Lifespan of Starlight

by Kalkipsakis, Thalia

  Mum’s smile threatens to fade. I can see her fighting to hold it in place. ‘Scout, tell me how this happened.’

  I have no idea how to say this. I’ve been shuffling through various versions in my mind – everything between an outright lie and simply refusing to say anything – but I realise now that I can’t lie about this, not to Mum.

  Carefully I take her through last night, trying to make it clear that I didn’t plan any of it. Mum’s quiet as I talk, listening rather than reacting. There might have been a time when death freaked people out; I’ve studied the same history course as chipped kids who go to school. But these days we see death all the time. On the news, for a start, but also when retirees on 300 ration points a day waste away, or when unchipped refugees can’t access water.

  Mum asks some questions about the woman. I say nothing about the weird stuff on her history map. Mum nods faintly once or twice but otherwise stares at the floorboards as she takes it all in. So then I move straight into the deets I’ve already added online. How no-one, not even government officials, could tell that the chip wasn’t on my wrist since I was born.

  It’s only when I tell Mum that I’ve registered for the select-entry test that she snaps back into focus. ‘Wait. You’ve registered already?’

  ‘Yeah. So? I thought that’s what you wanted.’

  She doesn’t reply, just leaves the plate on the arm of the chair, stands and takes a few steps towards the comscreen; it’s black now, on standby, but still somehow imposing because of its size. Her outline is reflected in the screen but I can’t make out her expression.

  After a while, I lean forward. ‘Are you … angry?’

  ‘No, Scout.’ She turns back to me and forces a smile. ‘I’m … sorry for that woman but I’ve brought you too far down this path to be angry about what you did.’ She shakes her head. ‘I only wish you’d discussed this with me before you registered for the test. It would have been much safer if you’d registered with my chip. I could have accessed that woman’s rations and you could have just …’

  She trails off but I know what she was going to say. I could have just stepped into her life. I could have taken over her chip. But it’s such a non-solution; we’d just be transferring all my problems to her. I can’t believe we’re still discussing this. My eyes drop to the mushrooms and sausage on her plate; she hasn’t even touched them.

  ‘You need to discuss these things with me first, okay? This room is registered to me.’

  ‘So?’

  Mum lets out a sigh, but instead of answering she turns away, carrying her plate to the sink and standing to bite at the sausage with her back to me. Her hands shake slightly as she eats; she must have been hungrier than she was letting on.

  After a while she turns to me and leans backwards against the sink. ‘You’re a smart kid, Scout,’ she says. And then, almost to herself, ‘You’ll have to be.’

  I stand and move towards her, trying to read her expression. ‘I did it, Mum. Didn’t I tell you that I’d handle it?’

  ‘Yes, Scout. You did.’ The air about her is more hope than happiness, but I reach in for a hug anyway.

  ‘It’s going to be okay now,’ I say, my head tucked under her chin. Mum doesn’t say anything but I feel her arms hold me tighter.

  Silently, I make a pact.

  From now on, it’s my turn to give back to Mum. For all that she’s done for me, all that she’s given up, I’m going to pay her back.

  A MESSAGE IS WAITING from Alistair when I wake up the next morning: Don’t know how you did it, but pleased nonetheless. Try some practice tests if you’re feeling nervous. Once again, Agent X, you surprise me.

  The emotiphone at the end is set to trigger cheers and applause as soon as it registers my eye-focus. So utterly corny that I groan and make a face, laughing at the screen.

  It’s a while since he’s used that nickname, Agent X. A top code-cracker, in hiding from the government. That was me for as long as I can remember.

  I must have been six years old, home alone while Mum was at work, when I worked out how to unlock our door. Those long hours in our room used to feel like a lifetime each day. I was already at the front gate when Alistair found me.

  I remember Mum and Alistair talking that evening, but I don’t remember what they said. All I know is that soon after, Alistair started sending me little onscreen games. Each day, he’d send me a new code to crack. At least, that’s how he described it. But as it turns out, he was taking me step-by-step through programming basics.

  I send an emotiphone back to Alistair – a cheering emoji with a posh voice saying ‘thank-you, thank-you, thank-you’ and applause in the background. Then I spend some time on the practice tests he linked to. I only have to revise one of the maths questions and grit my teeth through a reading comprehension. But soon my mind turns to the world outside that door – and my list of all the wonderful things I can do, the same as all other citizens.

  * * *

  I’m nearly at the overpass to Footscray Station when my steps slow and I find myself glancing up at the security cameras.

  When I was little, Mum refused to bring me past this part of town. That was before I understood. I still remember the tightness in my chest as I begged her, holding back the tears, promising extra chores and trying to tempt her with my share of her rations. Please, Mum. Please. Please.

  I would have done anything to ride on the fast train. Just once. Just to see.

  My heart lifts as I step into the crowd, allowing them to pull me along, through security and then through the barrier gate, a train line stretching like a red carpet before me. A ticket to the entire city.

