by Sarah Lahey
Climate also defeated the wine industry; extreme temperatures and a lack of reliable salt-free irrigation brought global production to a trickle in the early 2040s. There are still cases, extensive collections, and small boutique vineyards producing limited quantities, but the cost is prohibitive—special occasions only.
Lise tosses Quinn a mandarin from the luggagebot. Quinn catches it and breathes in the fruit and citrus scent.
“You juggled these when you were little,” Lise says. “Remember?”
Yes, she remembers, anything round, anything within in reach, mandarins, lemons, limes. She practiced all the time and never improved; ball skills are not in her skill set.
Mori leaves the main complex building, and Quinn watches as he strides across the grass towards them. She knows his gait. This is not his usual stride; he’s had a vitamin top-up—a nutrition IV infusion, a brain cleanse to help him focus. It sort of kick-starts his day, leaving him with a little morning buzz.
Lise tosses Quinn another mandarin, and then another. Quinn fumbles both and loses all three.
“Darling, what’s wrong?” Lise asks.
“I’m not sure,” Quinn replies.
“About?”
Quinn turns toward Mori, and Lise follows her gaze.
“Oh, I see,” Lise says.
“Sorry I’m late,” Mori says. “Primary printer’s not working, and the secondary printer’s printing parts to fix the primary. Been thinking outside the circle all week.” He’s a bit hypo, high on his infusion. “Lise, it’s good to finally meet you. I’m a huge admirer—read all your work.”
Lise takes his hand. “It’s ‘doctor,’ Dr. Buyers. You’ve read all my work! Really? All of it?”
“Well, some—”
“Which books?”
Mori hesitates, a half laugh, “I guess, the one about nothing . . . ness.”
“On a Theory of Nothingness. And what did you think? What did you like about it?”
Mori flounders and stares at the ground. Quinn feels for him, knowing he never actually read it—and knowing why, too. Logically, it is impossible to avoid a theory of nothingness, but it does people’s heads in. It’s unnerving to be told that the world might not be real, that it cannot be defined without active participation, that things only become tangible when you see them, and touch them, and taste them. People hate the idea of nothingness, herself included.
“He didn’t say he liked it; he just said he’s read it,” Ada interrupts. “Please, call me Ada.”
Lise exhales, raises an arched eyebrow. Quinn rubs the crease in her forehead. This is where they’re at.
Quinn scans the group, thinking what a ridiculous little gathering of humans they are, assembled on the grass on an isolated archipelago. And now they’re going to sit around and partake in awkward getting-to-know-each-other introductions and make pointless conversation because they think there’s going to be a wedding this afternoon. What the fuck have I done?
Mori pulls in extra chairs, and they sit in the low, flat shadows of the complex buildings. The white tips of Mount Ross hang in the sky behind them, but their focus is south, toward the teal-colored Indian Ocean lapping gently into the bays and inlets around the Island. The tide makes soft, gasping sounds, as if it is inhaling and exhaling, in and out, while creeping forward, getting a little higher every year.
No one speaks, not a word, and right now Quinn sees how easy it is to believe in nothingness. All this beauty, the sparkling reflections on the water, the exquisite green-blue color, the hypnotic murmur of the waves, the warm breeze on her skin—these are just constructs inside her head. The landscape is too wonderful, too scenic and charming, to be real. Before her the horizon blurs into nothingness, leading on and on, all the way to the wet and wild world of Antarctica.
“The ocean, it’s so green,” Ada notes.
“It’s out of balance. There’s more phytoplankton blooms. That makes it look greener,” says Lise.
“Ah,” Ada responds.
Again, they fall into silence.
“Beautiful horizontal line,” says Mori.
Quinn frowns. He means horizon, beautiful horizon. He’s nervous.
“Yes, yes it is, it’s just so, so perfectly straight.” Ada salvages the malapropism, smiling. “It’s a perfectly lovely, straight line between water and sky.”
Lise’s unamused eyes are fixed on the distance.
