Sofia and the Utopia Machine

by Judith Huang

  Was it because of her acne? Was it because she didn’t wear the same kind of bra everyone else did?

  As it was, she was already living in social purgatory. Would she be thrown into the outer darkness? Along with—horror of horrors—Yao Pei, the most “mature” girl in class? Sofia was very concerned. Just yesterday when Yao Pei fell on her face because she had slipped in a puddle, Jessica Lee and her whole gang had burst out laughing for a full ten minutes, and then spread it all around school.

  The problem, reflected Sofia, is that growing up is an irreversible process. Once you start down that track, you were doomed forever and ever. Why, oh why, couldn’t she stay a girl forever? Sofia considered taking out her frustration on her city.

  She could cause a snowstorm to engulf the city, or unleash a tsunami. Just to let the little version of “Natasha” know who was boss. The thought pleased her. Or maybe, she could create some kind of enclosure, and fill it up with liquid, dump the little figure in and make sure there was no escape. It would be perfect. Then she would know how it felt to flail around in a pit of no return, eddying into the nothingness of social death. Kind of, anyway.

  Sofia raised her fist, and the unicyclists yowled in alarm, screaming their little lungs out. She was angry, terribly angry. Furious. She didn’t understand what she had done to those girls. She certainly hadn’t said or done anything to deserve such treatment. Somehow she knew it was some kind of ritualised punishment for when you started to look different. They were punishing her because they were afraid that, if they didn’t, they would become like her.

  Sofia flicked her holos on, then off, then on again. She refreshed them. She stood up, walked around her room a little bit, sat down and checked her feed again. Where was Isaac? He had said he would be on at this time. Well, maybe he had said so. She bit her lower lip, then started gnawing on her right knuckles again. Now she was just being silly. In fact, he hadn’t said anything of the sort—it’s just that he was available this time of the day most days, and she had come to expect him to be there. For her. Sort of.

  She knew she was developing a serious crush on the guy. And she didn’t even know him in real life! He hadn’t yet agreed to meet in the real world, at least since the last time she checked if he had sent her another message. This was horrible. Again she felt that strange feeling, the aching longing that somehow reached into the tips of her fingers and made her want to tear them out, or pull at her hair, just to make it stop. It made her eyes unnaturally bright. It made her irrational, made her stalk her room up and down like some kind of crazed beast, not thinking, not doing, merely watching, waiting, anticipating the one she wanted, the one she—

  It wasn’t love, was it? It couldn’t be—she didn’t know him! She had never even met him! Yet there was this burning feeling… She kept coming round to the same question. Where was he now? What was he doing? Shouldn’t he have his netbox on him at all times? It was frustrating. She looked at his dim avatar and wanted to pick it up. She reached out her fingers, and they flickered through the holo. She swiped it away from her in disgust.

  What she needed, she thought, was a bit of exercise. Or perhaps she should bake a batch of brownies. Or perhaps she should just call up Natasha and see if she wanted to talk. But amazingly, that just made her more nervous. Who was Natasha anyway, to side with her one day and with Jessica the next?

  If she had a boyfriend, that would show them, she thought. That would show them, she was as cool as any of them, she was pretty enough and smart enough and…grown up enough that he should like her the way she liked him.

  He did like her, didn’t he? He talked to her throughout the day (except right this very minute)—and he was her soul mate; she was sure of it. It had only been a few days, but it was love at first sight. Well, love at first chat, anyway. And they nursed that delicious secret.

  The Prism Club—it was all such a huge and satisfying little conspiracy, and terribly romantic that he had told her this secret. It made her chest swell with a sense of purpose. We will go into it together, she thought—we, the two of us, when we grow up, we will bring this whole damned edifice crashing about our ears. I know we can.

  She paced around again. She hadn’t got her running shoes out. She hadn’t made a move to go to the kitchen. She gnawed at her right knuckles unconsciously. They were starting to hurt. Maybe he wasn’t interested at all. Maybe he was one of those guys who chatted up every girl he had the contact of. Maybe she was simply delusional.

