Transported

by Tim Jones

  Until the night he woke up with his insides melting away.

  We'd all got through the Drowning, that was the worst of it. I had been little more than a baby when the West Antarctic Ice Sheet began its graceful slide into the sea. Then the high tides came, higher every day until the new seawall failed and the water crashed in on streets and shops and houses. The new shoreline had more or less stabilised now, six metres above the old.

  My father had told me all about it as he tinkered with flotsam and jetsam from pre-Drowning Wellington. In those days, it was all there for the taking along the new shoreline, and there was a thriving economy of scavenging and barter. When the shoreline had been picked clean, Dad acquired the dinghy. I spent as much time on that boat as I did at school, but I was in the classroom the day the principal came in and told us all to go straight home. New Variant Haemorrhagic Fever — the bleeding plague — had come to Wellington, and each household was thrown back on its own resources.

  Just when we thought it had spared us, my father woke screaming in pain.

  Ten days later, he lay buried in the orchard, and my mother and I were weak as newborn kittens but alive. When the plague had passed, she went back to work and I went back to school, but ours had become a silent house. I spent more and more time in Dad's workshop, tinkering with his pet projects, and stopped going to school altogether. When my mother found out, she was furious, and she hit me. I ran from the house and spent three nights living rough. I was as thin and wordless as a feral cat when I returned.

  I moved into the workshop, and Mum didn't try to stop me. A photo of my father stood on the workbench beside my makeshift bed. I gazed at his dark, unsmiling face as if into a mirror.

  I went back to school. Each day, when I got home, I would take Dad's boat out for a couple of hours' scavenging. I ate in the dark, alone, then did my homework with mechanical persistence. After a couple of months, I started talking to my mother again.

  That was seven years ago. Ten months ago, ten long months, Pete came for dinner, and before I knew it he'd taken over the place — my father's boots, my father's chair, my mother's bed. I wouldn't let him have my dad's workshop, though.

  '. . . Wouldn't you say, Stevie?'

  Whatever inane question Pete had asked, he was waiting for an answer. 'Depends,' I said. 'Depends.'

  'Damn, boy, you should move to Taupo and become a politician!' He laughed, his white teeth gleaming expensively. Pre-Drowning dental work, that. Everything had been better then.

  I wrenched my attention back to the conversation. Mention of his old job had set Pete off, and he was deep into an explanation of why the summers were so much cloudier since the Drowning, why we got so few northerlies nowadays, and what had happened to the Roaring Forties.

  'So you're an amateur meteorologist these days, are you?'

  The mask of bonhomie slipped for a moment, and he glared at me. 'No, I'm a professional meteorologist who's out of a job.' He smiled again. 'But yeah, I keep my hand in. You've got your workshop — I've got the garden shed. And I keep up, you know, on the Net.'

  'So what have you got in the shed?'

  'That's my business, boy.'

  'I'll show you the workshop,' I offered.

  He took the bait, though only after Mum nudged him. I flashed her a rueful smile and followed him to the shed. The interior was brightly lit — so that was where our power ration went — and crammed with paper, books, and electronics.

  'Shit, what is all this stuff?' I asked as I stood in the doorway.

  'This takes the readings from the anemometer — that little thing with the cups on the roof. This is a multimeter — hygrometer, barometer, thermometer and so on. I guess I am an amateur meteorologist at that, because I feed these readings in to the automated station over in Kelburn. Then over here I've got my GPS — you know what a GPS is, Stevie?'

  'Can't say I do,' I lied.

  'Global Positioning System receiver. Tells you exactly where you are on the planet. They were nearly as common as cellphones once.'

  'Why aren't they common now?'

  'The system depends on a bunch of satellites in low Earth orbit. Because they're so close to the top of the atmosphere, their orbits decay rapidly, and . . . am I boring you?'

  'No, no, I'm interested.'

  'Anyway, in the aftermath of the plague, new satellites weren't launched to replace those that burnt up, and the system crashed. It's only in the last couple of years they've got a workable system back up, although it's still nothing near what it used to be.' He picked up the receiver. 'These babies are pretty much restricted to Reconstruction Authority troops these days. I'm glad I hung on to this one.'

