Tomorrow

by C. K. Kelly Martin

  “But it’s morning,” I argued. Surely anyone had the right to be outdoors during the day. “He was just helping me out with some shopping, carrying my things to the car.”

  The second SecRo must’ve been having some kind of vocal malfunction. When he spoke I heard more static than words. The first SecRo repeated his reply for me. “He did not report in to his assigned camp last night. He is already AWOL.”

  If it was his first offence they’d probably file a report and return the man to the camp with a warning. So far the homeless man had been motionless and mute during my exchange with the SecRos, clasping his two remaining unbroken plates with tired resignation, but at that point his downcast eyes shifted upwards. “I wanted to buy these for my wife,” he said. “They’d belonged to her parents. I arrived here too late last night and couldn’t get back before curfew fell.”

  “Your second such AWOL offence,” the SecRo declared ominously.

  “Look, you heard him,” I protested. “He couldn’t have reached the camp in time. So what was he supposed to do? If he’d tried and been picked up out on the road somewhere, you would’ve charged him with breaking curfew.” It was stupid, sticking my neck out like that for someone I’d never seen before in my life, and the second SecRo hissed something unintelligible at me.

  “Citizen Garren Lowe, your record is currently clean,” the fully functioning Ro translated. “Please continue on your way unless you want a charge of aiding an AWOL or an interference notation to be added to your record.”

  The homeless man spoke a second time, his voice tinged with frustration. “No one aided me. I slept in the alley until the stores here opened.” He stared me in the eye, blinking slowly. “But I thank you for trying to help. Do you think…” He peered down at his plates. They were as white as the unicorn’s hair in the picture I hadn’t bought, except for the edging, which was decorated with a delicate blue floral pattern. “Could you possibly get these to my wife in the camp in Fairfield?” He glanced questioningly at the SecRos. “Is it all right if I hand these to him?”

  Clearly the man didn’t think the Ros would be bringing him back to the camp. Not right away. Maybe they’d transfer him to a hard labour facility for a detention period, something they were in the habit of doing with people who didn’t toe the line. Conditions in the labour facility would be worse than in the Fairfield welfare camp but markedly better than being sent to a toxic environmental site.

  I couldn’t tear my eyes from the man’s hands. Curved around the clean white plates, his fingers were shaking.

  If the SecRos were people instead of machines they might have allowed the man to give me the plates. After all, what harm could some fine china do? But the Ros refused. Each of them promptly locked a metal hand around the man’s arms. He ground his teeth together and grimaced as they zoomed away with him, leaving me staring at the freshly shattered china at my feet—the remnants of the final two plates that the man had dropped when whisked off.

  Some of the new pieces were sizeable (one of the dishes had broken straight down the middle) and I closed Kinnari’s unicorn bracelet around my own wrist to give me two free hands. Then I bent down and started gathering up the best pieces. At the time I wasn’t sure what made me do it, except that the plates had meant something to the man, who was as human as I was.

  I loaded the fragments into my trans and headed home, not in the mood for a birthday party and definitely not in the mood to meet Latham’s parents, who I’d heard him complain about on several occasions by then. At least three-quarters of what was wrong with the world was down to people like Mr. and Mrs. Kallas throwing their weight around, but I’d have to smile at them and nod politely.

  When I arrived back at the house my mothers were already busy helping the people they’d hired from the camps for the day to set up party tables in our backyard. Because of Bening, who was a scientist and always working on important projects, we were well off compared to most people. Enough so that Kinnari and I went to the most prestigious school in Billings along with the children of politicians and industrialists, and our mothers could throw a lavish birthday party. While the majority of the U.N.A.’s employed population lived in claustrophobic apartment towers, my family owned a five-bedroom house on a large, fully landscaped lot. And while the diet of the lower classes was composed mainly of algae, green super rice, insects, and lab-created meat, my family often ate real meat and costly rare vegetables and fruits.

  No wonder the shop clerk had mistaken me for one of the elite. People who didn’t know me often made the same mistake. If they were strangers of an influential class they’d more or less act like I was one of them. If not, they’d either be deferential or treat me with thinly veiled disdain, like the woman in Moss had.