  I leap onto the carriage like a kid, then force myself to slow down and act natural. My senses are on overload. So many bodies packed in tight. The smell of new plastic and the taste of rubber. For some reason the bored expressions everywhere make my grin grow even bigger. A couple of guys in Murdoch High School uniforms seem to have noticed my good mood, so I manoeuvre my way to a window, stumbling as the hovering carriage slides into motion and then bracing a shoulder against the window. My forehead presses against the thick glass as I watch the world blur, feeling the speed through every part of my body.

  We reach Central Station in no time at all, and I step off with what I hope is the same lazy expression as everyone else.

  Across the road from Central Station, I take the steps two at a time up to the State Library. This is all so easy. Usually it takes fifty minutes by bike to make it here.

  You could pretty much call this place my second home, I’ve spent so much time in here, partly because you don’t need a chip to get inside. The security system is all about keeping print books in, rather than keeping anyone out.

  I could use my compad to read, of course. Going to the library is more about the people coming and going. Normal people. The nation’s citizens. When I’m here, I can belong.

  The terminal in the furthest corner is free so I settle in, glad to be away from passing traffic. I actually have the compad out of my pocket before I realise I don’t have to hack in to trigger the start of a session. There aren’t many people around. A skinny old man is working a few terminals down but I can’t see anyone else, so I pull the slip of paper out of my pocket, carefully folded around the chip. Holding it between finger and palm, I swipe the sensor.

  Access granted. I’ll never grow tired of that ping.

  At first I just flick through the news, but that gets sort of depressing so I decide to check out the entrance scores for uni courses and end up exactly where I always do: Bachelor of Bioengineering. I know that it’s possible to feed way more people than they do now, even with the same amount
of water. I’ve read heaps about it, and I have the best incentive of anyone to help make it happen. The cut-off score at Monash Uni is 87, and 83 at La Trobe. Not sure if I’ll get that kind of score, but getting into the right high school will be a good start.

  I’m adding up the course fees when I hear voices murmuring behind me, and turn to see two guys in Murdoch High School uniforms leaning against the back wall. One of them is bulky and the other lean. They kind of look like the guys I saw on the train, but that would be weird.

  The slimmer guy was watching as I glanced his way, so I turn back to the terminal and keep reading.

  Or I try to, anyway. But I end up reading the same sentence three times over because I can’t get my mind off the guys at the back wall. They’re standing at the only spot in the library that has a direct sightline to my screen.

  After a while I can’t stand it anymore and swivel in my seat, squinting along the row of terminals as if I’m on the lookout for someone I know.

  They’re still there, whispering to each other. When they see me looking around they go still, the bigger one standing away from the wall like he’s getting ready to come over.

  I spin back to the screen, trying to work out what’s going on. Maybe I’m being paranoid, but what if I’m not?

  Why would they be following me?

  Automatically my hand moves to the slip of paper in my pocket. It feels hot against my hip. I can’t help wondering if I’ll ever wish I could undo what happened that night in the cave.

  The comscreen churns into logoff as I grab my gear. I head the long way round the rows of terminals and through the kids’ corner.

  At a side exit, I slip outside. The sensors go tuk as I leave, quiet reminders that I’m not off-grid anymore.

  I blend with the crowd as best as I can and, after half a block, I turn down Little Lonsdale Street and then quickly again into a side alley so I can’t be seen from Swanston Boulevard.

  Leaning backwards against the wall, I check for an escape route if I need it, glad to see that the alley leads to another street at the end. There’s a shoe shop down here, and a row of padlocked rubbish skips, but little else.

  Accessing the grid on a compad is a complete pain because the screen’s so small. You end up scrolling and enlarging a lot. And getting lost. But I’m used to it by now. I already have a smokescreen set up, so I trigger that and hack straight into the grid.

  Moving fast, I scroll across to find the library, and then terminal fifteen. There’s a bright dot at number fourteen now, but no dots at the back wall.

  My lips feel dry and I lick them against the cool air, tracking backwards in time to three minutes ago, four, five …

  Until I find them. Two dots, at the back wall: the guys in Murdoch High School uniforms.

  I tag them both with ‘???’ to make sure I can find them again, and then follow their movements since I slipped away from the library.

  They left only seconds after I did, out the front entrance and then along Swanston Boulevard, the same direction as me.

  Now that I’ve tagged them it’s easy to track them in real time, so I skip forwards to access the grid at the present moment.

  The world goes still around me. Right now, they’re standing at the same corner I turned down only a few minutes ago. It could still be a coincidence, I tell myself, but it’s more a desperate plea than anything else.

  All I can do is shake my head as I watch the two dots move down Little Lonsdale Street towards my alleyway. Somehow, those two guys must have access to the grid, and they’re using it to track my chip.

  Every nerve in my body is telling me to run for it, but what would be the point? As long as I still hold the chip, they’ll be able to trace me.

  There’s no time to plan, so I slip between two of the rubbish skips. Pointless, since they’ll be able to find me here, but I can’t just stand in the open.

  Staying as quiet as I can, I track the two dots as they turn down the alleyway, moving ever closer to mine on the grid. They’re a few metres from my hiding place when I catch some hushed words.

  ‘… careful not to scare …’

  ‘… hasn’t jumped already.’