  Sofia plopped herself onto the bed violently, throwing her feet up in the air. Just then, Isaac’s avatar pinged and she hurriedly straightened herself. She immediately reached to open the message.

  “Want to meet irl tomorrow evening? I can send an escapod to get you from your school when you’re done. What time?” Her heart seemed to burst in her chest. It was really happening…she would meet him in person. Would he find her good enough? Or would he turn away in disgust to see her pimply face, her greasy hair, her crooked ears? And what would he look like? Would he be handsome like his avatar, or short and ugly? She already knew, whatever he looked like, anyone who could write like he could was someone she admired… The thoughts flew through her head in rapid succession. There was only one way to know, and that was to wait…

  *

  Julian leaned back and surveyed the infinity pools thoughtfully. The pools were at their most beautiful at this time of the day, just after sunset, glowing indigo and reflecting the top tier of lights from the surrounding lush properties, all part of the floating acres of the Canopies that hovered over the island city. From the roof of his home, he could see the beautiful rolling hectares beneath him, the lush green leaves of the trees now darkening in the fading light, the golf courses, the swimming pools, the lavishly landscaped gardens and, his favourite, the little Japanese Zen garden he played in growing up.

  Beyond and beneath, the Midlevels sprawled, the lighting twinkling in vertical strings, like Christmas lights strung up to look like icicles, or like the glinting of an information matrix, hundreds of storeys above the ground and painted in all the colours of the rainbow. The Singapore River winded darkly, a vein of rich green. This time of year it was at its languid best, slinking like a snake towards the sea.

  Julian decided he needed to take a walk, just to clear his head. He often felt cooped up because of his security detail and wanted to pace the ground a little, on his own. Two things were troubling him—his dream and Sofia. Somehow they seemed linked. He loved this city. There would always be undesirable elements trying to stop us from building something great, he thought absently, but he loved it and felt responsible for it in some way.

  But there was something special about Sofia. Something…intriguing. He felt himself get excited every time a message from her flowed into his stream, and had even set up a special alert so he would be notified instantly. His consciousness was constantly interrupted by thoughts of her. Of course, he had had holos of her collected and examined, and they had chatted every day since they had met online, but it was still different from a face-to-face meeting, in real life.

  As he strolled across the rooftop, Julian was seized by a weird mix of longing and terror. Something out of the corner of his eye had triggered a memory—a memory of a terrible story he had heard when he was little. He still didn’t know what to make of it.

  It was about a tin soldier with only one leg who falls in love with a paper ballerina doll who also stood on one leg. A little troll tips him out of the window, and he is set sailing on a paper boat by two thoughtless boys before he is swallowed by a fish. He is cut out of the fish’s stomach and, amazingly, set on the same mantelpiece as the paper doll again. But then, for no reason at all, a little boy flings him into the fire. A gust of wind blows her into it as well, and all that is left of them is a little jewel from her sash and a melted tin heart.

  He had no idea why he could remember this story in such detail. It was a terrible story. What was the point of telling a child a story like that? It didn’
t exhort him to be better, or more hardworking, or to pursue his interest or his love or anything like that, which is what fairy tales are supposed to do. It didn’t even have a happy ending. The soldier wasn’t brave or clever or admirable in any way, and all the doll did was look pretty and die. No wonder it was his maid who told it to him—and only because she was bored, and he was bored. Yet somehow here he was, ten years later, reminded of it all of a sudden.

  Julian reflected that it was probably because of the dream he had last night. In the dream, he had hurt his leg somehow, and was climbing the steps of this very high overhead bridge, where he had to find someone or something that he would recognise once he got there. In his dream, he was afraid of heights, even though strolling on the rooftops now didn’t scare him at all.

