Point B (a teleportation love story)

by Drew Magary

  It was this kind of preening exactitude that made him a perfect fit at Kirsch Laboratories: an early incarnation of PortSys where Stokes worked in the R&D lab and was given broad latitude to follow his own ideas and turn them into tangible products.

  “It was heaven,” he tells me. “Anything I wanted, they gave it to me. If I needed a team of a dozen people to work on something, they had a list of candidates ready for me the next day. Good candidates. No retreads. I never had to sit in a status meeting. I was never given any metrics to hit. I could create my own rules and work fully within them. It was as pure a working environment as I ever labored in, as I will ever work in. But, of course, that was the great lie of it all.”

  How do you mean?

  “Because I didn’t know that I would invent what I invented.”

  Stokes is talking about the antihydrogen porting method that became the foundation of all modern teleportation: a formula that PortSys owns outright and has endeavored, with shocking success, to keep from being made public. When the PortPhone was first introduced in 2021, it was touted exclusively as the triumph of Emilia Kirsch and her son, Jason. Even Frank Lender’s biography of Kirsch—believed to be the best in its category—fails to mention individual scientists at PortSys, instead referring to them as “the team” or “the lab” and framing the invention of porting as the product of Emilia Kirsch’s iron will and her son’s fantastical creativity.

  “They got all the credit,” Stokes says, “which is hilarious because I know the Kirsch family’s dirty little secret.”

  What’s that?

  “I want you to turn your chair directly toward me before I tell you. The way you’re offset right now makes me crane my neck a little bit, and I find that uncomfortable.”

  I scoot my chair so that we’re now directly facing each other, like we’re in a psychiatrist’s office. Stokes snickers a little bit—the first time I’ve seen him even come close to laughing—and then leans in and whispers, “Emilia is dumb.”

  Dumb?

  “The whole family. Rock stupid. She’s a pitbull and so is her son. They can always get one person to agree in any meeting. When that first person agrees with them, the rest fall in line quickly thereafter. But that’s the extent of their talents. They’re incurious at best and gleefully ignorant at worst. Whenever I tried to explain porting to Emilia, she got bored within five minutes and asked someone to bring her a ginger ale.”

  Why don’t you try explaining it to me, then?

  Stokes stands up from his chair and looks out the tinted plate glass windows wrapping around his microhome. There are guns leaning against each wall, and he keeps a 9mm strapped to his body at all times, even when sleeping. Prior to this meeting, he asked me to leave all of my electronics at home so that I couldn’t be traced. He could shoot me dead in this house and no one would know about it for a long time, if ever.

  “I’ll explain part of it, and even that I’m going to keep relatively vague.”

  But how can I know you invented porting if you can’t explain it to me in full?

  “They’ll kill me, you understand. And you! I don’t think you understand the danger you’ve put yourself in by agreeing to meet with me.”

  As you might have guessed, there is a price for all of the creative freedom and neat perks that PortSys affords its employees. PortSys owns any IP formulated by an employee like Stokes. In addition, the company’s nondisclosure forms are considered some of the most ruthless ever devised, with employees who sign on not only exposing themselves to potential liabilities if they disclose what they know, but in some cases facing criminal prosecution as well. Stokes says one prospective whistleblower, whom he won’t name, was forcibly ported to Turkey, a PortSys-friendly nation, where he was sentenced to life imprisonment for embezzlement. Stokes claims the charge was fabricated. Immediately after sentencing, the whistleblower was killed by a gang of six inmates.

  How do they forcibly port people? I thought only you can port yourself.

  “It’s very easy for them. They control the entire map, right? They know where you are on the switchboard. Then they can open up a hole and throw you in. You land where they decide, and if they decide that means a leftover landmine sitting in a Cambodian rice patty, they can do that.”

  You’re suggesting they kill people.

  “Oh, they do more than kill people.”

