they were a forest fire; they were the crackling heat of hell itself, come back to light it all up, then burn it all down.