  But he was very afraid, because, even though he didn’t look down, he knew he had already climbed to a dizzying height. So he clung on to the banisters very tightly and tried to lower his centre of gravity by crouching down while climbing. It was excruciating.

  He spent what felt like eternity climbing this ladder, when finally he was just a couple of steps from the top, and he could see this beautiful woman, her feet blooming with lotus petals, her hair a fierce white halo, her eyes flashing fire. At this crazy vision, Julian lost his grip and tumbled down, his bones crunching and splintering as he went, the ladder turning into a crazy rail as he felt his body hurtling to the ground like a bullet train.

  And then he woke up.

  He had no idea what this was supposed to mean.

  Julian scratched his chin thoughtfully. It was almost time for his meeting with Sofia. He had said he would send an escapod for her, and any minute now it would be arriving with her, in person. He had already prepared everything. Would she be impressed?

  *

  Sofia stepped out of her escapod, which had been waiting for her at school after she had finished her extracurricular activities, and into a garden—a truly lovely garden. She knew at once the escapod had taken her up into an exclusive private estate in the Canopies, because it was far more luxurious than anything she had ever seen.

  A little stream, filled with the most aesthetically perfect koi—black, red, orange and white—with exquisite patterns on their bodies and gleaming scales, wound through the garden. Above it, a coral tree bloomed, scattering its lovely red-petalled flowers and their strange black stalks like little snails in the light breeze.

  A large rambutan tree stood, its trunk thick and ancient, its dark green leaves shielding her from the sun, though the entire garden was, of course, controlled to a lovely Mediterranean climate. Already she felt the sweat evaporating from the back of her school uniform.

  Three pisang raja trees stood at attention on one side, bowing towards her with their pink fleshy flowers and a bounty of yellow fruit. A rain tree raised its purple flowers in the air, and lush red hibiscus bloomed in every corner. Along the high walls, pink and purple bougainvillea trailed down, obscuring the brickwork. An oriole was calling in the distance, courting its mate with an ever-increasing scale like some exhibitionistic virtuoso determined to outsing his rivals.

  Along one side of the garden was a beautiful, carved stone wall on which lifelike creatures, peacocks and monkeys and squirrels, cavorted among thick leaves. Hidden yellow spotlights shone on the wall so that light and shadow threw the carvings into sharp relief. They reminded Sofia of wayang kulit puppets.

  Sofia thought it was all wonderful. You had sky gardens, of a sort, at the Midlevels. And she had a windowsill of cactuses and aloes on the balcony of her flat, but this was a real garden. She marvelled that the plants were all flowering and fruiting at the same time. Obviously they were special breeds from Biopolis’ genetically modified botanical exports group. They were perfect, and stepping into the garden felt like walking into paradise.

  Sprays of fruit hung from the rambutan tree. Little red oval balls, their surfaces bristling with tiny green hooks, their skins waxy and elastic to touch, could be seen on the tips of the branches, arching towards her. They looked heavy and hung miraculously low. She reached out to pluck one, greedy to taste its sweet transparent flesh. Digging into the shell with her fingernails, she split it open to reveal the translucent white flesh beneath.

  And then he appeared, his school uniform glowing white in the dim light of the dusk. There was an impish grin on his face.

  “You like it?” asked Julian.

  “It’s amazing!”

  “I was inspired by the garden you planned in your holosheet,” he said.

  “Wait, you mean you planted all this, like, in the last few weeks?”

  “Yup, instatrees. Pretty cool, huh? I just wanted some place that was, you know, quiet, so we could talk properly. Somewhere beautiful.”

  Sofia was flustered. “But it all looks so old… The rambutan tree—it looks at least a hundred years old…”

  “We’ll be able to do this for the wider market soon enough. I think it’ll be the next big thing. I saw the technology at the Chelsea Flower Show in London a few years ago and just had to have some. So we got the scientists to do it,” said Julian, pleased at the response.