  A breath, and I step out from behind the skip. ‘Stay where you are!’ My arm points right at them, straight as an arrow.

  Both guys jolt to a stop at the tone of my voice. The bigger of the two places his hands on his hips and nods. He’s broad, dark-skinned and so sure of himself that he seems anchored to the earth.

  I’m surprised that it’s the thin one who goes to talk first, but when he steps towards me I step back and yell, ‘Don’t come any closer!’

  Head bowed, he raises both hands. ‘Okay, okay. We’re just … pleased to meet you.’

  I’m momentarily speechless at such an odd thing to say. I cross my arms, still ready to bolt if I need to.

  The slender guy glances at the other, and then back to me. ‘Can we go somewhere to talk?’

  ‘Here’s fine.’

  He lifts his hands higher, urging me to stay calm. ‘Okay, just don’t disappear on us.’

  I make this face that’s meant to say don’t tell me what to do, even though there’s no way to disappear when they’re obviously tracking me on the grid. That’s my whole problem.

  ‘Okay.’ His hands clasp beneath his chin, his thin face shadowed by straight dark hair. ‘I’m Mason Cohen, and this is Boc … Charles Bocworth.’ A pause, but I don’t react. ‘We’ve seen what you can do. Not in person … but on the grid. We just want to talk to you about it. We’re not going to give you away.’

  Boc drops his hands from his hips. ‘We want to learn how you do it.’

  They’re both watching me closely, two camera lenses recording my every expression; it’s the strangest feeling. Two guys in elite-school uniforms, who have clearly spent their whole lives on top-level rations, want to talk to me.

  Though, of course, it’s not really me they want to talk to, I remind myself. I can’t help wondering what they would make of the woman if they were speaking to her instead of me.

  I push my chin forwards. ‘How did you track me? You’re not with the police?’

  Again, they glance at each other. Mason pulls out his compad, holding it out so I can see. ‘I’ll show you?’

  Arms still crossed, I shuffle forwards barely enough to be able to see his screen. A couple wanders past with their arms linked, so we all go quiet until they pass.

  ‘Here.’ Mason taps the screen and immediately the grid appears. No smokescreen, I notice. ‘See this? It’s a map of us right here, right now. This is how the government tracks crims and checks illegal suspects, yeah?’

  ‘Okay.’ Don’t give anything away.

  His fingers move fast, so skilled at playing the grid that I find myself watching them rather than the screen. ‘It’s sort of a hobby of ours, dropping in and watching stuff,’ Mason continues. ‘That’s how we noticed your gaps.’

  It’s only now that I focus on the screen and have to suck in a breath at the location: my cave at Footscray Park.

  The air goes dry in my throat as he brings up the history map and types in a date and time: six o’clock, two nights ago. The same moment when that woman seemed to just appear out of nowhere.

  ‘We’ve been waiting for you to come back,’ Boc says simply.

  I search for words that won’t give me away, trying to get my head around all this. ‘But how did you know where I’d be when I … came back?’ I ask slowly.

  ‘We found the dead end. On the grid, I mean.’ Immediately Mason keys a new date into the history grid, nearly two years ago. And there it is, the dot in the exact same spot in my cave. ‘We know that you have to return to the same l
ocation, so we’ve been watching.’

  ‘This is the first time we’ve had real proof that it’s possible,’ finishes Boc.

  They’re both staring at me, two sets of eyes tracking my every change of expression. It’s the most unnerving feeling. I’m not used to being around people this close to my age, but even I can see this is weird.

  ‘Sorry, I have to ask. When were you born?’ Mason asks quietly.

  ‘It’s all on the grid,’ I say slowly. ‘24th of March, 2070.’

  ‘No, he means … really,’ Boc steps in. ‘When were you really born?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ I say, because they’re not asking about me. They’re asking when that woman was born. This is all about her. ‘Around 2024,’ I say dryly, estimating that the woman looked around sixty years old. Dumb joke, but they’re not making any sense either.

  Mason’s whole face breaks into a broad smile. He leans so close that for a moment I think he’s going to breathe me in. ‘It’s so, so good to finally meet you,’ he says, his voice low. ‘We can help you too, if you need. We have a place where you can stay–’

  ‘Listen,’ I say, backing away. ‘I’m sorry, but you’ve made a mistake. It’s just a glitch in the chip. It’s not what you think.’ Whatever that is.

  ‘Wait, please.’ Mason holds out his hands. ‘We’re not going to expose you. We just want to ask –’

  ‘I can’t help you, okay?’ I snap over the top of him. ‘It’s a fault in the system, that’s all. Maybe there was something blocking the signal.’

  ‘– but I need your help to understand where I’m going wrong.’ Mason’s voice is pleading and breathless. Boc goes to move forward, but stops himself and balls his fists.

  ‘Leave me alone!’ I spin away and sprint down the alley.

  When I turn at the end, I’m glad that they haven’t tried to follow.

  * * *

  The train trip home is different from the trip in. I stand with my back to the corner of the carriage, watching people swaying around me. Somehow, I’ve lost the fun of the moment.