  Stokes says that Chief Creative Officer Jason Kirsch has used living humans—particularly port runaways—to find and correct bugs in the porting system, including “buffering” issues where porters step into a wormhole and don’t reappear again for stretches that can go on for months, even while the porter himself cannot perceive the time lag.

  “Every automatic software update you get for your PortPhone was the direct result of many human beings suffering. Sometimes Jason had us do tests on people just to see what would happen, like a teenager sticking a bug in a microwave.”

  Did you ever object to him doing it? Did you ever refuse to conduct any tests for him?

  “No, because they owned me, and because I was making too much money to object. That’s absurd in retrospect, knowing how much that company stole from my mind. But I wasn’t wise enough to see that yet. I was so happy to be in the work that outside factors were negligible to me.”

  Okay, but why human subjects? Why not test the bugs out on lab rats?

  “Because you can’t! The rule is that only living humans can port, and that rule isn’t there out of the goodness of Emilia’s heart. If they could port objects, they would. If they could port a mountain and catastrophically alter the geology and gravitational field of this planet in the process, they would. But they can’t. You need people. This was why all the old quantum physics experiments in teleportation were middling affairs where one proton appeared somewhere else for a trillionth of a microsecond. No one thought to start with humans until I came around.”

  So what makes humans the difference?

  “You port through space-time, which means you must be able to perceive it. That is the key. A block of wood cannot port on its own. Something gets lost in the transaction. When a human teleports, there is an exchange they have with spacetime, although it’s not an exchange that you or I are conscious of when we port. The wormhole learns you and what you’re holding, and then accommodates you.”

  It sounds like you’re saying you need to have a soul to teleport.

  “I’ll let theologians decide that. Besides, Jason Kirsch can still port, can’t he?”

  So why meet with me then? What’s your grand plan here?

  “There is no grand plan. I granted you time because my compensation for inventing porting technology has been repugnant. I’m not talking about mere money, either. I am talking about a compensation of history. This meeting here, between you and me, is at least an attempt at starting a legacy. That’s what I deserve. History rewards the liars and the cheats and I won’t have it anymore. I am the architect of heaven, Sean. The Kirsch family fired me and cast me out the second I suggested that I get the proper amount of credit due.”

  So this is an ego trip for you?

  Stokes pivots his chair away from me, so that we are not longer facing one another. “If you’re trying to paint me as arrogant or greedy here, you’ve got the wrong target. They are the thugs who wrested this technology away from responsible scientists. They are the ones who have made this world what it is now. Whatever hubris I’m showing you is nothing compared to the hubris they’ve demonstrated.”

  So why not bring them down? Why not leak the formula?

  “To you?”

  To anyone!

  “Because it’s already in the wrong hands, and I know which way information flows once it gets out. With the Kirsches, the people in control are evil but at least they’re breathtakingly uncreative. Maybe that is the best we can hope for.”

  It’s worth noting that when Q Daily contacted PortSys for a response to Stokes’ accusations, they responded quickly without any threats, be the
y legal or physical. Instead, we received a statement that read, “Over the years, the PortSys lab has employed some of the greatest scientific minds in human history, and the Kirsch family has always been forthright about crediting this amazing team for their work and compensating them far above industry standards. We categorically deny Dr. Stokes’ claims, and wish him nothing but the best of luck in his future endeavors.”

  As I wrap up with Stokes, he walks over to his living room window. There’s a loaded AR-15 leaning against the window. He gently fondles the barrel, as if grasping the top of an umbrella. A few portclaps echo in the distance, each one making Stokes tickle the barrel, as if he’s considering just how many people are nearby, and what their intentions are. It’s a reflex to him at this point.

  Then he turns to me, the same clinical expression he always seems to have, and says, “Maybe when they kill me, I’ll finally get the recognition I deserve.”

  Is that really all you want? To be famous for creating this brave new world?

  “Everyone expects a brave new world, but that isn’t how it works. You only get the new part.”

