Our Future is in the Air

by Corballis, Tim

  Kim pushed up a heavy metal plate. Light came down on his face and arms. The plate grated as it slid across the tarmac. Then he was out.

  Kenneth said, ‘Janet!’

  Janet was following Kim. In a second, she was also outside. Kenneth’s face appeared at the surface, wincing and looking around. Kim was in a car parked nearby.

  Kenneth said, ‘He didn’t know?’

  Janet shrugged a look back at him.

  ‘How could he not know about this?’

  Janet was climbing in the back seat. Kim said, ‘Hey. You’re not—’

  ‘I am.’

  He was starting the car.

  She said, ‘You’re a genius.’

  ‘Yeah.’

  In the time it took for Kim to get the car started, Kenneth climbed in the same door.

  ‘I wasn’t really thinking of giving you guys a lift.’

  But the car moved off, sedately, cruising to the right, towards the northern end of the old runway, skirting around the outsides of old hangars and new prefabs. Kim drove and looked out the window, as if admiring the scenery.

  Kenneth said, ‘I don’t believe he didn’t know about that.’

  Kim said, ‘He? You mean Shanks?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Fuck. Are you one of them?’

  Janet said, ‘He’s one of us. I think.’

  ‘Us?’

  He made a broad semicircle at the northern end of the runway and drove back slowly along the far side. At points they could see through the gaps in the buildings to the police cars, and one or two officers, outside his hangar.

  ‘I should’ve burned it. I guess they’ve got my fingerprints now.’

  ‘They’ve had those for a long time.’ They drove past the old airport building, now fenced in and largely derelict. Kenneth said, ‘I don’t believe we got out that way. A tunnel!’

  Janet said, ‘We still have talking to do.’

  Kim said, ‘No.’ Then, ‘So where can I drop you?’ They were driving along the coast now, in the direction of the centre of town, still slowly.

  Kenneth said, ‘Neither of us brought a car, thankfully. You didn’t, did you Janet?’

  ‘And actually, we’ve got some talking to do too, Kenneth. What are you doing here? I thought you’d given up following me around.’

  A silence. He said, ‘I know. It was for your own safety.’

  ‘I knew you’d say that.’

  ‘And it turned out for the best.’

  She looked at him. ‘Thanks for the warning—but it seemed as if Kim had the situation under control.’

  Kim stopped the car. He said, ‘I just lost everything.’

  Kenneth said, ‘Your source of income? Oh, you lost that a while ago. They knew about you, I’m sure. You were given a temporary reprieve. You were given extra time.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘You got away! That’s good, isn’t it? It’s good, better than being in court. Isn’t it? I don’t think you’d have much of a chance—’

  ‘I was keeping quiet.’ They were all watching the waves. ‘I would have—’

  ‘They were putting some kind of pressure on you, weren’t they? We know about that.’

  A pause, then, ‘Yeah. They were. Shanks was.’

  ‘I don’t think it was ever going to be long until you were raided. I don’t know why he didn’t do it sooner. There was something he wanted kept…’ Something was dawning on Kenneth’s face.

  Janet said, ‘There’s something they didn’t want coming out in court?’

  Kenneth said, ‘Something they just wanted to go away.’

  ‘Like Pen’s body.’

  Kim was looking at his lap now.

  Janet said, ‘So there is more to talk about.’

  Kenneth said, ‘We should probably keep driving. They’ll be along here any minute.’

  ‘At their most outlandish, some members of the International Fedorovians began to believe that future technology could be used to impart immortality and ultimately to raise the dead. TCF would only be the vehicle for obtaining such technology, possibly through multiple or extended trips, further into the future than thirty years, though to our knowledge no such trips have ever been achieved. As we understand it, this belief was inspired by the future existence of powerful computer technology, and by (mis-)readings of contemporary neuropsychological and machine learning research concerning learning plasticity and network function. In short, their hope was that the human mind might easily be modelled by computer—and even that computers could replace human brains as more robust physical substrates. People might live, or be reborn, as computers, or as their software.’