“Honeymooning?” Ada asks.
“An-ta-tic. Working holiday.”
Still annoying.
“Really?” Lise is surprised.
“There’s a lot to be done there,” says Mori.
“Yes, there is. Actually, we’d like some time alone with Quinn,” she says. “You don’t mind, do you?”
“Anything you have to say . . .”
“Alone,” she clarifies.
He eases himself out of his chair. “Need time for my thought shower anyway.”
They watch him stride across the lawn back to the Research Station.
“What’s a ‘thought shower’?” Lise asks.
“It’s thinking. Just thinking, we all do it,” says Quinn. “I’m such an idiot, I’ve totally fucked this up.”
“Never too early for wine,” says Ada, gathering glasses from the luggagebot and opening a bottle. On this they all agree, except Tig, who refuses a glass. Instead, he busies himself peeling the mandarins and watching the skins fall to the ground.
“You’re not in love, but you don’t need to be,” says Ada.
“You can tell that from one meeting?”
“Of course. Look, he’s been very good for your career; it’s still a good alignment. You’re sure its not pre-wedding nerves? Very common. Besides, it doesn’t need to be forever.”
“Thank you; sobering advice.” Not the words of wisdom she wanted to hear on her wedding day.
They fall silent.
Tig turns to Quinn, offering her segments of mandarin in his open palm, and she sees that both his wrists are covered in fine metal bangles. Dozens of them. She leans in and stares into his open face, wondering what he’s thinking, then decides he’s a bit drone-like. Maybe he doesn’t think anything. As she takes the mandarin her fingers graze his, causing a shudder between them, a reverberating electric shock. He grins. She pulls away. The morning light catches the rim of his bionic glasses and hits her in the eye. She squints. He’s a strange thing.
“The cloud thing?” asks Ada.
“Simulated weather experience,” Quinn corrects. “More art installation than science. A cumulous cloud with fabulous ambiance and mood lighting. It has a dual purpose: besides the wedding, he’s launching his new business, Dining in the Clouds. He says people want new adventures, exciting experiences. They’ll do anything to be part of something unique. He has pre-bookings a year ahead; the fashionably wealthy still want fine food in an exclusive setting. And the press will love it, which means sponsors. Investments. He’s worked so hard on it; he even embedded actinomycetes into the platform so it smells like rain.” She turns to her mother. “Please say something. You’re too quiet.”
“Am I?”
“You know you are,” says Ada.
Another raised eyebrow.
Lise is nonreactive now, because she’s always been non-reactive. Her parenting philosophy is based on embracing failure—making mistakes and learning from them. When Quinn was younger, a teenager, Lise encouraged her to explore the world, take risks, and make mistakes. There were no boundaries and no punishments—never a stern word. She answered all of her daughter’s questions truthfully and said her actions were her choices. If she wanted to discuss them, Lise was always available.
Slowly, Quinn breathes. “I have a plan. I’m going to tell him it’s too soon, I’m just not sure, and I need more time. Then I’ll suggest we go ahead with the event, but not the ceremony. So the cloud thing happens. There’s no point canceling. That’d be worse for him. He’s worked so hard.”
Lise remains silent, reticently
finishing her wine in one gulp. There is nothing else for Quinn to do; she rises from her chair and sets off toward the main building.
Four
He could be renovated.
A good Technician and
some Coin.
SO CLOSE, I COULD have leant over and kissed her. I could have picked her up and squeezed her and kissed her. Could have held her hand, taken it in mine, sat there next to her holding it, keeping it warm—but then she’d have one warm hand and one cold, so I’d have to warm the other one as well, then both her hands would be real warm; she’d like that. She likes it when her hands are warm. Yeah, that would’ve been nice—a bit weird, but nice, really nice. But would have completely freaked her out, of course, and I don’t want to do that.
