‘Good idea.’
‘So if it works … in ten years, a bunch of time skippers will be waiting, trained and ready?’
‘That’s the plan. If the government won’t share the info, then we will. The more people who know how to jump, the harder it will be to lock us away.’
I’ve changed my mind about how little has changed in the two timestreams. This one is different in important ways. We’re thinking ahead, better prepared.
‘You’re coming with us, right?’ He taps something on the screen, then straightens so he can see me properly. ‘And Miya?’
He doesn’t realise that Mum hasn’t learnt to skip. ‘How soon?’ is all I say. There’s still a chance she’ll learn, now that she understands how much is at stake.
‘We’re not sure yet,’ Mason says. ‘Another week? We’re going to jump as a group. There’s less chance that one of us will be lost that way. The adults are all bunny hopping together, and the rest of us will do a full ten-year skip.’
‘Okay,’ I say. Maybe Mason’s folks can help Mum. ‘I’ll talk to her.’
Mum’s still out when Mason leaves so I message Kessa. Her reply comes back in seconds: Stay there. I’m coming now.
She bursts through as soon as our door slides open, grabbing me in a hug and squeezing so tight that I have to pull back in order to breathe.
‘You’re even skinnier than normal,’ she announces as she pulls back. It comes out joke-like at first, but then her face falls. ‘Scout, I’m so, so, so sorry.’
‘It’s not your fault.’ I was ready for this.
‘No, but it was my idea … it was my …’ She lifts one arm as if lost for words and shakes her head.
It was her government. That’s what flashes into my mind, even though that’s not what she was going to say.
‘So they let you down, too,’ I finish for her. ‘Now you understand why I don’t trust them.’
Kessa’s eyes narrow, but she doesn’t take my bait. ‘You have to stop jumping, Scout. It’s outright illegal now. You know that, right?’
‘Yeah, I know.’ I was planning to tell her about the ten-year skip, maybe she’d want to come too, but now I realise I’ll have to be careful. ‘But you can still jump if you want. There are ways …’ I trail off as her eyes go wide.
‘I’m serious, Scout. Now that I’ve had time to think it through, and talk to Mum and Dad … time jumping isn’t as safe as I thought. I mean … when you come back, you have no control over what’s going on. Anything could happen. People could get hurt.’
She’s right. People have been hurt. I’ll never forget that. But we’re improving all the time, finding ways to make sure our returns are accurate. The fear of something going wrong isn’t reason to stop; it’s a reason to train harder.
‘So that’s what the government is saying, is it?’ I ask. ‘Stop skipping for your own good. We have to keep citizens safe! Protect them from themselves.’
Kessa’s mouth pushes to one side as she considers me. ‘You find that so hard to believe?’
‘All I’m saying is: don’t wait for them to save you when things go wrong,’ I tell her. ‘You have to be ready to react on your own, to save yourself.’
She nods. ‘I was teaching them how to do it, Malena and my folks. Before the ruling came through.’
‘And?’
‘And they were doing well. Even Dad managed a few seconds. It’s just … now we can’t …’
‘I know. I get it.’ We can already hide any skips by using the linking code on the grid, but Kessa has a future here, she’s safer in the system. I can see why she hasn’t been targeted by the government for being at the hearing. They don’t have to. She’s already doing what they want. And if she gets caught time skipping now she’ll lose access to rations, a place in school. Her future’s along a different path from mine.
‘At least you still have the other chip, right?’ she says. ‘Tell them you missed the start of school because you’ve been sick. You can come back once everything settles down.’
‘Yeah. I know.’
But the chance of going to school doesn’t sparkle for me now the way it once did. I used to believe I had no future without access to rations. But what sort of future is that? I’d be stuck in a system where people on mega rations are the only ones who are free.
I don’t need a school that dictates what I learn, anyway. There are other ways to survive. Better ways to live.
‘You’re going to be okay,’ I tell Kessa, even though there’s
no way I can be sure. But I’ve seen one version of the future waiting for her. ‘Even on half rations you can still finish school and train in emergency obstetrics.’