  'Can I try it?'

  'Sure.'

  I pressed the touchpad, and a digital readout told me I was standing in the garden shed. 'Looks good to me,' I said. 'It sure would come in handy when I'm out in the dinghy.'

  'Sorry, Stevie. Lose this overboard and I might never find another.'

  'Okay.' I gave him a prospective-stepfather-grade smile. 'How about I show you the workshop tomorrow? Mum will be wondering where we are.'

  Back at the house, Mum and Pete fell to reminiscing about old times. Pete was holding forth about the Drowning, about how ice cores had shown that this wasn't the first time that ice sheets had vanished in a few years, about how it could all change again just as quickly.

  I would have to take my chances with that. I excused myself and went down to the workshop. I'd packed the previous night, but I opened my bags and went through it all again. If I forgot anything, there would be no second chance.

  I said farewell to the many books I would have to leave behind, and once again went over the precious few I had decided to take. I straightened the pile of salvaged DVDs. I wrote a note for my mother. I prowled around the workshop, trying to decide whether any of my father's trinkets, as familiar and treasured as my mother's face, would be of use or ornament. I chose his compass. That might serve for both.

  'Well, Dad,' I said to the empty air, 'I guess this is it. Someone else will get your stuff now. Maybe Pete will find a use for it. Hell of a waste if you ask me.'

  I had waited long enough. I hefted my bag and closed the door for the last time.

  Pete was snoring in their bedroom, and in the pauses between his snorts and gurgles I could hear my mother's softer breathing. Good. I tiptoed out into the garden and set to work. You don't make your living from the Drowned city centre without learning a thing or two about locks. I pocketed the GPS and all Pete's spare batteries and headed for the water's edge.

  I didn't want to risk the motor, but soon realised I should have practised more with the oars. My back ached, and halfway to my destination I was forced to rest. I let the boat drift into the deeper shadow of the old railway station, between two wings, and slumped back for a few moments' rest.

  A splash woke me. I was looking for its source when the boat rocked and someone began to haul themselves aboard. I reached for an oar and brought it down hard on the intruder's fingers. She cursed and let go. I was still off balance from the stroke when a second intruder pulled himself aboard, and it was all I could do to avoid toppling overboard. Then we were fighting at close quarters, wrestling in the bottom of the boat while it rocked in its own private storm.

  My attention was divided between fighting off the intruder and trying to protect my precious gear. Before long, I was forced back against the bow, and when two hands seized my shoulders I knew I was done for. I slumped in fear and frustration, and it saved me: I felt the blade of the other oar against my hand. I smashed it into my assailant's groin and, before he could recover, used the oar to lever him off the boat. Then I hit him on the head. There was no sign of the woman.

  Shivering, I fumbled with the outboard. The motor caught, and I made my way out of the artificial bay, skimming over abandoned platforms. There were lights, shouts, and the splash of something heavy hitting the water behind me, but I ignored them. When I judged I was safe, I pointed the boat i
n the right direction, cut the motor, and took stock.

  If the motive was robbery, my assailants weren't very good at it, because the only thing missing was one of the oars. My bag was intact, but the GPS had slipped into the bilgewater. Heart pounding, I picked it up, shook it gently, and pressed the touchpad. It worked! Praise the Lord and pre-Drowning technology. I packed it into my bag, restarted the engine, and hurried onwards.

  I was over the old harbour now, the Drowned towers behind me, their windows as dark and featureless as their walls. I would leave their remaining secrets for others to discover. I was sick of them, sick of the whole place, mired in regret for its glorious, irretrievable past. It was time to move on.

  Before me, my destination loomed just as dark: Te Papa was our place now. Years ago, the glass of the secondfloor windows had been removed, and now the cavernous space within made a fine boat harbour, its gloom shrouding our comings and goings. The outboard motor was loud between the echoing walls, but I had what we needed, so that no longer mattered.

  I was met by Losi and Trey. Losi opened her mouth to tear a strip off me for being late, but I forestalled her by offering up the GPS. 'I had to fight to get it here,' I said. 'The least you could do is be grateful.'

