by Malka Older
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Table of Contents
About the Author
Copyright Page
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FOR LOU, CALYX, PAZ
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
Thank you, as always, to my family: Lou, Calyx, Paz, and Dora, Marc, Daniel. It is astonishing to be able to have a (figurative, which is all the more impressive) room of one’s own within a house full of family, and I am so grateful for that.
Thank you to the Tor.com Publishing crew, especially Carl Engle-Laird, whose thoughtful editing made this book so much better, and Katharine Duckett and Mordicai Knode, who have worked so hard to get these books to as many readers as possible. I am in awe and gratitude of Wilhelm Staehle’s covers. Thank you also to Irene Gallo and everyone else there who made these books a physical reality.
As always, thank you to all of those who have helped introduce me to new worlds and different futures.
In Dhaka, Harun Rashid and the Save the Children team and S.H.M. Fakhruddin.
En Cuba, gracias a Grisel Vázquez Arestuche y Zenaida Fernández Cabrera, Celia Gonzalez y Edilio, Nancy García Lamadrid y Eduardo Alfonso Prada.
My hopeful reimagining of the Presidio Modelo is in honor of Ricardo Vázquez and his compañeros, espero que no lo encuentren demasiado frívolo.
In Kathmandu, Sanjay Karki and the Mercy Corps team, Carolyn McKnight and the entire ELP group, and Arjun Basnet.
In Oaxaca (and in Queretaro and in Nice!), Tomás Luna. Also María Dolores Serrano for facilitating a trip to Chiapas that provided additional useful experiences. Nazuki Konishi, who accompanied me on my one trip to Estonia. In Nairobi, Elana Aquino, Abdi Mohamud, Mohammed “Mali” Ali.
Thank you to Lynette Coates for peace of mind at a critical juncture.
For language assistance, thank you to Thomas J. Connors and Hjalmar P. Petersen. All mistakes remain my own.
Part of my project with these books has been to connect this imagined future to our present. Thank you to Blair Glencorse and the Accountability Lab for the amazing work they’ve done and their partnership with me on Infomocracy, and to Amal de Chickera, Laura van Waas, and the Institute on Statelessness and Inclusion for their incredible work and their partnership on Null States. If you are interested in the issues in these books, take a look at what those organizations are doing in the world today.
Thank you to Marc Weidenbaum and the Disquiet Junto for making gronkytonk a reality; you can hear their stylings at https://llllllll.co/t/disquiet-junto-project-0302-gronkytonk/9621.
The Lumper is named after Lora Lumpe, who works on global small arms proliferation and other security issues. Thank you for your efforts and also for your graciousness when I emailed out of nowhere to tell you I had already named a fictional disarmament device after you.
Time capsule therapy is based on the work of Ellen Langer. If I have misrepresented it in any way, I take as my excuse the dilution of practice that would be likely to occur over the next sixty years, but if you are interested in the concept you should go to the source.
Finally, thank you to all the readers who made this series possible! It has been fun and fascinating to write; I hope you enjoy it as much as I did.
CHAPTER 1
The Dhaka street swarms with people, objects, and all of the existing data about all of these people and objects. Maryam, who of all people should be accustomed to words and numbers floating in front of her eyes, finds herself brushing at her face, as if to wipe away all that accumulated knowledge. It’s too much. She turns on first one filter, removing any data uploaded before the last global election, then another that she rigged especially for this trip, muting personal data that is not directly related to her mission. But Maryam is a believer in fate and coincidence and a childhood reader of Dirk Gently’s Holistic Detective Agency, and she can’t escape the concern that her algorithm might exclude something vitally important. Miserably, she turns the second filter back off again.
A few months ago, a ban on high-emissions vehicles, already the norm in most of the world, was finally enacted for all of micro-democracy. Dhaka included a concentration of particularly recalcitrant centenal governments, and the moment the law took force, the streets emptied out and transportation (particularly of goods) became scarce. The foule responded immediately, taking over the pavement with no regard for the likelihood that cleaner motor vehicles would pick up the slack. Sidewalks, suddenly unnecessary for pedestrians, became valuable real estate, and capsule apartments were built in front of existing buildings, barely leaving access to the entrances. Hovels sprang up in front of the capsule apartments, sometimes sloping off the ill-repaired sidewalks into the street proper. The garbage collection system had been largely diesel-based, and although a team of rickshaw collectors now supplements the ragpickers who never stopped searching for anything worth selling, they are making little headway against the mountains of garbage that lean against walls and spill into the street.
A massive vehicle, retrofitted to scrape past the new standards, is forcing its way through the human-clogged artery that remains between all these obstacles, and its slow progress is pushing Maryam and, it seems, the entire population of the flooded delta of Bangladesh into the walls and the garbage and the shacks and each other.