‘Yeah, well.’ One shoulder goes up. ‘I don’t have any choice. Now that rations have been halved, aiming for high level is my only option.’
‘It’ll be okay,’ I say again, because I think I get now why she couldn’t say she was happy when I snuck into her room in what seems like a lifetime ago. Living on half rations, with a family depending on your success? I asked the wrong question. It’s not about happiness; it’s about getting by.
‘What do you want to do?’ Mum asks once I explain what’s happening, the plans to jump ahead. She’s curled up in her armchair.
‘I want to jump, and I want you to come with me,’ I say outright. ‘It’s okay if you’re scared. I can help you with that too.’
‘I don’t know, Scout …’ She drifts off, fiddling with a charm on her bracelet. Soon she looks up again, and sighs. ‘Honestly, I don’t want to jump ahead. That’s the reason I haven’t learnt. I’m getting older now …’
‘Not so old –’
‘And this is my time. My friends are here …’ She sighs and puts her hands out, helpless. ‘This time makes sense to me.’
She’s fought me every step of the way on this. I pull at a flake of dry skin from beside my thumbnail, thinking about my time in 2089: the sense of displacement, the deep-down knowledge that I didn’t belong.
Mum’s right. She would find it hard to face a strange new world.
‘Can I ask a question?’ she asks. ‘Have you thought about having the chip inserted now? So much has happened …’
This answer is easy. ‘Now that rations have been halved, I need the freedom to go off-grid so I can get water from the underground spring. I’m better off without the chip in my wrist.’
I’m okay with it now. I was born illegal, and I always will be.
‘Okay,’ Mum says carefully. ‘I don’t want to hold you back, Coutlyn. I’ve seen how much they care about you. I think you should jump ahead with the group.’
I’m not sure what to say at first. With Mum’s blessing, I know I’d make the full ten years. ‘But I can’t leave you on your own.’ ‘I have friends. I’ll be okay. And I want you to go. You’ve been stuck at home for so long. Here’s a way for you to live. You need to stay with your people …’
‘You’re my people,’ I say.
‘You know what I mean.’ One half of her mouth lifts in a smile. ‘And there’s one more thing. It’s not the reason I think you should jump, but while you’re gone, the chip would stay here, right?’
Mum gestures towards the bedside table, where I leave it these days. ‘Half rations …’ Now she taps the scar on her wrist. ‘Plus half rations, equals …’
My mouth drops open. ‘Full rations.’
It’s so simple. It’s a way to help her while I’m gone. Why didn’t I think of this? A way to pay her back for all she’s given up for me.
‘Scout.’ She rests a hand on my shoulder. ‘The choices I’ve made … I made them because I want you to have a life. To live your life. I don’t want to hold you back now. Your future … is in the future.’
She lets out a laugh and I find myself joining in. My head feels light. I’ll get to see 2095. I’ll be with people who know me for who I am.
Everything is becoming clear. I’ve been looking at it all the wrong way around. The chip will count fo
r something after all, but it’s not for me. It’s going to save Mum.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
MY MIND BURSTS the surface of now. Reality shimmers around me. I’m sucking in hard, head dropped back, when I tip and stumble forwards. My hand grabs for the bedside table and somehow I stay upright.
A familiar room greets me: our bed sits neatly made beside me, two armchairs face a shimmering comscreen that looms over the room, a new window to the world. Photo pads of Mum and me have been hung in spaces on the rest of the wall, as well as a digital calendar: Mon 23 Nov 2095.
I smile. I’ve made it to a time I’ve never seen, no memories anymore of what the future might hold. Each of my tomorrows is again unknown, one more mystery waiting to be uncovered. But I’ll never escape what’s brought me here. And always, to my core, I’ll carry the truth of Alistair’s death.
I helped out with preparations before the jump. The conversation kept returning to discussions about water limits, ways to best store food, how to avoid being detected. But at least the location of the group jump was sorted. Straight after the firestorm, Amon and Echo’s folks built a fire-proof shelter in their side yard, fitted with an air purifier. It’s set up with provisions for food and water as well as various coms and a generator, a safe-haven during a fire. There’s even an escape hatch on the roof, in case the storm or fire or whatever causes the entrance to be blocked.