  That shut them up. I followed them up the stairs and across to the other side of the building. They let down the rope ladder, and there she was, enjoying her first night out on the open waters for almost two years. 'She looks great,' I said. Losi glared at me and reminded me about the correct use of pronouns.

  The Tangaroa was a cruising yacht that had capsized during the Drowning and lost much of its gear. Trey's father had acquired the yacht in one of his many deals, and Trey inherited it when the old man died. His father had used it as a diving platform, but Trey wasn't interested in diving. He had a longer trip in mind. One night, he took down its masts and manoeuvred the Tangaroa into the gutted museum.

  So he had a vessel. While searching for an engineer, he met Losi, and found himself a partner as well. Word reached me that there was a crazy American looking for people with a sense of adventure and a desire to leave their past behind. He needed my knowledge of the waterfront and the equipment that could be scavenged there, so he took me on and told me to learn all I could about weather and currents. Slowly, the project took shape. Replacing the electronic equipment had been the hardest part. We relied on Kiwi ingenuity and outright theft for that.

  The three of us stood in the cabin and looked at the GPS. 'It's not very big,' Losi said. 'Are you sure it will do the job?'

  'I'm as sure of that as you are of the hull.'

  Losi scowled at me. She'd sworn up and down that the hull would cope with anything the Southern Ocean could throw at it. Some of us weren't so confident, but there was nothing we could do about that now.

  Food was going to be the other big challenge. We'd installed fishing gear, and our precious cargo of seeds and embryos was tucked safely in the freezers. The coldtolerant hybrids Belinda had acquired for us would soon be needed.

  Everything was packed. By dawn, all twelve of us were aboard. There was no point hanging around. Silently, we cast off, and Tangaroa eased its way into the light.

  It was a beautiful morning in balmy Wellington. The boat slipped through the crystal waters. The faces of my crewmates, pale from working in the darkness, blossomed in the sun. We chose the eastern exit from the harbour; boats attempting the western route were all too likely to snag on the Drowned houses of Lyall Bay. As we slipped past Eastbourne, the scent of freedom filled my nostrils. Under way at last!

  The southern tip of Miramar Island passed to starboard, its dark green foliage dappled with light by the sun, while to port, tall grey turbines ran down the ridge to Pencarrow Head. We were about to reach the open water, where my knowledge of wind and tide would be put to the test.

  Just before we hit the swells of the open sea, I took a last look back. Had Mum found my note yet? I would call her when I could, if I could, if the radio worked when we got there.

  The sunken office blocks of the Drowned city were far behind me. The rich waters and virgin shores of Antarctica lay ahead. I made my way forward to greet them.

  FILLING THE ISLES

  It was good in the old days. Claire — that's Kevin and our Sarah's Claire — could see us most days, and she'd wave and smile. She was such a friendly girl. But then they moved to the other side of the hill, and that was the last we saw of them. Neighbours are all right, but it's not the same as family, is it? That's why I'm so glad to see you.

  Isn't it a lovely view? You can see all the way to the McKinnons'; well, George anyway, he's taller than Diana. You can just make out her hair if you look carefully. They're where the cellphone tower used to be, until it was taken down. I miss being able to call everybody. Now we can only talk to our neighbours if everyone else is quiet. And that doesn't happen very often!

  How far did you say you came? Three hundred people? That must have taken you a while.

  I hope you didn't have any trouble with the neighbours. Some of them might think you were going to take their space. I told them you were just coming for a visit when I saw you, but—

  Oh, is that right? Well, dear, Mr Chen might be a bit grumpy, but as I tell him, the good Lord made room enough for all His children, and we should too. We can always squeeze in one more.

  Put your foot there, dear, that will make a bit more space.

  I do like being on top of a hill. You feel the wind a bit more, especially when it blows from the south, but on the other hand you get your food and water before everyone down in the valleys, and it's less likely those embarrassing bags will get dropped when you hand them over to the clean-up team.

  Do you think the food's getting better or worse? I think the food's getting better. I'm sure it is.

