Heaven is a Place on Earth

by Graham Storrs

  She closed her displays and stretched her legs, wondering how much faith she could put in all those conspiracy theory feeds she'd been dipping into. Looking around she found the sight of her lolling, staring fellow passengers disturbed her. It was creepy, she realised, seeing it all in a way she never had done before. The unlatched were deep in full immersion virtual reality, free of the constraints of the real world, their sagging bodies kept artificially relaxed so that they didn’t hurt themselves as their minds roved through simulated worlds. In unlatched VR they could be where they chose to be, their bodies altered by up to twenty per cent from their natural form. And that could make a lot of difference if done well. Latched or unlatched, when you moved out of minimal augmented reality and let the machines take over your sensorium, you gave up all hope of ever seeing anyone as they really were. The vast majority of people thought this was a good thing – a damned good thing. The next best thing, in fact, to Heaven itself.

  The world had been waiting for this since the first thought flickered across the first brain. Now they embraced it in their billions. Inevitably, a lot of people grasped too tightly and wouldn’t let go, even if it killed them. Artificial realities were not Heaven but they could easily become the road to Hell.

  Was that what had made Cal kill his tag? Had he suddenly decided to become a conscientious objector, to ghost out for the sake of his sanity? Or did he want to save the world? Maybe September 10 had got to him, convinced him, blackmailed him, seduced him. She shook her head, unable to accept that Cal – who had seemed so level-headed and nice – could have been recruited by terrorists. Killed by them, maybe. She wouldn't put that past the unstable Tonia or the slimy Dover Richards.

  —oOo—

  Sydney was a quiet place, empty and decaying like most cities. Haunted by ghosts, Ginny thought. Of every kind. She picked up a cab at the little airport. The huge old roads were empty, unlit. No one used them except the robot freighters endlessly moving food and manufactured goods out of the robot farms and factories to the robot warehouses and then to the houses.

  The cab was small and plain. The giants of the past – Ford, Honda, General Motors – had long since sold up and gone into the telecoms business. Now cars were made by tiny specialist manufacturers and maybe they’d be out of business too in a few years time. Global warming, pollution, the Oil Wars were all just fading nightmares. They’d been overtaken by events.

  Ginny travelled augmented, feeling safer with a thousand kilometres between herself and Brisbane. She watched maps unfold across the unlit freeway, watched ads pop up around her as passing systems sensed her tag. She had decided to surprise her parents – mostly to avoid them saying no. But the only flight had been late in the evening and she thought it would be better to turn up on their doorstep in the morning than in the night. So she had booked a hotel. On top of the staggering cost of the flight, the room had seemed relatively cheap.

  When she was close to the hotel, she latched into its augmented reality. The road ahead lit up. Welcome signs appeared. All the wrong turnings turned dim and the right way was a bright and spangled one. The effects were cheap and tacky, but that was to be expected, the hotel business was in terminal decline too. People did their business unlatched these days, meeting in common virtual realities. Whole worlds of artificial business venues existed. Who would travel hours to meet in some dump of a conference centre, when they could hold their meeting in Ancient Greece or a crater on Mars? Who would commute to a downtown highrise when they could stay put and work on the Mont Blanc glaciers or the Oslo Fjord?

  It was the same story for holidays. The hotel was a dying concept. For the few people who still travelled, you took whatever you could get.

  Ginny, still latched, left the cab and walked into the hotel lobby. She looked around at the deep plush carpets and the Italian marble pillars and her nerve broke. She went native and found herself in the dimly lit and run down reality she had expected. Where the smiling receptionist had stood behind an impressive marble desk, a roboteller was bolted to a beat up wooden counter. Ginny checked around her. She was alone.

  “Good evening, Ms Galton,” the teller said. “We’re so glad to see you here at the Sydney Hilton.”

  “Just tell me what room I’m in.”

  The machine told her and she went straight there. She locked the door then wedged it shut with a chair. She checked the window. Good. There was no balcony and the walls were sheer and would be hard to climb.