  ‘The Fedorovians were always disposed to believe in the most futuristic ideas. The future, for them, was a place of unlimited imagination, a place where anything was possible. Weight—human bodily weight, and the weight of objects—was always reduced in the future to thought. Things could be moved by a mere gesture. To them, humans, and the world itself, seemed light in the future.’

  ‘Yes, that’s a good way to put it. It was a form of optimism. They were involved in a fantasy. It was a set of thoughts that ignored consequences. It was attractive in its own way.’

  Kim was with Marcus, Lilly and Janet, back in the house. What did he think? Did he feel swept up in something? Clearly, of course, it wasn’t unexpected that he might be raided some day. In fact, there was some relief in it, the fulfilment of something that had long been coming. There remained a different tension, the tension of being ‘on the run’—though it wasn’t clear exactly how serious a crime he was to be charged with. Was he being cast as an accessory to this murder that Shanks talked about? Or just a petty TCF dealer? There would be the question of charges, if he was caught. What did Shanks have? The police, he knew, could construct whatever they wanted. What story did Shanks want him to tell? But with the story that Pen had come back dead—if that story were told, there might after all be a way in which the responsibility lay elsewhere.

  Kim said to the others, ‘I honestly don’t know. I don’t know what happened. He came back dead. I knew it was a possibility, but I never thought… I didn’t think.’

  ‘You had a dead body on your hands.’

  ‘I didn’t think about his family and friends. I’m sorry.’

  ‘You hid him?’

  ‘Um. Yeah. It was never part of what I imagined. I always thought it was harmless. I mean, I thought it was stupid that it was illegal. You know?’

  ‘But you disposed of his body.’

  ‘I’m sorry.’

  Marcus said, ‘I suppose that lands you in more trouble than just dealing.’

  ‘I suppose so.’ Then, ‘I didn’t expect any of this.’

  Janet said, ‘You must have—’

  ‘No, I mean in the longer sense. I knew I couldn’t keep doing it forever. But from the beginning. Having his body come back… and now. Yeah, I knew it would come—the raids and everything. But from the beginning, I had no idea. You know, back then I believed so much in things. I don’t believe any of them now. I just make money from it. I used to think TCF could free us from everything. I did. I used to think it could let us wriggle free from time. I had ideas. I thought maybe I could sit down with my parents again, not in the afterlife, but here, now, in this world. I thought, all the people, I don’t know. This world needs TCF. It needs something to take us out of it. I know the first pictures were awful, but at the same time, the excitement, the possibility—TCF was ours! Something of ours, something accessible to us, something powerful. We had power over time. Amazing. It was. And so easy, amazingly easy. I could do it myself.’

  Marcus said, ‘You wanted to fix it all.’

  ‘I mean, it wasn’t just me. But then they stopped flying. People became terrified of the future. They banned it. We ended up earthbound and struggling, occupying small patches of earth and small stretches of time.’

  Janet said, ‘You aren’t still active? You just deal… ?’

&nbs
p; ‘Only a couple of times a year now. I see some of the people.’

  ‘And Pen?’

  ‘I did think Pen might have some of that spirit left. I never charged him. He had a project. It was his, really, and he had a contact in the future.’

  Marcus sat up straight. ‘I met her.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘She seemed harmless.’

  ‘Oh, yes.’

  ‘What were they doing?’

  ‘I think Pen was on to something. He was trying to work it out. He was just trying to understand how TCF was collapsing time. As he said. It has to do with banks and economists. How it’s being taken from us and used. I don’t understand it.’

  ‘That sounds like Pen.’

  Lilly said, ‘Why didn’t he tell anyone?’

  ‘I don’t know. He was being careful, I guess. But it wasn’t anything big. He was just trying to understand. I think he was frustrated. He would travel, and talk and talk. I guess that’s what he did in the future too—talk.’

  ‘What did he talk about?’

  ‘Oh, the banks and the corporations. The machines and the way they changed everything. I think he thought TCF was in the middle of it all. They were using it to make money, colonise the future.’

  ‘Was he planning some kind of action?’

  A pause. ‘I don’t think so.’