  “It reminds me of a story—The Secret Garden. Have you read that?”

  Julian was slightly annoyed. He hadn’t, and didn’t want to appear stupid in front of her. “Well, isn’t it about some sick British kid or something like that? I’m not that into English literature, to be honest. I find the Russians a lot more interesting.”

  “You mean like Tolstoy and Dostoyevsky?”

  “Yeah, them. And besides, they have much better composers.”

  “Mm,” Sofia agreed. “I love Tchaikovsky.”

  Julian grinned. “You know what, I just fixed up speakers in here, the best kind, completely surround sound. Don’t bother looking, they’re well-hidden. But I can pipe in anything you like, just choose.”

  Sofia stammered a little. “Hm… I don’t really know that much about classical music. I mean, I just know what I like. My mum forced me to play the er-hu when I was small. But other than that I really don’t have much music background.”

  “How about some Shostakovich? He’s my favourite.”

  “Hm… He’s twentieth century, isn’t he? I’m not sure I understand twentieth century classical music…”

  “You’re so bourgeois!” Julian laughed, but stopped when he saw her pained expression. “Look, I’ll show you some. I think you’ll really like it.”

  With a clenching motion of his fist, he suddenly shut off the sounds of the oriole, the sounds of the wind in the trees. A lovely, plaintive, lilting tune started up.

  “Fifth symphony, third movement. Largo,” he said. “This bit and the fourth movement are my favourites.”

  They listened without speaking for a while. The music surprised Sofia with its beauty. She had always thought Shostakovich kind of noisy, but this was melodic and filled her with the same kind of longing that Isaac’s writing had, that yearning for something sublime.

  “So,” said Sofia, after a while. “You promised to tell me about the Utopia Machine.”

  “This is really top secret stuff, okay…” said Julian.

  “I know lah,” said Sofia, trying to put him at ease. “You told me.” She noted he seemed more guarded now that they were meeting in person. Had he changed his mind about letting her in on the secret?

  “It’s for the Prism Club members,” he said. “The cream of the cream. You know, the elite.”

  The elite. Sofia knew and didn’t know what that word meant. Everything in Singapore was about trying to get into the elite. You tried your hardest to get into elite schools, to get prestigious scholarships, important jobs, just so you could be counted as one of the elite.

  The truth was, Sofia was supposed to be one of the rising elite, or at least that’s what they told you, when you went to RGS. But even though many of her classmates were wealthy, and seemed to have a direct line to the rich and powerful, she always knew there was some secret level
she would never reach. Until now, that is. And this guy, whose real name she didn’t even really know, seemed to be the key to reaching that secret, invisible level.

  “I kind of figured,” said Sofia, giving him a lopsided smile. “You’re in it, aren’t you?”

  “Well, kind of,” said Julian. “My father is in it. And because he’s in it I know what goes on in there.”

  “So what’s the Utopia Machine?”

  “It’s this thing we had the scientists develop. It will create a new world for us.”

  “A new world? Like in holosheets?”

  “No, a real world. A whole new reality, where you can live. It’s about creating a new universe.”

  “Like in another dimension?”

  “Something like that.”

  “How does it work?”

  “Well, you know that many scientists believe there may be multiple universes existing side by side with ours, right? They call it the multiverse theory.”

  “I’ve heard of it,” said Sofia, trying to picture these multiple universes, nestling next to each other like bubbles, or eggs in an egg carton.

  “Well, some of our scientists have been working on a way to enter one of these alternate universes. They came up with device called the Utopia Machine, which you can use to enter this second universe, which is right next to ours.”

  Sofia contemplated this in awed silence.

  “And they can make it exactly how they want it?”

  “Well, it’s more complicated than that,” hedged Julian. In truth, he didn’t know.

  “Can you show it to me?”

  “That’s the thing, Sofia… Nobody has access to it, because of something one of the developers in Biopolis did to it a long time ago…”