  Look at me, she thought. Acting like a spy on a mission. Maybe I should sweep the room for bugs and hide my documents in the lavatory cistern. But it wasn't really amusing at all. Being anxious all the time was no fun and she looked back wistfully to the time when all she had to worry about was money.

  That had been just two days ago.

  She lay on the bed and dealt with the day's messages. Della had sent a sweet apology for being in such a huff that morning and Ginny replied saying it was all her fault, really. She didn't mention she had left town and was lying low, beginning to understand that what she was going through was not the kind of thing to burden your friends with. The urge to talk to someone about it was strong, though, and she had recorded a long ramble about meeting Detective Chu and how he was a tagger and pretty cute with it, before she deleted the whole thing and started again, avoiding anything to do with her troubles. She mentioned the job opportunity that Derek Naumann had sprung on her and used it to explain why she would be out of circulation for a couple of weeks at least.

  You're disturbingly good at this lying business, she told herself after the message was sent. Let's see if you can come up with something convincing for your mother tomorrow to explain your first physical visit in ten years. She fell asleep, fully clothed, with a mash-up of the past two days churning through her mind, explaining to Chu why she had Gavin's body in her kitchen, Dover Richards politely sneering at her ideas for the WorldEnough project, Della and her mother nagging her to join the September 10 group because Tonia needed her bicycle. On and on, round and round, more bizarre all the time but also more stressful. She woke up at one point, undressed, and showered. It was three AM. She watched a Nigerian documentary about the space program which dissolved into further, tortured dreams. At six AM, she woke up exhausted and sat on the edge of her bed for half an hour, watching the sun rise over a mountain lake through the virtual window of her windowless hotel room.

  Chapter 6

  “Hi.”

  Her father stared at her as if she was an obscure optical illusion he was trying to fathom.

  “Virginia?”

  She waited for him to get over his surprise and step back out of the doorway so she could enter.

  “You brought a bag,” he said, eyeing the big canvas shopping bag that had her meagre wardrobe in it.

  “You'd be surprised how hard it is to find anywhere that sells luggage in Brisbane. Is Mum about?”

  “Here,” he said, taking the bag off her and walking ahead down the short corridor. “Come on through.” Raising his voice, he called, “Cheryl, it's Virginia come to see us.” He stopped and turned to Ginny, then put his free arm round her in a hug. “Well this is a surprise. What on earth brought this on? She's not that bad, you know.”

  “I don't know what got into me, Dad. I rode a bike the other day and I remembered how you taught me all those years ago.”

  “A real bike? I didn't know they made them any more.”

  “Maybe they don't. I found this one in a – ”

  “Darling! You came!”

  Cheryl Galton pushed her husband aside in her rush to throw her arms around Ginny. Not in the least offended, Ginny's father relinquished his hug and stood back, smiling on, as his wife enfolded their daughter.

  “Oh darling, I spoke too soon. It was quite treatable. Nothing at all to worry about. And look at you, flying all that way to be with me. I feel so ashamed but I'm so glad you're here. The worry has been so awful. I try talking to Bob about it but – ” The mention of her husband's
name reminded her of his presence. “Bob, be a dear and put the kettle on, would you. Your poor daughter has just travelled all that way and you're just standing there looking useless.”

  With an “Oh, yes. Right,” Bob set down the bag and wandered off to the kitchen.

  Cheryl sighed and shook her head, letting Ginny see how patiently she put up with her father's stupidity. “Come and sit down, darling and I'll tell you all about what the doctors said.”

  And that's it, thought Ginny. No explanation necessary. She should have known her mother was so self-obsessed that everything was automatically about her. Anyone could have turned up at the doorstep and Cheryl Galton would immediately assume they were there because of her. No question that your only daughter might turn up after a ten year absence because she has problems of her own. No need to make enquiries as to her health or well-being, just sweep her up into the vortex that is Cheryl Galton and carry on as usual. It made Ginny's muscles tense, a visceral memory of the reasons she had fled to Brisbane all those years ago. And yet it was an easy and comfortable role to play, as a bit player in the great drama of her mother's life, a part she knew by heart and understood to the core. Later, Ginny knew, her part would change from heroine to villain as her mother began to feel the potential burden of coping with a house guest at such a time of trial and tribulation, but that too would be familiar and easy to deal with.