This is not a context in which Maryam feels particularly comfortable. She grew up in Beirut and Paris and pre-earthquake Lima, and in decidedly comfortable segments of each, and until recently lived in sparsely populated Doha. She itches to deploy her crowdcutter, a translucent shell shaped like a shark fin that would not only give her a literal edge in moving forward but also isolate her from the press of bodies. But she left herself plenty of time to get to the sanatorium, and she doesn’t want to attract any more attention than necessary. Anyone could be watching her, following her from feed to feed broadcast by microscopic cameras. But there are a lot of feeds in the world, a lot of people to watch. If no one is paying attention to Maryam, she doesn’t want to give them a reason to start. And maybe this crowd is thick enough to get lost in. Cheering somewhat at the thought, she pulls her scarf lower over her forehead and presses on.
* * *
Maryam locates the sanatorium a few streets over. The neighborhood has taken a disorientingly quick shift for the better. It isn’t one of the new wealth enclaves, with wide streets and gatehouses for armed guards, but the venerable residences are at least cared for enough to fend off the outgrowth of slums on the sidewalks. Maryam passes through a gate with the code she was given when she made her appointment, and then through a courtyard, hazy in the heat, to find the entrance proper. A plaque—an actual plaque, not projected or painted but engraved—explains the concept of time-capsule therapy and gives a brief history of its development, lists the names of major benefactors (including Information, Maryam notes with surprise; some o
f her bosses must be worried about aging too), and mentions the date of establishment: 2053. Maryam shivers at the thought of two decades crawling by while those within live frozen in the noughts. She pushes open the heavy door and walks in.
She finds herself in a large turquoise room with multiple closed doors leading off of it: a well-appointed reception center. Maryam had braced herself for the shock of stepping into a period drama, but everything seems normal: the receptionist is blinking through some data at eyeball level, an infotainment projection plays soundlessly in one corner, and the light fixtures in the ceiling are fluoron. Maryam gives her name to the receptionist, a skinny young man with luxuriant hair, and a few minutes later a small woman in her forties wearing a rose-and-green sari comes out to meet her.
“Welcome to the growling noughts,” she greets her. “Saleha Rashid. We just have a few procedures we need to go through before you can go on to your appointment.”
“Yes,” Maryam agrees. “I have some projections that I believe I need transferred?”
“To compatible technology. We can help you there.” Saleha leads her to a small office with an old-fashioned computer on a desk next to the workspace. “In fact, it was Taskeen who built the translation protocol, early in her stay here.”
Maryam smiles. That bodes well. “Intent on keeping up with events, was she?”
“We don’t forbid that, you know. Our clients are not institutionalized, and they are free to communicate with the outside world in any way they wish,” Saleha explains as she works with the projection files Maryam tossed her. “We maintain temporal continuity in all the public spaces of the premises, however, which is why we need to check all of your modern devices here.”
Maryam divests herself of her personal projector and handheld.
“You can keep your auto-interpreter, since it’s not visible, but Taskeen won’t be wearing one. Will you need an interpreter? We have several on staff.”
“We’ll be fine,” Maryam says, hoping that’s true. Her English is not great and she has no Bengali, but she can’t take the risk of an interpreter and prefers not to advertise that her discussion with Taskeen Khan, creator of the Information data pathways and a personal hero, is going to be highly classified.
Saleha hands Maryam a flat device about the size of her thumb with a metal connector at one end. “Your projections are on this, or an approximation of them. You can use it with Taskeen’s computer.” She studies Maryam. “But before we go I’m afraid you’ll have to do something about your clothes as well.”
Maryam looks down at herself. She is wearing much what she always wears: a black salwar kameez in pseudo-silk. The kameez is knee-length, with a simple micro-cutout pattern around the collar and cuffs, matching the dupatta she wears over her head.
“You can look like a foreigner, but you must be a foreigner from the turn of the century,” Saleha clucks. “The pseudo-silk, the heat reflectors, the micro-cutouts. It’s subtle, but believe me, someone from the past would notice. We have alternate clothing available.” She opens a large cabinet to display a rack of colors and fabrics. “I’ll be right outside. You can, of course, keep anything of your own that isn’t visible,” she adds as she closes the door behind her.
Maryam flips through the hangers, looking for something muted in the array of flowery fabrics and bright colors. Maybe this is an opportunity to cosplay a bit, even if it is a work meeting. She picks a style she recognizes from old movies, a full-skirted kameez and tight trousers in a bold geometric pattern. She looks around for a feed camera, remembers where she is, and grabs her handheld off Saleha’s desk to take a picture of herself and send it to Núria.
There’s a knock on the door. “All set?”
Maryam quickly puts her handheld back and opens the door to Saleha’s pleasant smile. “Shall we go meet her?”
Saleha leads her through the door behind the receptionist, which opens onto a city street. Maryam blinks in surprise, and then blinks again. Information’s detailed annotations and input don’t appear, and the world looks strange. The vehicles parked on the sides of the street are all from the turn of the century, resting on pitted asphalt. Thick bundles of black wires sway above her head, suspended on posts, with subsidiary lines branching off toward each of the buildings. Posters—two-dimensional and unmoving—for ancient movies and long-discontinued products, like chewing gum, and disposable razors, are plastered to the walls.