  I stored the china fragments at the bottom of an old chest in my room and avoided the backyard for as long as was humanly possible, pulling out my bike and cycling as far as the main road. The sky was a perfect shade of blue and the sun—warm but not blistering hot on my skin—felt like a friend rather than the enemy it so often was.

  For a few minutes I even forgot about the shattered pieces, and when I remembered it felt like I’d already made up mind to bring the fragments to the Fairfield camp. I’d finished my volunteer hours with Michael Neal, the lawyer who offered free legal advice to the camp residents, in the spring, but I was sure he’d let me put in additional time. Visitors couldn’t just show up at the camps whenever they wanted; you needed clearance. Without the names of the AWOL man or his wife, Michael Neal was my best route in, and I was more relaxed by the time I returned to the house. I helped the live band—a cellist, several violinists, and a flute player—set up outside, unfolding chairs for them on the lawn and bringing them refreshments. Then I hunted down Kinnari to give her the unicorn bracelet before her guests showed up.

  “It’s beautiful,” she said, instantly locking it around her wrist. “Thanks, Garren.” She leaned affectionately into my arm. “I love it. Did you get it in Moss?”

  “Just this morning,” I admitted.

  “This morning!” She punched me lightly on the shoulder. “You’re hopeless.”

  I rubbed my upper arm, pretending her tap had wounded me. “The place was buzzing with SecRos,” I told her, keeping the part about the homeless man to myself. Kinnari would have felt sympathetic towards him but would’ve lectured me for challenging the Ros. She would’ve been right, too; there was no use in arguing with machines. “There was a painting in the same shop you might have found interesting,” I added. Kinnari’s eyes lit up as I described it, her curiosity piqued.

  “Maybe I’ll go in and have look,” she said. “From what you’ve said it sounds like the unicorn is a messianic figure.”

  “How old are you turning next week?” I asked with a chuckle. “Ninety-one?” Half the time Kinnari could be as immature as any other sixteen-year-old and the other half she was coming out with things that made her sound like the voice of ancient wisdom.

  “That would mean I was born in what?” She stared up at the ceiling as she did the math. “1972? Isn’t that more your era than mine?”

  Judging by my record collection—which included piles of Springsteen, Pink Floyd, Led Zeppelin, Queen, Neil Young, Bob Marley, and David Bowie—she had a point. “I have old tastes but I’m a young soul,” I teased, because that was something Kinnari had been talking about a lot lately—reincarnation. She and Latham had been getting into spiritual exploration stuff together. Karma. Meditation. Numerology.

  At the time I thought most of it was for fun, but now I think Kinnari genuinely wanted to believe in something more and was searching for it. I remember how happy she was at her party later and how everyone fussed over her. Latham held her hand for at least an hour without letting go, and I remember thinking that it must have driven his mother crazy because everyone knew Mr. and Mrs. Kallas were no fans of the grounded movement and therefore not fans of love matches. No doubt Mrs. Kallas expected the Service to create a suitable match fo
r Latham when he was ready to have children. Her husband’s disapproval was probably his reason for not making an appearance at Kinnari’s party after all.

  Having been left alone to deal with my sister’s birthday, Mrs. Kallas tried to put a brave face on things, chatting good-naturedly with my mothers. Latham was focused on Kinnari, oblivious to the way his sister, Freya, busied herself with leaping on everything their mother said, relentlessly mocking her. If Mrs. Kallas weren’t married to the vice president of Coppedge-Hale Corp., the government’s largest supplier of DefRos and SecRos, I might have even felt sorry for her. As it was, it amused me to watch Latham’s sister try to get the better of her.

  At first, anyway. Then I began to think back to the scandal four years earlier, when an illegal had been discovered working as a nanny and domestic servant for the Kallases. The Dailies had broadcast an image of the desolate woman in SecRo custody. Obviously Coppedge-Hale Corp. hadn’t wanted it to look as though any exceptions were made for their VP.

