But Anja never walked through that door. Her dad called just before midnight, and after that it was an unspooling nightmare of police lights and questions. They found nothing: no witnesses; no other missing persons; no trace of Anja’s backpack, thought to contain all her electronics; and no body.
Most believed Anja had been taken, but by whom was anyone’s guess. Others believed she’d been recruited, maybe by Bakteria, which was all over the news then for attempting to replace governmental archives with fake historical documents. This time, though, it also leaked a trove of undeclassified material related to a Japanese bacteriological warfare unit from the Second World War, whose crimes the U.S. government had notoriously helped cover up in exchange for their data harvested from human experimentation—a revelation that gave fresh ammo to those historians who’d been trying for decades to substantiate the rumor that the U.S. military had used the data to conduct its own bacteriological experiments during the war in Korea. The timing led some to believe Anja was Bakteria, especially after the local news screened in popular pundits to parse in rapid sound bites the impact of the leak (it’ll be months before we’ll know), as well as the manner in which it happened (an accident of a juvenile prank), and the broader meaning of it all in an era of bots and fake news (folks, this is cyberwarfare, and it’s waged by people as young as high schoolers). Behind Erin’s back, classmates debated whether Anja had planned the whole thing and ultimately used Erin to this end.
Erin heard the whispers, which rustled around him like a paper dome every time he moved, but his brain registered nothing, just snips of conversation that flicked and looped like old film reels that had reached their end. Would he hear from her? This was the question that kept him going, the pulse of hope prodding his days, one revolution, two revolutions, around the pivot of those final hours, that final minute in view of her door.
But he didn’t hear from her, and the semester ended as if on mute. He raked The Garden for hidden messages, jumped at every ping, delivered his mother’s food to Anja’s dad. Gradually the world drifted away, and in the new vacuum he began picturing her against a white backdrop that he fought to keep blank, swiping away his skulking fears before they rendered a sound, a scene, another human figure. Did he believe she was gone? His mother, a low-tech human, was the only one who asked him this question. No answers came, only an echo from the static of his heart—was she gone?—and a single image: a girl with beetle-shaped headphones in a permanently interfaced world, the termini of her body fused with the electronic circuitry that connected her brain to the larger network, her neural tendrils curled around every system, penetrating every brain, to switch them on, wake them up, evolve the species for survival. In that world, there were no gods to curse the girl who deigned to intervene; they were all asleep, some dreaming of a girl named Anja and a boy named Erin who’d plant a garden that would save many, while others tossed and turned, trapped in the silence that would ensue when all the squabbling was over and the earth, scorched and fallow, lay waiting for a spring that would come devoid of humanity but full of new life.
Erin slid his headset back on. In The Garden, the office was quiet. Gale was online; the team had momentarily shelved their distrust. On the map, the space suits had not moved. Outside, wind was sweeping the virtual streets, clearing the city for the rain that would soon close the curtains on the sun, triggering all the sensor-operated lights before setting off a network of weather sirens, their blares faithfully carrying the sound of war that had rent the physical world in the previous century. According to The Garden, it would still be several decades before Earth truly began to unburden itself of humankind, but even in the physical realm the signs were proliferating as the somnambulant world—reassured by the stable of businesses that still opened their doors in the morning, the gleaming high-rises that still glittered at night—blundered on, banking on the miracle of science to prolong the dream that something so concrete as a cup of coffee couldn’t one day vanish like a hologram. So, what, in the grand scheme, was human survival worth?
Erin lifted the headset. On his laptop screen, the message was still flashing, the backpack still punctuating it like a signature. Was this or was this not Anja? The backpack definitely felt intimate, like a message with a return address. He clicked it. Sure enough, a command prompt appeared, the cursor blinking like a beacon in the empty box. If this wasn’t Anja, what did it matter? He unlocked his phone, searched for an old app buried in the app drawer. He spread his hands across his laptop. He typed, deleted, typed again. He sat for a long moment, the distant wail of the city outside like a voice from long ago. Then he pressed Enter.
ECHOLOCATION
Vision and hearing are close cousins in that they both process reflected waves of energy. Vision processes light waves as they travel from their source, bounce off surfaces and enter the eyes. Similarly, the auditory system processes sound waves as they travel from their source, bounce off surfaces and enter the ears. Both systems extract a great deal of information about the environment by interpreting the complex patterns of reflected energy they receive. In the case of sound, these waves of reflected energy are called “echoes.”
—Wikipedia
We—Erin, Mother, and I—are visiting (Aunt) Katy, Aunt in parentheses because she won’t stand for it, the stupid title, she told us (though she doesn’t mind Doctor, we observed), her pointy glare shriveling our tongues so they learned to disobey us before disobeying her again. We’re here in Boston because it’s summer, and Mother is giving a lecture at a university (2024: [Re-]visioning the Refugee Crisis), and Dad’s going to a pharmaceutical rep conference despite the global travel alert. Dad’s plane is a 787 Dreamliner. It has a cruising altitude of 43,000 feet. Erin says Dad’s at least at 30,000 feet by now, but I’m not supposed to think about that.