  SEWELL HALL

  A month passed after Bamert’s expulsion and Anna Huff had settled back in as an anonymous Druskin student, shuttling from Sewell to class to the pool to the cage and back to Sewell again with all the enthusiasm of a factory worker screwing caps onto toothpaste tubes. She had become an automaton: a bag of meat that ate and read and cranked out (better) English papers. She coasted through diving practice and barely heard Willamy, even when he was yelling right in her face. She quit piano lessons because, as accomplished as she was, every new piece they taught her sounded like a love song designed specifically to smash her heart to pieces. Love was nothing more than a gift best left unopened.

  Don’t answer her texts. She doesn’t care about you. She never cared about you. They killed Sarah and now they’re just fucking with you because that’s how they get off. You fucking loser.

  She dutifully met with Sandy every Wednesday night at Druskin Gate, even as the nights got colder and darker. This part of the Northeast was incredible in the depth and texture of its darkness. No wonder Bamert had despised it so. Every time Anna thought it was already pitch black outside, an hour would pass and a new, more intense shade of blackness would shroud the campus. Everywhere Anna stepped, she felt enveloped by thick night as worn-out students kicked through the slush in black boots and drab winter coats. Even when she was hanging out at the gym, all the kids were dressed in gray. The administration should have shaved everyone’s head.

  Losing Bamert made it all worse. Everything on campus was lifeless without his presence: the Assembly Hall balcony, the Latin Room, any novelty tie she spotted on another student, etc. When she needed a laugh, she would bring up his WorldGram feed and gawk at him, still clad in suits despite not being obligated to wear them. He’d be sitting atop Teotihuacan, drinking water-clear beer in Uruguay, sucking on shrimp heads in New Orleans, and sneaking into Clemson tailgate parties. There was no sign that Bamert was intent on furthering his formal education, but there was every sign that he despised his freedom. It was a curious effect of Druskin: all the kids hated it and loved it in equal measure, she and Bamert included.

  She followed him. No shame in that click.

  One night, Asmi bounded into the small bedroom and sat on Anna’s desk. The bags under Anna’s eyes would have gotten her a senior discount at the movies.

  “Guess what?” Asmi said.

  “What.”

  “My dad wants you to come for Christmas. Says it would give him someone to talk to besides my 8,000 relatives who are extremely fucking annoying.”

  “And you want me to, like, meet them all?”

  “I don’t think you understand what a remarkable breakthrough this is. My dad doesn’t like people, not even when they’re handing him cash.”

  “Well then, why does he want me to stay with you guys?”

  “Because I told him he’d like you.”

  “That’s a pretty big conclusion to jump to.”

  “Oh, come on,” Asmi said. “I’ve seen you moping about all month. You suck now, you pillock.”

  “Hey!”

  “Come with me. Aren’t you excited to get out of this loony bin for two weeks? And now you get to spend it with the most fabulous girl in all of Oxford. The batty old King would be beside himself with jealousy if he knew.”

  “I’m sure that’s true. But—”

  “But what?”

  “There’s my mom.”

  Asmi started to laugh. “D’you really think we wouldn’t invite your mam? Bring her! We can cash in some of the kebab money and buy her a proper Christmas gift!”

  The sales job was taking hold. Every Christmas, Sandy insisted on going to New York and strolling along Fifth Avenue, even though Fifth Avenue was choked to death with tourists and stillborn cars that time of year, and patrolled by roughly 68 million PINE agents. No matter. Sandy Huff loved the city at Christmas, scraping together money to stay in an actual hotel with her daughters. Not a ShareSpace, but a real hotel, with a room of their own and a door that locked and a small, functional portwall. They’d order cheeseburgers from room service and eat them on the bed.

  But the Huffs couldn’t afford a hotel this year. They would just be porting to Fifth Avenue for a lonesome afternoon among the throngs before heading back to a ShareSpace, somewhere. Oxford seemed a bit less frantic by comparison.

  “You sure we wouldn’t be intruding?” Anna asked Asmi.