  For days afterwards, everyone at school stared at Latham and his sister in the halls. Freya seemed sad and angry and one day I saw her take those feelings out on another student. The Ros witnessed it too and filed a discipline report. I didn’t personally know Freya back then but everyone knew who she was. Feeling sorry for her, I walked up to her and said something that I’ve long since forgotten.

  For years after that we barely exchanged a word. Sometime later I began to notice her watching me. Initially I suspected she had something against me because of my grounded beliefs, but sometimes…sometimes the look seemed to say something else.

  People still looked in 2063. There were still attractions. Between young people especially. Mostly they just didn’t add up to much. People searching for permanent attachments invariably allowed the Service to match them up and ‘grounded sex’ had fallen out of favour, even with many grounded members. The majority of society had developed a pathological distaste for the exchange of bodily fluids, which made things difficult for people like me. Most of the girlfriends I’d had would cuddle and closed-mouth kiss but loathed being more physical than that. They saved the rest for gushi. Admittedly, sometimes I did too. Sometimes it didn’t feel like there was much of a choice.

  So I didn’t think of Freya in that way. Not in 2063. Not when her mother started to fight back and I made an excuse to pull Freya away from the scene. At the time I would never have guessed the daughter of Coppedge-Hale’s VP could be someone I’d be interested in; I was only being nice. Didn’t like to see her looking embarrassed. There wasn’t anything more to it. Freya was beautiful, yeah. So was everyone I went to school with. It doesn’t mean anything to be beautiful and it meant still less in 2063.

  But Freya did get to me. We were standing close to the band, listening to them play Bach, when she said, “I wish I had your mothers for parents. They’re so cool.”

  That was something I hadn’t expected, even after hearing her argue with her mom—that someone like Freya Kallas would respect Bening and Rosine, whose beliefs were contrary to almost everything she’d grown up with.

  “A lot of people think they’re kooks,” I said, my shoulders stuck in a half shrug.

  “Only stupid people. And who cares what stupid people think?”

  I felt my lips dart into a smile. “Exactly.”

  Freya wanted to escape her mother for a while so we went up to my room to listen to music. When I showed her how to use my old turntable, she held the records with a reverence that made me trust her a little more. For someone who wasn’t grounded, she had decent taste in music. She liked everything I played for her—Neil Young, Patti Smith, and The Band—and said her favourite musician was Hendris, the Jimi Hendrix/Janis Joplin hybrid who was the only genetically spliced rock star Chinese scientists had created that had any genuine talent.

  Freya and I didn’t talk much, mainly just listened to sounds from the past spin around at a rate of thirty-three revolutions per minute. That was another good thing about Freya I discovered on July 29, 2063. She knew how to listen, and for a few seconds during “Heart of Gold,” Freya had a wistful expression in her eyes that I thought meant she was about to tear up.

  I think if she had, I might’ve changed my mind about her completely, not just halfway like how it happened on July 29. Maybe I’m wrong, but now that I’m with Freya it’s tricky to remember the past exactly the way it was instead of how I’m tempted to see it in the present. My head wants to insert feelings where there might not have been any, because I know what came later.

  Love isn’t linear. It moves backwards too. Like time, as it turns out. I didn’t think I loved Freya Kallas in 2063 but now there’s a part of me that feels as if I always have. Not the part that went to the Cursed camp with jagged pieces of china and became ensnared in things that alternately frightened and compelled me, but some essence that can’t be pinned down in hours, days, and years.

  In a way, there can’t be a before I fell in love with Freya anymore. And yet, the things that happened to me in the summer of 2063—things that had very little to do with her—changed everything.

  Two: 1986

  She’s dancing when I get to Rachel’s party—spinning around in a tight circle with her fists folded up close to her chin, red ringlets bouncing on her shoulders to the rhythm of Pet Shop Boys’ “West End Girls.” My smile sticks to my teeth as I edge closer to her. Freya looks funny when she’s drunk. It’s like she gets so damn intent on whatever she’s doing that she just might implode. The room’s dark and crowded and my shift ran late, so an ordinary person wouldn’t know to expect me at this exact moment, but Freya does. Her eyes catch on me and hold. Hold, hold, hold.