It’s also the perfect spot for a jump. It’s big enough for the whole group and designed to last. It won’t even collapse in an earthquake. Even if something happens to their house, the shelter will remain intact.
I decided not to jump from the fire shelter so I could drop in to see Mum as I went. It’s sort of been like coming home for the holidays, except without going anywhere in between. I needed to check that she was all right, but I never stayed more than a day or two. I’m anxious to catch up with the others, even overshooting the return date of a few visits – a result, I think, of travelling on my own, of not wanting to be left behind.
Mum was waiting here last time with a chickpea curry bubbling on the stove. Now the room seems empty, too tidy. Strange. I’m back early, this time, but only by a day. I don’t think she’d be expecting me. She must be out.
Judging from the sunlight against the window, it must be late morning. I pull on jeans and a top, then wander towards the kitchenette and find a note propped against a mug on the bench. It’s folded in half with ‘SCOUT’ scrawled in a corner. I unfold it.
Welcome home, sweetheart. Let me know when you arrive.
It’s Mum’s handwriting, sort of wobbly as if she scribbled it in a rush.
The woman’s chip is exactly where Mum agreed to leave it, hidden in a slip of paper behind my bedside table. The comscreen on the wall is new, sort of shimmery and see-through. Nice. I swipe it on and play around with the settings, resizing the whole thing and realising that it can be taken down from the wall and folded small to use as a compad.
I message Mum telling her that I’m here and send a different message to the other skippers. Even though it’s only a couple of weeks in my personal timeline since I last saw Mason, I’m itching to see him again. I flick refresh once or twice but find no replies. That’s okay. The group’s not due back until tomorrow, and there’s a good chance they’ll all land on time. That’s if our idea about synch jumping is right.
I’d be able to see for sure if I could get into the grid, but when I hack my way into the raw coding, it just looks like the loops and squiggles of an alien language. Annoying.
I’ll have to find a way around that, maybe connect with hackers on the dark web, but for now I check out the sparkpad pages.
I was half-expecting them to have been pulled down but it turns out to be the opposite: tens of thousands of read-throughs, and loads of users adding their own chapters to the story. Some don’t seem to get that it’s not a work of fiction but others do, posting their own tips and warnings, asking if other ‘readers’ would like to meet up in the real world. One’s even set up a get-together for all time skippers: location to be advised. Date: 1 March 2145.
Still no reply from Mum, so I catch up on news while I wait. It doesn’t take long to pick up a loop-repeat of themes, a swirling wind of unrest. Rations are still halved and the protesters are more organised: bringing parliament to a stop, blocking freight trains, even an attempt to storm the water-treatment plant. Jails are at full capacity and more illegals than ever have been forced out of the city, mostly ex-citizens charged with inciting unrest and anyone convicted of accessing more food than their rations, which means anyone on low-level rations who had no other way to survive.
I shut down the news feeds, standing away from the comscreen and gulping down 300 units of water. This is a world that I’ve never seen, but so much is familiar. Already my thoughts are shifting to the compost skips, whether it’s still possible to hack them during a blackout, and whether the illegal settlement is still upstream of the Maribyrnong Canal. I make a mental note to check that the underground spring hasn’t been discovered by the authorities.
A flash in the air makes me jump and gasp. It turns into a chuckle when I see it’s a reply from Mum. Maybe easier if you come to us. Rm 307, 145 Furlong Rd, St Albans.
I frown. What does she mean by ‘us’? I stash the chip deep in my hip pocket and head into 2095.
The building at 145 Furlong Road is a giant box made out of cream moulded polymer; a swish new flat for Mum perhaps? Maybe she finally spent those extra credits on it. I slip on a beanie and pull it low, reaching for the entrypad.