“A bit disconcerting, isn’t it?” Saleha asks.
“You must be used to it,” Maryam says, not wanting to admit how strange it feels to walk into the past.
“Indeed. I’ve come to quite enjoy the shift.”
“Are all these houses … real?” Maryam asks, gesturing at the three- and four-story buildings on each side of the road.
“Yes, we were able to purchase a block that hadn’t been substantially upgraded since the early part of the century, although we did have to retrofit some of the accoutrements, like the electricity lines.” Saleha nods at the sagging wires overhead. “And we made some alterations to close off our campus. There are no entrances other than our official ones, although it’s not something you’d notice. We have simulacra of televisions that show contemporary programming on a set annual schedule, and—oh, you’ll appreciate this,” she says with the confidence of someone who believes everyone who works in tech is interested in all aspects of technology. “We have a purpose-built model of the 2010 Internet, with custom blockers that can set it to any year until 2005, completely self-contained!”
Maryam does appreciate that. “Very impressive!”
“Yes. Of course, Taskeen helped us with that, too.”
It is strange to hear Dr. Khan, the visionary, academic, and technical genius, referred to so casually as someone who “helped” with a nursing home intranet. “And the shops?” Maryam asks. The building they are passing has a small grocery store on the ground floor, doors open for business, and in the one next to it she sees a jewelry shop. “Do you bring people in to staff them?”
“The businesses are all run by residents,” Saleha says, with a tilt of pride in her voice.
“They work?” It must cost a fortune to live in this facility, and the octo- and nonagenarians still have to hold down jobs?
“Only the ones who want to. And of course, they keep what they earn. We find that many of our residents crave occupation, and having a local economy is beneficial for the neighborhood. Of course, it’s a lot of work to manage it.”
“You mean subsidies?”
“There’s a great deal of arbitrage involved in getting the goods into this system and making them available for prices that make sense in the currency of the time. We offer some subsidies, especially for old products that we’ve had to commission, but there are also many administrative issues. But it’s certainly worth it. Those who want jobs can have them, and everyone can shop within our campus, rather than simply receiving goods from us.”
“You sound sold on this place,” Maryam says. “Does it really work?”
Saleha smiles. “I’ve already invested in my spot in the sliding forties. You’ll see,” she adds, as they turn into the entrance of a small building to the right. They climb three flights of stairs—seems like a lot for an elderly woman to have to do every day—and Saleha knocks on the door.
“Taskeen!” she calls. “I’ve brought you a visitor!”
The door opens wide. The woman standing inside is small but upright. Her hair is black, but she probably modifies it—or dyes it; that’s what people did at the turn of the century. She’s wearing thick glasses and a warm smile that could be described as grandmotherly. Her skin looks soft and is slathered with artificial coloring—blush, lipstick—but without knowing her age, Maryam probably would have guessed her to be in her fifties or even forties.
“Come in, come in,” Taskeen Khan says, stepping back so they can enter a narrow hallway bathed in warm colors from the cloth hangings on the walls. She gives Saleha a hug and takes Maryam’s ha
nd in both of hers. “I was just about to make tea.”
Maryam sends Saleha a look that she hopes is not too rude. She needs Taskeen to herself, and her time is limited.
“Thank you,” Saleha clucks, “but I have to be getting back to the office. I’ll leave you to it and stop by sometime tomorrow.”
After the door closes, Taskeen appraises Maryam with sharp eyes. “So. You’re the hot new techie.”
“I don’t know,” Maryam says, surprised. “There are always hotter and newer ones coming along.”
Taskeen laughs, holds up her hands. “Sadly, I don’t speak Arabic, although I always wanted to learn,” she says. “English, perhaps?” she adds in that language, turning to lead Maryam down a short hall.
“My English is not so good,” Maryam says, cringing at her own awful accent. “Français?”
“No,” Taskeen says. “I’ll make you some chai, yes?” Her volume has gone up a notch, even though she knows Maryam can understand her perfectly. “Don’t worry, we have options. I’ve made some modifications to the era-appropriate translation software.” She throws a wink at Maryam as she fills the kettle. “It’s still a bit clunky, but we can use that.”
“¿No entiendes Español, acaso?” Maryam asks.
“Oh!” Taskeen turns, kettle still in her hand. “Do you know, I believe I still do! I’d be hard pressed to speak it, but…” She turns back and fiddles with the gas stove, humming to herself. “Yes, let’s try it. I speak whatever I want, and you speak Spanish, and if we get into trouble, we’ll use the translator. Although we’ll have to go into the other room for that.” Nodding happily, she guides Maryam through an entranceway into a small study. A curtained window looks out on the street, but most of the wall is taken up by banks of humming electronics, and a large old-fashioned computer monitor sits between them, a keyboard on the desk below it.
“Wow,” says Maryam, and then, remembering, repeats herself in Spanish. “Vaya.”