Erin is three point two five years older than me, which makes him Responsible, but he’s plugged into his laptop, unlikely to notice where I am or what I’m getting into, which at the moment is Katy’s bedroom closet. Katy’s jumble is magnificent. All soft silver like liquid pearls, but I don’t touch anything. Not even her gorgeous clutter of shoes, which are stampeding her milky button-downs puddled on the floor. In back, something glitters. When I reach for it, the closet blurs. I rub my eyes; the button-downs float and multiply. I shut my eyes and step back, step all the way back into Katy’s room. Breathe. Centeredness is the only way to clarity. Even here, 2,691 miles from Studio Oneness, I hear Kirsten’s voice guiding Mother and me and the neighborhood ladies through her breathing meditation. What do you see? Kirsten says. I see a blue smudge and a beige rectangle that morphs into a plastic fold-down table, a packet of peanuts rattling on a napkin. Intention is the gateway to manifestation, Kirsten says. I intend Dad’s 787 to fly steady.
* * *
*
OKAY, I lined up the shoes. Katy will notice, but Katy’s a busy person; she might appreciate the organization. Erin’s busy too. He’s busy going through Puberty. Puberty makes him irritable in a way he can’t explain. I’m supposed to stay three point eight feet minimum away from him. But that can’t stop my eyes from traveling.
Erin Before vs. Erin After. There are pros and cons to both.
• Cons: Voice Change. When he laughs, an alien heehaws out of his face. Freaky. Also, he accuses people of thinking things about him they never thought to think about. Very freaky.
• Pros: Greater Intelligence. Which he shows off, but I don’t care. Knowledge is a form of Power, and knowledges must be gathered from many different sources. Mother says it’s one of the most important things to remember.
“Erin?” My eyes touch his face. “Can unco-surgeons fix things besides cancer?” My voice joins my eyes, and I rub them all over his face; three point eight feet means nothing to sound and light waves.
“Unco-surgeon?” Heehaw heehaw. “Did you just say unco-surgeon?” Heehaw heehaw.
Sarcasm is a Con. I
click my pen and write on my hand to Ask Katy Later.
*
Dinosaurs first appeared 230 million years ago. 65 million years ago, a catastrophic extinction event ended their dominance. One group is known to have survived to the present. According to taxonomists, modern birds are direct descendants of theropod dinosaurs.
—Wikipedia
Why were dinosaurs dominant?
Did theropods survive because they turned into birds?
When did humans appear?
Are we dominant now?
Like what’s a catastrophic extinction event?
Erin returns to his Code and refuses to google more.
* * *
*
“STOP IT. What’s wrong with them?”
My eyes, Erin means. I turn my back and rub them some more.
“I’m warning you, Mai,” he says.
I retreat from the living room and rub my eyes In Private.
* * *
*
ONCE UPON a time, people thought robots would take over the earth or take people’s jobs. So far there are still poor people to manufacture things, but Jacki our neighbor back home says we should prepare for when the earth turns barren and everyone will have to live like people who still can’t afford things like air conditioners, even though they themselves assemble them in boiling factories that squeeze every drop of their sweat before tossing them out like bug husks. Think of the inhumanity, she always says. And they don’t even get Minimum Wage, which is required by Law, I always say. And Jacki’s eyes shine. Oh, honey, forget minimum wage; they get nothing, nada is what they get paid, and who can live on that, or buy air conditioners, with or without an employee discount? Jacki abhors air conditioners. They make the rich richer and the earth hotter and give her a special chill: the Chill of Monstrous Irony. She makes it a point to boycott them.
Dad doesn’t approve of Jacki. He says he and Jacki don’t see eye to eye, which Jacki says is because they exist on different eye levels. Dad and Mother also exist on different eye levels, but they make it a point to look at each other. Dad says, Nobody should ruin anybody’s life, but people need jobs, and companies offer them. What does Jacki do for people besides boycott air conditioners?
Mother doesn’t disapprove of Jacki, per se. She tells Dad it’s the exploitation Jacki objects to. Besides, she says, we have to start somewhere, and every bit counts. Like Jacki, Mother believes today’s real war is with the Climate. And she says “we” to spread the responsibility. We, we, I think, like a French person. But Mother also tells me not to hang on to Jacki’s every word; hearts can be in the right place but don’t always lead to the best results. What Mother doesn’t know is that Jacki’s connected to The Universe. People like Jacki are burdened by Knowledge, which they feel so clearly they can no longer live like they don’t see it. Such people are often shunned by Society, which is set up to encourage Blind Complacency. One day The Truth will prevail and reorder the world as we know it, but Jacki’s skeptical if one day will be soon enough. Even Erin, who avoids Jacki, can’t deny it could happen. The End, I mean.
* * *
*
2:43 PM. Birds are chirping in the gutters, squirrels are making brown waves in the grass. Sunset is not until 7:47 PM. Which means five hours four minutes of daylight left. I make my way to the center of Katy’s living room and breathe.