  And there were too many questions, all of a sudden, in the air. But at that point Dani came crashing down the stairs and into the room. She stood in front of Kim and smiled at him. She said, ‘Are you moving in too?’ Then, without waiting for an answer, she remembered herself. She said, ‘Marcus?’ Then: ‘Peter’s getting sick.’

  Janet stood up. ‘What’s happening?’

  ‘We were being hobbits. We were running away from the orcs but he wouldn’t run.’

  ‘Is it his leg again?’

  ‘No. I think it’s his sadness. Don’t you think, Dad?’

  Marcus said, ‘What’s he doing?’

  Janet was up already, and out of the room.

  ‘He didn’t say anything about his leg. He was talking really quietly.’

  Now Marcus and Dani were following Janet. Up in the room that Karen and Sandra shared, Peter and Sarah were both sprawled on the floor. Sarah was rolling from side to side, but Peter was still, with Janet kneeling over him. She said, ‘He won’t respond.’

  Marcus said, ‘Dani? Was he like this already?’

  ‘Yes. He passed out.’

  ‘How long ago?’

  ‘I don’t know. He was feeling tired and he was talking really quietly. Then he fell asleep. But he seems sick and sad.’

  Janet put a hand behind him, tried to get him sitting upright. ‘He’s burning up.’ His eyes opened for a second and he looked at her and smiled. Then his eyes rolled off away from her. She said, ‘He’s so hot.’ She said, ‘Where, why? What happened? This is so—’ Her own eyes were now casting about the room, as if she wanted answers from the other children, from Marcus.

  Lilly, now behind them in the doorway, said, ‘Let’s get him up. Let’s get him to the hospital.’

  She and Marcus offered to help carry him, but Janet took him, hoisted him up until his arms fell about her shoulders and half consciously tightened on her. Marcus, Lilly and the other two children paraded after her down the stairs and out the front to the car. Kenneth and Kim came out and stood awkwardly on the footpath while Janet lowered Peter down into the rear passenger door.

  Kenneth said, ‘What should we… ? Can I help?’

  Lilly said, ‘No. Right now we just need to look after Peter.’

  ‘Can we stay here?’

  No answer. Kim said, ‘I can’t. I need to go somewhere else. I can’t stay here.’

  By now Dani and Sarah had opened the boot and piled in, pulling it shut behind them with a thin rope tied around the inside handle. They were lying there among blankets and pillows, staring out at the two men. Marcus said from beside the open driver’s door, ‘Do what you want.’

  Kenneth said, ‘I’ll take him away. We’ll find somewhere to hide.’

  Kim was looking in at the boy, his face collapsing. Were Peter’s eyes open? Janet was in with him now, trying to work out how to sit, how to manoeuvre herself beside or under him so she could hold him on the drive. How did this relate to anything that had gone before? Did Peter, after all, open his eyes and give Kim a look? What could it have meant? But now all the car’s doors were shut, and Marcus drove away.

  Kim said, ‘Do you think we need to lock the house?’

  ‘I don’t have a key. But they don’t seem big on security.’

  In the car, Janet said, ‘Have I been ignoring him?’

  Lilly said, ‘No. He’s been in good company, Janet.’

  ‘How could I have not known this was coming?’

  At the hospital he was ushered straight into a room. Janet went with him while the others lingered in the Accident and Emergency waiting area. Marcus said, ‘I don’t know. I guess it seems like septicaemia, something related to his leg. A sudden spread of the infection he has there, if that’s what he has.’

  ‘Will he be okay, Dad?’

  ‘I think so. I hope so, honey.’

  A pause. ‘Dad, I think we’ve given him a really nice house to live in.’

  Marcus picked Dani up and put her on his knee so her head was about level with his. They touched foreheads. ‘Yes.’

  ‘So he won’t be too sick.’

  ‘No.’

  Sarah said, ‘Do we have to stay here?’

  ‘We don’t.’ And still, they didn’t move, but sat, waiting.

  Dani said, ‘We have to wait till he’s better.’

  Lilly said, ‘I think that might take time. Maybe days.’