I pull back. Something’s not right about the message Mum sent but I’m not sure what’s going on. I’m tossing up whether to call Mum, to hear her voice for real, when the door slides up and a woman in slacks and a fitted black shirt squints into the sunlight. A red circlepad with the words ‘POLICE REQUEST’ sits on the wall just beside her. I guess the current state of things in the city means places like this are on permanent alert, ready to call the police at a moment’s notice.
‘Can I help?’ Her tone is stiff, more warning than offer.
Before I can stop it, one foot steps back. I plant my boots into the gravel, stand my ground. Her shirt has some sort of logo but it’s difficult to make out: Sun … shine Private. I think?
‘Miya Rochford … is she here?’ Don’t want to say more than I have to.
‘Oh, I didn’t realise …’ There’s a glint of recognition before her expression shifts again. ‘Yes, of course. Room 307.’ She points towards the lift, but even as I follow the line of her gesture I can see her watching me, trying to suss me out.
I’m not about to give away any answers. The hall is empty when I reach level three, all doors closed. No signs other than room numbers.
I find 307, take a breath and swipe.
Mum’s perched upright on a wide pillow in a narrow bed. Her hair is loose, her cheeks milky clear. ‘Sweetheart.’ She shuffles higher in the bed, extending a limp arm before letting it drop.
A man with curly dark hair is sitting against one wall, holding a shimmering compad open as if he was caught part way through reading aloud. His shape seems too big for his armchair.
I don’t move. The way she’s speaking, it’s thick, too slow. She’s so pale. Who’s that guy? None of this is right.
Again, Mum lifts an arm, a faint wiggle of one finger. ‘Coutlyn.’
Something pulls me towards her as a lump rises in my throat. She’s meant to be safe now. She’s meant to have all that she deserves and more. I press a cheek against her shoulder, tucked into her arms, aware the whole time we’re being watched.
‘Found us all … right?’ she asks. As if it’s just her and me, at home.
I pull away, swallow down the fear. ‘What’s going on?’
She manages to smile then, a slow shake of her head. ‘Of course. Yes. This is Jorge.’ Each word comes thick, slow. ‘He’s a specialist … nurse and … we’ve become close.’
Jorge dips his head as I try
to summon some sort of reply other than a scowl.
My skin prickles as his eyes linger over me, trying to work me out. He’s wearing a woollen shirt and brown corduroy jeans, sort of retro but I don’t think he did it on purpose.
‘Doesn’t … she look … young, Jorge?’ Mum says with a lift in her voice.
I’m no older than the last time she saw me, but according to the chip I’m meant to be twenty-five. She’s putting this on for weird Jorge.
Jorge nods awkwardly. ‘I’ll leave you in peace.’ He stands and squeezes Mum’s hand before ambling out the door. ‘Nice to meet you,’ he says to me as he leaves.
The door drops with a pfft and I perch on the bed beside her. Alone, finally.
‘What’s going on?’ I want the real story this time. Nothing she’s said so far has been close to a real answer.
Mum’s staring at the closed door. Her eyes move to me, but nothing else. It’s as if she’s somehow afraid to talk. ‘I have motor neurone disease, sweetheart. It’s a condition that stops … my nerve signals working. My muscles are wasting. Speaking is diff … icult.’ She lets out a slow sigh. ‘I didn’t want you to worry. But … we’re past that now.’
Her hand is lying on top of the sheet near me and only now I realise her fingers are formed into a stiff claw. I lift it up, examine the shape and cradle it in my hands, pressing gently to straighten them, to fix her.
‘But you’re getting treatment.’ My voice comes out like a whine.
‘The best there is. For a while now, thanks to your extra credits. I have nanobots inside me, at the nerve endings. By imi … tating nerve signals, they’ve delayed onset by years. I’m alive today, Scout, because of that chip.’
Stiffly, she pulls her hand back from mine and glances again at the door as if she’s not used to having Jorge in another room. As if he’s her safety net.
That should be me, I want to say. I’m here now, I can help. It’s chased by the clash of thoughts that comes after a long jump, everything suddenly stretched out and warped. In Mum’s world, I haven’t lived with her for ten years, apart from the occasional visit. For me, it’s been a blink of an eye.
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