  There was that laugh again. The sound of Asmi’s laughter painted every corner of a room. If anyone had an issue with her laughing—and more than a few kids would give her the side-eye in Main Street when she cracked up—that was their problem.

  “Oh Anna, what does ‘intruding’ even mean anymore?”

  OXFORD

  The security guards by Druskin Gate handed Anna her PortPhone. Not the crude one still squirreled away in the crawlspace of the Sewell crapper, but her actual PortPhone. When she turned it on, there were a half-dozen more synced Push Alerts from Lara Kirsch.

  All the other kids ported out immediately, the resulting series of portclaps blending together in a single, thunderous boom. Anna stayed rooted in place until she was nearly the only one left. The guards stared at her, wondering why she was so reluctant to go. She looked at the pin Asmi had given her for St. Michael’s street. Not but five blocks away from that pin was the Oxford branch of MyClub International.

  Every time you port, a Kirsch makes money.

  “Ugh.”

  Asmi’s family had room for the Huffs to stay over for the entire break. Sandy, locked into two dishwashing jobs, would still have to commute from DC and Hong Kong daily, but she could swing it. She and Anna would also have to share a bed, but Anna didn’t mind that. Sandy was a heavy sleeper. She barely moved.

  One of the guards tapped Anna on the shoulder. “You all right?”

  She turned and held up the phone. “Yeah. So long, guard man.” She walked through the gate, hit PORT, and felt as cold as she’d ever been.

  Now she was standing on St. Michael’s outside a blue apartment building: a complex two stories taller than the ancient brick rowhouses lined up alongside it. The English weather was on her right away, the cold, wet cobblestones reaching into her bones and leaving her as damp and dead as the ground she stood upon. Directly across the street was the Three Goats Heads pub. There was a ruckus coming from inside but Anna couldn’t tell if it was happy screaming or angry screaming. Gangly college kids marched along the street in their scarves and peacoats while she stood out in the clammy air, waiting for Sandy so that they could ring the button for the Naru family’s apartment together. Asmi had given the Huffs the password for the Naru family's portwall, but Anna hated porting directly into homes. She insisted on always ringing first.

  There were soldiers around these free zones, but the Brits at least had the common courtesy to keep their rifle barrels pointed downward. Port
marketers blasted in and hassled potential customers along the cobblestones. Two Americans ported onto a nearby corner and screamed, “You’re an idiot” at one another before clapping back out. An unarmed cop stopped a woman on the sidewalk and demanded to frisk her for weaponry. She groaned before putting her hands up and letting him aggressively pat her down. No one paid the Huffs any mind.

  Sandy ported onto the street and wrapped Anna in a bear hug before Anna even realized it was her own mother hugging her.

  “Oh, Anna. Anna! This place is wonderful!”

  “Mom, I can’t breathe.”

  “Let me have a look at you again.” She held Anna by the shoulders, like she was holding up a doll for inspection. “You looked healthier last month.”

  “I was healthier last month.”

  “How were your final exams?” her mom asked.

  “They’re why I was healthier last month.”

  “Well, let’s get you warm and fed! I’m excited to meet this roommate of yours. I feel awful that I don’t have the Prosecco on me. I couldn’t port with it because my coat is so heavy.”

  “It’s fine, mom. We can port back for the gifts.”

  “Oh, I have a zillion things we have to port back to the locker for. I’m glad it’s the same temperature here as it is in Maryland right now. Maybe this Christmas we can finally avoid getting sick.”

  They rang the bell and Asmi greeted them in a jade green dress. “About time. Get in here, the both of you!”

  She pulled them inside, locked them in a three-way hug, and then led them through a grimy hallway to her family’s apartment on the first floor. Inside was mass chaos, with tiny children scurrying about, old ladies huddled around platters of steaming roti and jars of stewed lamb, and a Christmas tree so thoroughly weighed down by ornaments that half its branches were sweeping the floor. Sufi music flowed out from a wireless speaker. An old upright piano sat unused in the corner. A piano.