  -oOo-

  There was no guest room. Ginny would sleep on the sofa. Making the few domestic arrangements that were required to accommodate this unexpected visitor and fetching a doona and a couple of pillows stressed her mother so much she retired early, leaving Ginny to chat to her father over a cup of cocoa he made in her honour.

  “I can't remember the last time I drank cocoa,” she said, cradling the cup between her hands. “Not for real, anyway.”

  “How's the music business?” he asked.

  “Humming along.” It was an old joke between them. “It's been a bit of a struggle lately but something big might be on the cards. I need to do a proposal. I was hoping I'd get a bit of P and Q here to work on that.”

  Her father pulled a face. “Good luck with that. I think your mum will probably want to spend a bit of time with you.” Code for, everybody under this roof is part of Cheryl's audience.

  She smiled to let him know she understood the situation. “I'm looking forward to spending time with you,” she said. “Both of you. I spend too much time in the tank anyway.” He raised his eyebrows in agreement. It's what everybody said these days.

  “You're free to borrow mine while you're here. I'm only working mornings now. It's just a temporary thing, they say, until the business picks up, but, you know...”

  “Shit, Dad, Are you looking for another job?”

  “Who'd have me at my age?”

  He was right. In the post-boomer age, anyone over fifty was lucky to have a job at all and her father must be sixty by now. “Would you be all right, if...”

  “Don't worry about us. We've got our superannuation. That'll see us through 'till we reach pension age. If worst comes to worst, I'll sell the Ferrari.” She didn't even bother to look up whatever a Ferrari might be. He stood up, clearly uncomfortable talking about his troubles, and said goodnight. “You just hurry up and write that smash hit musical so we can all retire in luxury.”

  “Yeah, no worries. I'll start on that as soon as I've finished the score for the next Bollywood blockbuster.”

  She sat alone after he'd gone, feeling anxious and low. No wonder her mother was acting up. She'd find a million things to complain about, a million non-existent problems to whinge about, but she would never mention what was really worrying her. At least, Ginny told herself, I'll be here to deflect some of it from Dad. The prospect of which made her feel even worse. Still, she was here now and she'd have to tough it out, fret about her dad, put up with her mum, finish Old Vienna, and come up with a kick-ass proposal for WorldEnough.

  Think of it as saving your worthless neck from the bad guys, she thought. But it wasn't much consolation. Hardly any at all, really.

  Part 2

  Chapter 7

  “Can't it wait, Rafe? I'm up to my bloody eyeballs here.”

  Rafe Morgan had been christened Ralph Morgan, there having been a brief fad forty years ago to name babies after the megastar animated hero, Ralph (pronounced “Rafe”) Williams. As soon as he could, he changed his name officially to Rafe, just so he could stop explaining how to pronounce it to everyone he met.

  “I just need you to approve some expenses,” Rafe said. “I'm planning a trip.”

  “You'll be lucky, mate. Why the hell did they have to have a plebiscite anyway? The polls have been showing the bill's a bloody shoo-in for weeks. The last one had it at eighty-two per cent approval. Eighty-two! Nothing's been that popular since they assassinated that televangelist guy back in sixty-five. What was his name now?”

  Rafe let his editor rant for a while. Becky was a good editor and a good friend, but she did like to have her little rants.

  “I reckon they just want a cast iron bloody mandate to give the voting public the shafting they right royally deserve. Since when do you ask me to approve expenses? It must be one helluva trip. If it's a sex scandal involving mining robots in the Kimberley, I'll sign, otherwise piss off.”

  “You have such refined taste. No wonder our readers love us. I need to go to Brisbane for a few days.”

  “What? Physically go? Like on a plane?”

  “It's the only way my source will meet me.”

  “Can't your source come to Canberra? I need all hands on deck for this bloody anti-terrorism bill.”