Didn’t know what would happen, how she would feel, but I felt pretty fucking stupid, ’cause I couldn’t take my eyes off her. Honestly, I thought she might realize, in some small way she’d know, she’d get it, there’d be a sign, a signal, she’d realize who I was, but she knows nothing, absolutely nothing, and that’s pretty fucking obvious. She has no idea who I am, and why would she? Never met me before in her life.
Fuck, what a trip this is. It’s messing with my head. The things I remembered about her: Natural, everything about her, loose hair, no makeup, and her eyes, beautiful green eyes. No manners, she’s so fucking abrupt, “He could be renovated. A good Technician, some Coin . . .” Fuck me, didn’t know whether to laugh at her or yell at her.
The things I forgot: She’s small, tiny frame. Standing next to her, I wanted to say, “Come on, stand up,” ’cause she looks so friggin’ small. I don’t remember her being that small. And young, I’d forgotten about that—she’s young. And cute. And horny.
Actually, that’s me, not her. I’ve come a long way for love and sex.
Five
Look up at the stars and not
down at your feet.
MORI STANDS IN FRONT of the faulty printer, a tube of resin in one hand and a galvanometer in the other. He clearly has no idea what he’s supposed to be doing. On the table beside him are a pile of spare parts and a folder of documents, maps, and charts. He looks up when Quinn enters.
“And you said she was thoughtful and funny.”
“Really? Did I say that?”
“Yes, you said she holds a deep-seated skepticism about the way wealth is created, so I wasn’t to mention the property portfolio, and then you added brilliant, thoughtful, funny, and she likes a stiff drink at the end of the day. You’d have to peel layers from that onion to get anything out of it. Did she mention my age?” Abandoning the resin and the galvanometer to the pile of equipment on the table, he begins sorting through the charts, flicking through folders, like he’s trying to find something that’s not there—an exercise in endless shuffling.
“No. She didn’t mention your age. You’re busy. Let me help . . .”
“This, no?” He gestures to the documents. “The tiger team’s striding fertile ground; we’re about to grab the lofty fruit.”
Quinn thinks Mori’s brain works like a random, scattered, vacillating system of neurons that don’t always connect.
“What did you talk about after I was so ungracefully dismissed?”
“Nothing.”
He glances her way. “You okay?”
“I’m so sorry, I can’t do this.”
“Relax, you don’t have to tell me everything, you’re allowed to have some secrets.”
“No, not that, I can’t do this, you and me. I can’t marry you.”
“You’ve changed your mind?”
“I’m not a hundred percent.”
“What percent are you?”
“About eighty.” Eighty percent negative. “It’s too soon, I just need more time.”
Leaning on the edge of the desk, he runs his palms down his thighs.
“I’m so sorry.”
“No, no, I understand. We’re singing from the same sheet music. It’s been a whirlwind, for both of us. Take all the time you need. I just want you to be happy.”
She holds her breath, then lets it out with a long sigh. “You should do the event, the dinner. I mean, you’ve worked so hard. Just no wedding.”
“Just no wedding. Okay.”
“I’m sorry.”
“No, no, don’t be.” He shakes his head like an insect is bothering him. “It’s fine, really it is.”
“I’m sorry.”
“Don’t worry, trust me, I’ll be just fine, just fine. Now, you look tired. Go lie down, and I’ll take the final readings. We’ve still got a lot to do.”
She nods; she’s shattered.
He takes her hands in his. “And, just a thought, this afternoon wear the cloud dress.”
Her hand retracts, but his grip is firm.
“Wait, listen, it would be great for the business, Fourth Estate will be there. Think of the images; it’ll go viral.”
He wants her to wear a simulated cloud. Many times, she’s rejected this idea; she’s a scientist, she has a PhD, it took her six years to develop her climate model, she’s not wearing a white, fluffy cloud. But now she’s indebted, so she nods. She’ll wear the cloud dress. It’s the least she can do.
He grins at the win. “One last thing.” He nestles close to her ear. “Don’t wear anything under the cloud.”
It’s out of character, but she concedes. It could be just what their relationship needs.