  The moment stretches into forever. Just Freya and I staring each other down and wondering how we’re supposed to act after this morning’s fight. Am I still angry? Is she? Since I’ve already smiled I guess I’ve forfeited my chance to be mad. My stomach clenches for a second as I wait for her to react.

  And then I see it. Her grin begins to bloom. At the corners of her lips first and then spreading to her cheekbones and her glimmering eyes. She opens her fist and beckons me slowly forwards with outstretched fingers. I don’t think anyone would be able to resist that motion. She’s so sexy, even when she’s drunk enough to make me want to laugh at her.

  I squeeze by birthday girl Rachel Chung—a waitress with a Pat Benatar shag haircut who Freya works with at Il Baccaro—and stand close to Freya, sweeping my left hand through her hair. No matter what Freya does to her hair it’s always as soft as silk. The dye jobs and perm haven’t changed that.

  “Hi,” Freya mouths, leaning forwards to open her lips and kiss me. I taste the vodka and orange juice she’s been drinking. I’m sure she can taste the cigarette I smoked outside before coming up too, but she doesn’t complain about it.

  I turn to plant a birthday kiss on Rachel’s cheek, and two seconds later Rachel’s tilting her body away from me so she can fake-fall into my arms. This is just what Rachel’s like when she’s plastered, Freya’s told me, a compulsive flirt who doesn’t mean anything by it.

  Since Rachel’s celebrating I don’t even shoot her a disapproving look, just catch her in my arms and plant her solidly back on her feet. “I’m sorry!” she slurs, grabbing for Freya’s wrist as she pitches forwards. This has also happened before, Rachel abruptly remembering that as Freya’s boyfriend I should be off limits and then swiftly apologizing.

  Freya’s fingers re-form a fist and she raps lightly on her friend’s forehead, like a physical wakeup call. Then the two of them begin dancing again like nothing happened, and I weave back through the crowd and into the kitchen to get myself something to drink. There’s only warm beer left so I take a bottle for myself and then pour water into a paper cup for Freya. By the time we leave the party, hours later, she’s almost sober again and I’m halfway to drunk.

  Crisscrossing drizzly Vancouver streets together on the way back to our apartment, the uneasy feeling that creeps under my skin when
I’m lying awake at night begins to steal in. It’s like…like maybe I’m only dreaming and none of this is real. It’s like, for a second or two, if I’m not careful, I could forget where or when I am and fade away.

  This is one of the reasons I don’t like to drink too much. Why chance having that feeling at times when you don’t have to? The other reason is I want to keep my brain in prime condition. As Freya has pointed out more times than I can count, it makes no logical sense to worry about my mind while voluntarily poisoning my lungs with tobacco. I know she’s right; I’ve seen pictures of lungs that look like charred meat. And that’s why I’m trying to quit. Because I want to live to one hundred without needing an oxygen tank.

  In the beginning I thought I had the habit under control. But a cigarette is an easy hit of calm, and I can’t see what the tobacco is doing to my lungs. The damage doesn’t feel real.

  “Are you going to throw up?” Freya asks, her hand squeezing mine. She’s so solid, so there with me as we turn onto East Fourteenth Avenue that the uneasy dead-of-night feeling doesn’t have a chance to take hold. But I’m still fucking craving a cigarette like nobody’s business.

  “I look like I’m going to throw up?” I say.

  “Or pass out or something.” It’s no secret that I have trouble sleeping and we both have bad dreams sometimes, but not as often as before, and in the future they’re bound to be rarer still. If I could shake that uneasy dead-of-night feeling and give up smoking, things would be almost perfect.

  By December we should have enough money saved to get out of British Columbia and travel. Europe, definitely, but Africa’s at the top of the list. The plan is to see all the amazing animals we’d lost to extinction and the places we were never free to travel, and then settle in somewhere breathtakingly beautiful by the sea or the mountains, somewhere your eyes can get lost in the view on a daily basis. We’re thinking about this Spanish town called Ronda that’s perched on a cliff. You’d only have to look up a photograph of the Puente Nuevo to figure out why anyone would want to live there. Freya’s been checking Spanish tapes out of the library to learn the language.