  They sat, still, looking around the room. There were others—many presumably waiting to be attended to, though it was unclear what for. A man had his hand over one eye. The room wasn’t overly crowded, however. In it, the hush of waiting. What had happened? Dani had her arms around Marcus’s neck, her head on his shoulder. Marcus and Lilly were close, their arms touching. Sarah was on Lilly’s knee, her head resting back on Lilly’s chest, tucked in under her chin. What thought, now, of Marcus and Lilly travelling? It seemed only the remotest of possibilities, barely thinkable. And still, was each of them thinking it? Perhaps only in the negative—only in that they had a sense of the tragedy of their removal from this situation, a removal from their children, and from Peter and Janet, and from everything. Their children weighed them, bound them, stopped them even from standing, let alone fleeing forward years into the future. There was an enforced stillness, something that maintained itself even despite Sarah’s small jiggling motions.

  ‘Dad, he’ll be okay.’

  Marcus looked at Dani in surprise, then realised he had begun crying. He looked at Lilly, who was on the verge of tears herself. Brief exhalations of laughter. Marcus wiped his eyes. He put his arms around Dani and hugged her tight again.

  ‘You know his father died?’

  ‘Of course, Dad.’ Then, ‘Is that why you’re crying?’

  ‘I suppose so.’

  ‘It’s sad.’

  ‘Yes.’

  Now Dani had a small cry herself, while Sarah popped down to the floor and walked off around the room. After a while Lilly stood, followed her and scooped her up. Dani jumped down, slowly chased her mother, and grabbed her from behind. Marcus watched. Did he think, in these moments, that they now just needed Pen’s body? That, more than anything, that was what was needed—to sight it, in whatever condition it was in, and bury it. Did he need it as a gesture of finality, something that could peg him again to the present, remind him again, deeply, of weight and substance? Why these thoughts now? It seemed strange to go home. Still, there was nothing practical keeping them here. Their house was a place of comings and goings. When he imagined it now though—when he focused on the house as it was, IN HIM—he noticed his own absence, his own departures more than his arrivals. Did Lilly
feel it too?

  In the car on the way home, Dani said, ‘Is Peter sick because of Pen?’

  ‘I don’t think so.’

  ‘That happens, though, doesn’t it? People get sick because of what happens in their family?’

  ‘Yes, it does. But his sickness is different.’

  And still there was a sense of everything falling down. The house was quiet; Kenneth was still out. Did they feel an air of material inertia about the place—as if nothing would move? As if dust would simply gather here, the light grow dimmer? Somehow, things were reduced, brought to an uncomfortable stillness. Seemingly in an effort to counter those feelings, Lilly said, ‘I’ll cook!’ Marcus joined her in the kitchen, and the girls followed too, sitting quiet at the table, Dani chopping some vegetables from time to time. They worked and breathed together. They cooked too much, as if making food for Janet and Peter and, why not, for Kenneth too, and Kim. And Yvonne and their children? Shanks? Pen? Who could be included, as the sense of family in them expanded (did it?), reached outward to everyone involved in their situation? The melancholy feeling, a feeling that arose after the shock of Peter’s quick decline, made them expansive and quiet: wrapped, and as if they themselves might open up and wrap others in them. Did they all feel that need for a small ritual of burial? Or was it there under the level of feeling, as a mere fact, something that threaded itself through the house, its occupants, both here and absent?

  There was a knock at the door—quiet, as if muffled by the house’s feeling. It came again, or was echoed somewhere in the reverberating chamber that they had become. Lilly, opening the door, was faced with a man, a stranger. He swayed slightly. He was drunk.

  ‘I’m sorry about the boy.’

  ‘Who are you?’

  ‘You don’t know me.’ He pulled a police badge from his pocket.

  Lilly said, ‘What do you want?’

  ‘Can I come in?’

  ‘No. You can’t. What do you want?’

  ‘Oh. All right. Ha.’ He leaned back against a verandah post, half missed, and swung to the side. He reached and grabbed it to steady himself and stood, his arm around it, his head leaning on it. ‘I guess I’m looking for a fugitive.’