  We have an agreement on this hilltop that if a new person comes, or someone moves out or passes on — like poor Mrs Masters, dear, who died just the other day, a frail wee thing she was at the best of times — then the ones who've been here the longest get the first chance to change where they stand and when they sleep. And if I could just offer you a word of advice, dear, it's to make sure you don't end up sleeping next to that young man over there, that Rory Wilson. I don't need to tell you why, do I, dear? You're old enough to know.

  Of course, you young people do what you like nowadays. There was one young couple, standing just over there, who were no better than animals. Do you remember animals? We had a lovely rat when I was young. Anyway, this couple wouldn't listen even when we told them to stop, so we squeezed them out. We had to. It wasn't right. If you do find yourself a young man, dear, you and he have got to wait till the people around you are sleeping. You'll usually find that something can be arranged.

  Brrr, that wind is cold. I don't like the look of those clouds, either. I don't mind a bit of rain — we've all got our coats, after all — but what I hate is standing in the clouds. You can catch your death that way. I've seen whole hillsides of bodies after a few days stuck in the mist. They should put the young men on the high mountains, in my opinion. It's not right to send mothers with young babies up there. I try to tell them that, but they just smile at me and tell me not to worry.

  Well, dear, it's almost my sleeping time. When I wake up, I'll have a talk to the neighbours and we'll fit you in to the sleeping roster. You're welcome to stay here as long as you like; I'd be glad of the company. But if you do want to leave, take my advice: head back north. See that hilltop to the south? I wouldn't want to be standing there, because it's very steep on the far side, and after that, there's only the sea.

  HOMESTAY

  We skimmed out of the clouds just above the mountains. 'Mount Isolation,' I informed my companions. 'Access Peak. Grave-Talbot Pass.'

  'Look at me,' said Jacques. 'I'm a mountain parrot!' He flew in tight circles around us, cawing loudly.

  'That parrot needs a perch,' said Kevin. 'How about there?' He pointed up the valley to the wall of rock at its head.
r />   'Homer Saddle,' I said, my little voice still faithfully feeding me the names.

  We levelled out, Jacques clowning around us, and flew the length of the valley in formation.

  Kevin reached the rock wall first. He stretched his wings to their fullest extent and dropped gracefully onto the far edge of the narrow saddle. Nicola and I joined him on either side, and with much preening of imaginary feathers, Jacques joined us too, hopping from foot to foot.

  'I need to go,' he said.

  We watched the stream of urine arc over the edge of the saddle, catch in the updraft, and fly up again, thoroughly wetting Jacques's bodysuit. When we stopped laughing, I told Jacques he should find a lake to wash in. 'There's one to the south, Lake Thompson,' I said. He took off at once.

  'Think we should follow him? The water will be very cold.'

  'I'm sick of that idiot already,' said Kevin. 'A few minutes without him would be bliss.' So we sat and watched him dwindle among the mountains.

  When Jacques reappeared from his dip, he was swooping in a way that was either a poor imitation of his beloved mountain parrot or the sign of a flyer in trouble. 'Jacques, are you—'

  Too late. Jacques was closing fast, but in no controlled way. One wing hung limply. He rose in the air, called something in exaltation or despair, and plummeted, smashing headfirst into the granite wall some 200 metres below us. He bounced off the rocks and fell straight to the base of the cliff, landing in a jumble of rocks near the southern tunnel entrance, where the old road emerged from the darkness.

  We flew down and looked at him. He was broken.

  'I told you he was an idiot,' said Kevin.

  'Well,' shrugged Nicola, 'at least he had his fun.'

  We'd had enough adventure for one day. We left Jacques where he lay and flew south to find shelter.

  We spent the night in the dubious refuge of an abandoned cabin at Te Anau Downs. There was no food, and these bodies needed food. To feel hunger was interesting.

  Morning. It is always cold here! Nicola was all for pressing on to Invercargill, but neither Kevin nor I felt quite ready to tackle such a big city. We settled for a leisurely flight across country, following the scarcely used roads. In the early afternoon, we found a café still open in a town that clung on where two roads met. Though we furled our wings tightly before we entered, the woman behind the counter (the first downsider we had encountered at close range) looked at us with deep suspicion. But when Nicola put money — actual physical coins — on the counter, she gave us what we asked for.