  “You don't need me. I'll only write pieces about how the Cabinet is stuffed with right-wing fascists and that the bill is designed to crush all opposition and turn the Liberal Party into an Aussie Politburo.”

  “You'll write whatever well-balanced, carefully reasoned dingo's droppings I tell you to. What's the story?”

  “In Brisbane? I don't want to say yet. It might all come to nothing. It's related to the bill and, given the kind of organisation my source claims to belong to, I'm pretty sure you don't want to know anyway.”

  Becky considered him in silence for a minute. Then she said, “You're sure you're OK, Rafe? You haven't been back long. Maybe you should, you know, ease back into it.”

  Rafe looked her in the eye and said, “Becky, I'm fine. What else can I do but work? And what other kind of work could I do but this?”

  “I could put you back on the political desk – just until you get back in the swing of it.”

  He grimaced. “I don't think so. I'd go mad in a week.” He tried another tack. If Becky didn't let him do this, he really did worry whether he could stand it. “Look, you know me. I'm only happy when I'm out there in the jungle with my elephant gun, tracking down the big stories. It's what I live for.”

  Again, he got the meaningful stare from Becky. Maybe this time she saw the pleading underneath the bravado. “OK. It's approved. But keep in touch. And don't do anything too stupid. And remember we can't afford legal fees, so if you end up in deep shit, no-one's going to pull you out.”

  Rafe grinned and winked at her. “I'll see you in a few days.”

  He stepped through her office door into his own office. Becky favoured clutter, heaps of paper, and the clack of typewriters, as if she were running a newsroom in the 1950s instead of a modern socio-political newsfeed. Rafe's office was spacious and tidy, impersonal and silent. It was so bereft of any personal touch, he might have rented the space for the afternoon. He popped up a phone, made a couple of calls to finalise his arrangements, and left. This time the door took him back to his tiny studio apartment. The lid of the tank opened and he jumped out, grabbed the bag that was already packed and sitting by the bed, and set off for the airport.

  -oOo-

  Rafe enjoyed flying. He liked the cosy informality of the airports, with their low, scruffy buildings with the little electroprop aircraft rolling
up to the terminus in the bright sun. He liked chatting to the other passengers as they hung about under the fans, sipping beers. People who travelled these days were always such an interesting bunch. Of course, the flight itself was about as dull as it could be, but, like everyone else, he either slept or unlatched and got some work done. He was always sorry when the captain ambled in off the tarmac and announced that the flight was ready. If he was lucky, there'd be a quick exchange of virtual cards with whoever he'd been talking to while everyone grabbed their bags and shuffled out to the waiting plane. And who knew where a new contact might lead?

  Today was a good day. He met a guy from one of the big mining companies making his way up to inspect mines in the Bowen basin. The guy looked like a 1950s film star, square-jawed and broad shouldered. It struck Rafe how perfect the guy would look in Becky's office, perched on the edge of her desk, maybe, with a cigarette and an American accent. It was always good to know people from the major industries. You never knew when you might need an insider's perspective, or an invitation to visit corporate HQ. Rafe collected such people like others collected old ebooks, or pre-3D movies. This guy was a bit too chatty and a bit too keen for company, so once Rafe had the man's card, he made sure he wasn't sitting with him for the whole flight. Which was just as well because Rafe slept most of the way, catching up on an endless chain of broken nights.

  -oOo-

  Brisbane was hot. Even in mid-Autumn, it was thirty degrees in the shade. Rafe sweated as he waited on the verandah of the little terminal building for the cab to arrive. He already missed the civilised coolness of Canberra. Whatever anyone might say about he nation's capital, you couldn't deny that it had seasons and its people knew how to cope with them. Up here, in the sultry, sub-tropical humidity, the dwindling population seemed to take a twisted pride in surviving whatever nature threw at them, as if having air conditioning was the mark of a weakling. It was no wonder people were migrating south in droves. These days you rarely needed to live close to your job, so why not live somewhere comfortable? People lived where they liked and let the robots cope with the long hot summers. Only machines and lizards moved in the northern interior these days and most of the towns up there had become ghost towns.