Plan C: It’s done. He made it easy for her; she knows he did. The wedding is canceled but the event is on, and she’s the welcome committee. A few hours’ rest is exactly what she needs. He’s just so thoughtful.
Headed toward her sleep zone, she passes a flock of cute, curly-horned sheep grazing on a patch of the island’s native cabbages, which she knows are truly awful and only fit for sheep consumption because she ate one once. This group of sheep is her favorite. She’s named each one: Maryam Mirzakhani, Richard Dawkins, Marie Curie, and her good friend Stephen Hawking. She has breakfast with Stephen most mornings. They stroll around the complex until they find a pleasant place to sit and contemplate the day ahead. Often, she’ll take her journal and automatic pencil and make notations on the solar flare data as she eats.
Stephen sees her and wanders over, nuzzles his forehead into her knee. She scratches the back of his neck. Sheep have a similar basal ganglia and cerebral brain cortex to humans and are much smarter than people realize.
“Up for a walk?” she asks, because right now she needs a chat and he’s a good listener. They make their way across the grass, heading north, up the sloping hills surrounding the Station, where the grassy base of Mount Ross rises, giving way to rocks and trees—a familiar spot with a clear view of the village and harbor. There’s a neat place amongst the stones to rest, and Stephen hunkers down beside her.
“Bad day,” she says. “I’m riddled with guilt. Sounded like one of those AHA people, I’m a disgrace. I wonder if he was in the War; he looks like he was in the War. And I canceled the wedding, but that’s a good thing.” Then she remembers something Hawking once said—the scientist, not the sheep—and, looking into the sheep’s eyes, she says, “‘Remember to look up at the stars and not down at your feet. Don’t give up work; it gives your life meaning and purpose and without it life is empty, and if you are lucky enough to find love, don’t throw it away.’ Well, I’m not throwing it away, I never had it. And I’ve got the first two covered.” She closes her eyes and falls asleep in the furrow between the rocks, under the mid-morning sun.
***
When she wakes Stephen is still there, resting beside her. She checks her Band; a message from Lise. Her mother refuses to send holograms; she hates the technology and won’t even acknowledge a holo request. She says it’s a complete fad. The novelty will last a couple of years and then everyone will go back to dialogue and messaging each other. “A bit of diffracted light and noise and people think it’s magic. It’s not fucking magic, it’s science. If the medium is still the messa
ge, and I think it is, then it’s not a message I’m sending.” She shook her head when she said this. “You’re too young to remember the book debate. People predicted they’d be gone, that all text would be digital, but here we are, still reading them, hard copies. And autonomous vehicles: hot for a few years, then we realized we liked driving and found autos interesting. Trust me, the same thing will happen to holograms.”
Quinn opens the message. It reads, “You and I, we are entangled qubits. Our reality is not bound by classical concepts of physics, it’s what we make it. There is no point mulling over the past or the future, because they don’t exist, just as the concept of ‘now’ doesn’t exist. Just live. Life is for living. Whatever decision you make is the right one.”
Quinn smiles. The consolation of unconditional love.
Six
He keeps staring at Quinn
like a lost puppy.
IN A SMALL APARTMENT on the other side of the planet in a small, out-of-the-way city called Hobart, Maim Quate, leader of the political party Democratic Republic, brews her morning tea in the food prep. This is not her kitchen, but she likes this space; she’s always liked blue kitchens, and the honey-colored timber floors and benches contrast so nicely with the blue cabinets and walls. What did Lise call this color? “Orbit the Moon.” She smiles as she thinks that Lise would have happily paid more for the name. Maim wears a rust-colored kimono, not her size, but it’s a loose cut and she likes the way it smells—like Lise. She takes her tea and heads back to the sleep zone. Moving to the left side of the bed, she pulls back the cover, then changes her mind and slips over to the right side of the bed. Drawing the golden wraps around her, she sips her tea and thinks she likes this room, too. The walls here are a deep yellow and the name is easy to recall: Cartoon Yellow.