* * *
*
EXPLOSIVE DECOMPRESSION: A steep drop in cabin pressure, causing distention, blistering, even popping of air-filled materials—such as maybe the eardrums and lungs, we think. Erin says the statistics are low, only ten passenger planes since 1954, which was seventy years ago. But low doesn’t mean never. Does it?
* * *
*
“WHAT THE HECK?”
JAPANESE SUICIDE TORPEDO “KAITEN” FOUND. Thursday, volunteer divers still searching for Malaysian Airlines Flight 370 nine years after its disappearance found what they believe is an intact Japanese World War Two–era manned torpedo known as the “Kaiten”…[To read the full story, subscribe or sign in]
Kaiten (回天), literally “Turn the Heaven,” were suicide crafts used by the Imperial Japanese Navy at the end of World War II. Manned by the Special Attack Unit, the first Kaiten was a Type 93 torpedo engine attached to a cylinder that became the pilot’s compartment. Early designs allowed the pilot to escape after final acceleration toward the target, but this was later dropped so that, once inside, the pilot could not unlock the hatch. The Kaiten was fitted with a self-destruct control in case the attack or vehicle failed.
—Wikipedia
“So someone’s in this thing?” Erin says, peering at the news article’s greenish underwater image. “Is he, like, vacuum-sealed—like preserved?”
Effectiveness [edit]: Despite the advantages of a manned craft, US sources claim only two sinkings were achieved, while some Japanese sources claim a higher number.
—Wikipedia
“This is insane,” Erin says. “When was World War Two anyway?”
* * *
*
“ERIN, CAN we check on Dad’s plane?”
* * *
*
KATY HAS six windows: one in the kitchen, one in the bathroom, two in the bedroom, two in the living room. My favorites are the ones in the living room overlooking a courtyard with one fountain and one oak tree that scatters light in the summer and pelts the windowpanes in the fall until the first snow brings out the notice Courtyard Now Closed For Your Safety. Erin wonders why they even bother; nobody ever goes out there. When I asked why not, he said it’s because the courtyard’s an idea, something to look at and be reassured by, like a museum. Look at this brownstone, five stories high and shaped like a U, hoarding that patch of grass and those twittering birds splashing in that fountain that’s only pretending to be ancient, like something that’s been there and will be there forever and ever—
—but won’t? I guessed.
Erin rolled his eyes. What we need to ask is who’s the beneficiary? Who is it reassuring?
Not Jacki, I guessed again, filing away the word: beh-neh-fishery.
Exactly, he said, prouder of himself than of my Educated Guess.
Is that why Katy bought the apartment?
Erin frowned. Erin has a crush on Katy, even though he’s in love with Anja, who is a better programmer than him and draws in a notebook and is complicated. You have zero clue, he said.
I clicked my pen and wrote on my hand to Ask Katy If Fountain Is Fake.
* * *
*
4:12 PM. I kneel on the couch and push my face into the living room window screen. Four floors down, the cherubs on the fountain look sketched. “I bet Anja would love that fountain. She’d adore the naked cherubs,” I say.
Erin, who is also on the couch, pulls me from the screen. “You’re going to rip it,” he says.
I stop for a minute, then push in again, more carefully. “Was Anja born deaf? Is it weird that she doesn’t know your voice?”
Erin turns a page in his book.
“What does Anja draw, anyway? Does she draw you?”
He turns another page.
“Anja said she saw you signing. She knows you practice. Do you sign to her, Erin?”
Erin plunks down his book and plods to the bathroom. If Katy were here, he’d close the door, but Katy’s at work, so I listen to him pee. He pees a long time, then flushes and blasts the tap. When he returns he has two spots on his jeans where he dried his hands.
“Mindfulness is the way to save water,” I say.
Erin picks up his book. He’s in hardcore Do Not Disturb mode. But this means he can’t tell me to scooch three point eight feet away, so I scooch closer.
“Does Anja draw because she misses sound?”
Erin doesn’t even twitch. Puberty
is powerful. In the window, a fly materializes. It taps and taps the glass, then drops and buzzes along the sill. “I bet Anja would let you make out with her in that courtyard,” I say.
Erin slaps his book. He’s glowering, but at the fly, which just hopped from the window to the coffee table. Erin’s a fly killer. Mother hates it when he uses a book, but books are his weapon of choice, and he’s about to bring it down. In my mind, I picture a giant hand plucking the book and frisbeeing it across the floor. But if I’m good, Erin might speak to me, so I say, “Nice! People will pay you big money when flies take over the earth.”
Erin’s eyes flick toward me, then he slams down the book and inspects The Damage.
* * *
*
“MAI, YOU cow! What’d you do that for?” Erin snatches his book sprawled on the floor and glares at me. He’s a master glarer. Which makes me think I’ll miss it if I never saw it again.
*
Whales are descendants of land-living mammals. They are the closest living relatives of hippos. The two evolved from a common ancestor around 54 million years ago. Whales entered the water roughly 50 million years ago.
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