But that’s okay. Hiding isn’t my plan.
I’m nearing the West Gate Bridge when I see a gap in the traffic and steer straight onto the road like a kamikaze bike rider. An alarm screams and warning lights flash red on all sides. The background hum drops as smartcars screech to a stop.
I focus on the approaching cars, super alert and ready to jump if I need to. But I make it, shooting like an arrow for the next lane of traffic, triggering a new set of alarms and another drop in speed with the second lane. This batch is so close that I actually scream as I swerve out of the way, back into the first lane with cars all slower now.
I’m still here. And the plan is working.
Now I begin pushing up the rise of the bridge: twelve lanes packed with cars and one illegal on a bike blocking their way. The handlebars vibrate as the road rumbles beneath my wheels. There must be a fast train whooshing past in the lane below.
All around me, cars drop into a second deceleration and flash emergency lights as I crisscross from one lane to another between batches of cars. For as far as I can see, traffic is slowing and banking up.
Panting hard, I rise out of the seat as I force the bike up the slope of the bridge. At the back of my mind I imagine Mason returning in the fire shelter with his folks, regrouping with the others, preparing for a fifty-year skip. All that matters now is being there when they return. I’ll be there.
But even so, I know that each push of the pedal is one more step further from Mum. Each second that passes is a part of a countdown to a time when I’ll have to face a world without her in it as well. But I can do it this time. I know that I’ll make it fifty years, and I have so many reasons to go. For every day Mum lived on half rations in order to keep me alive. For every time Alistair steered a colleague down a different path in the hunt for illegals. I can’t fix what’s happened, but I can make sure Alistair didn’t die for nothing. I can make sure that Mum’s sacrifice feeds good in the world.
It’s not about paying them back anymore, it’s about finishing what they began.
The slope eases as I near the top of the bridge. Three lanes of traffic have come to a complete stop. I wind my way though the gridlock even as windows zip up and people shout for me to get out the way. Just a kid on a bike, a nobody from nowhere.
The other three lanes travelling west are creeping slower now too, one single block in traffic rippling through the whole network. I leave the bike lying on the road, to keep them stopped just a little longer.
The wind is strong up here. I lean into the invisible force as I reach the centre pillar of the bridge. Lines of cars stretch as far as I can see either side of me, down the sweep of the lanes and further into the streets of Yarraville and beyond. Drones fly overhead, barking orders that disappear in the gale. From both ends of the bridge, police pods wind their way past the stationary cars, sirens blaring.
They think I’m trapped, but I don’t think I’ve ever felt this free.
I test a hold on the steel of the fence and lift myself up, reach for a higher rail and lift again. If I were chipped, the safety alarms would be kicking in now, warning a citizen away from a bad decision. But there’s nothing to stop an illegal like me.
I’m nearing the top of the fence when someone calls out behind me, ‘Hey, kid.’
When I turn to look down a tall man with sunken cheeks calls, ‘Come down, all right? You don’t want to do that.’ He’s standing near the open door of a smartcar. As I look down at him, four or five other people climb out of their cars and join him.
‘It’s okay,’ I call back to them. ‘I’ll be fine. I know what I’m doing.’ It’s weird because I feel as if they’re the ones who are trapped, controlled by the system, and I’m the one who needs to save them.
‘You don’t have to do this,’ a woman calls out. ‘Come down, sweetheart.’
‘Don’t worry,’ I tell them. ‘I reckon you’ll want to film this. Share it online.’ Mum will see it, and other citizens as well. The government won’t be able to hide us anymore. ‘What I’m about to do, it’s not a trick. Anyone can learn.’
They’re just staring at me now, the guy’s nose is sort of scrunched. But at least they’re listening. Curious. The woman disappears into the cabin of her car and pops back out holding her compad.
I pull up to the top rail and swing a leg over so I’m sitting on the top of the fence, the metal pressing into the backs of my thighs, the wind whipping hair back from my face. It feels like I’m sitting on top of the world. I can hardly believe I used to be afraid of this feeling. Instead of being scared I’ll fall it’s as if I’ve learnt how to fly. I grip the rail tighter, leaning against the wind as my eyes travel towards Yarraville and the fire shelter. I send a wish to Mason, carried on the breeze.
Make it back safe. Meet me in fifty years.
I turn back to the emptiness stretching below and suck in a lungful of air. My muscles tingle and adrenaline rushes through me as I push hard against the rail. Someone screams behind me as I drop, clearing the edge of the bridge. Gravity sucks me fast. I shut my eyes, and reach for the future.
This time, I’m ready.
Acknowledgements
This book owes a huge debt of gratitude to Hilary Rogers – thank you for all the chats and advice; I wouldn’t have made it without your support. Thanks also to Penelope White, Sarah Magee, Charlotte Bodman, Marisa Pintado and the rest of the team at Hardie Grant Egmont. Kudos and gratitude to Karri Hedge once again for her clear and perceptive editing.
Thanks to all the friends and family who celebrated the Lifespan of Starlight and heard about the ups and downs of writing this second instalment, to name a few: Chrissie Keighery, Sara Gerardi, Susie Petris and Jordan Lukies.
To my wonderful husband and kids – Campbell, Porter and Elm – thanks for believing in me.
Finally, to everyone who emailed after reading the Lifespan of Starlight – thanks for sharing the fun and excitement. (My favourite phrase comes from Orlando: ‘I nearly fell off that cliff-hanger!’) At last, here’s book 2: I hope you enjoy.
About the author
Thalia Kalkipsakis grew up on a farm on the outskirts of Melbourne with a mum who tried to save battery hens by on-selling them as backyard chickens. Her dad worked as an industrial chemist while also growing strawberries, carrots and Christmas trees on the farm. It was not unusual to find plant shoots in the freezer, or the hair dryer missing because it was needed to heat one of her dad’s experiments. Thalia’s childhood showed her the magic that can happen when science and nature combine with human creativity.
In 1996 her first book was published, called Connect to the Net. It’s now so out-of-date that in one school it was transferred to a ‘technology museum’ – a fact that makes her chuckle, and marvel at how much the world has changed in 20 years. Since then, Thalia has published 20 books for children and young adults.
She lives in regional Victoria with her husband, their two children and two black cats.
www.thaliakalkipsakis.com
Split Infinity
published in 2016 by
Hardie Grant Egmont
Ground Floor, Building 1, 658 Church Street
Richmond, Victoria 3121, Australia
www.hardiegrantegmont.com.au
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A CiP record for this title is available from the National Library of Australia.
Text copyright © 2016 Thalia Kalkipsakis
Design copyright © 2016 Hardie Grant Egmont
Cover design by Design by Committee
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eISBN 9781743584095
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