Point B (a teleportation love story)

by Drew Magary

  “Not anymore, I’m not.”

  “I hate that I have to tell you this. But I feel better now that I have. I feel safer.”

  “I’m gonna make him pay for what he did to Sarah and to you. You cool with that?”

  “I am extremely cool with that. But how are you gonna do it?”

  Before Anna could answer, the next act was on stage and the music shook the platform again, drowning out anything else they could have said to each other. Their quiet time was over. But that didn’t stop Anna from trying to steal more time.

  “Do you want to dance?” she asked Lara meekly.

  “What?”

  Anna leaned in and put her lips to Lara’s ear. “Do you wanna dance?”

  Lara nodded. “Let’s dance all night. No one can catch us when we’re dancing.”

  Anna’s heart thundered. They ran out of the bathroom and to the front of the VIP area to shake their traumas off. The funk was building. Anna closed her eyes and let the music take over her body. She didn’t care how she looked. When she opened them, Lara was closing in and wrapping her arms around Anna’s waist. She stepped between Anna’s legs and they flowed as one, swapping sweat as they pulsed with the night.

  A pack of boys butted in to dance around them, one of them putting his arms around Lara from behind. Lara squirted out of his grasp and got even closer to Anna for protection. Anna could see photographers snapping photos of Lara and her from the infield.

  The song ended to more WOOOOs and the lead singer grabbed the mic to banter.

  “EVERYONE HAVING A GOOD TIME?!”

  WOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO

  “We gotta lot of dancing to do, Phoenix! But since it’s Prom Night…”

  The entire crowd went “awwwww” in unison.

  “We’re gonna slow it down for all you lovers out there.”

  The snare kicked in and each of the couples below locked together as the slow jam washed gently over the crowd, making the drunks horny and the stoners romantic. The horde of boys encircled them again. Lara gave Anna a “save me” face” and they joined hands, dancing closely on their little parcel of the VIP area as other rich kids and yuppies filled up the platform. Lara and Anna got back in sync as the stage went dark and the ethereal silhouette of the two girls dancing in the glow of the halogen floodlights shone up on the hill, their shadows more graceful than they themselves could ever be. The boys backed off. Anna put her hands on Lara’s hips and Lara wrapped her arms around Anna’s neck. Her hands were at home on Lara’s body. The two of them were so close now. It was them, and only them.

  “You smell like wine,” Lara whispered in her ear, her lips nearly touching it.

  Oh shit, that girl you kissed. You cheated on Lara. Does that count as cheating? That probably doesn’t count as cheating unless you’re a crazy person.

  “Someone outside the speedway had a bottle of rotgut.”

  “It’s okay. I like it.”

  She likes it. She likes me. Lara could have danced with any of those boys but she wanted to dance with me. It was the nicest thought that her mind had ever gifted her, and perhaps the first time that her grandest dreams matched the moment at hand. They got closer and Anna closed her eyes, anticipating the kiss. Instead, Lara put her head against Anna’s shoulder and they twirled under the clear black sky. They became the stars: two celestial bodies orbiting one another, speeding through the infinite together. Anna took a whiff of Lara’s hair. She dug in her nose until it tickled Lara’s ear, a prelude to a kiss. Lara looked up at her and when they locked eyes Anna was certain that she hadn’t been fooling herself this whole time. This was going to happen.

  Then the spell was broken by distinct flashes of gunfire coming from the periphery: PINE agents shooting into the air and clearing a path to the VIP platform. Concertgoers gave them the finger and the lead singer of the band onstage crooned on. The agents ignored all of that and stared at Anna as they drew closer and closer.

  “Oh god, they’re coming for me,” Anna said.

  “You gotta leave,” Lara told her.

  “They’re gonna shoot me if I take out my phone.”

  “No, they won’t.”

  Lara grabbed Anna and kissed her on the lips. It happened. Perhaps not the way Anna envisioned, but they were kissing all the same. Everyone was kissing her too quickly tonight. Anna stepped out of her body and gazed upon the moment in disbelief. The photographers did likewise. They had been dutifully snapping photos of the Kirsch heiress dancing in place before this, and now they were in a frenzy. They shoved their way to the front of the platform to get a good shot off, and happily threw elbows at any PINE agent trying to breach the scrum.

  But Anna didn’t see their flashes or hear any of their shouting. Once more, everything dropped from the Earth except for the two of them. She closed her eyes and savored this: Lara’s buttery lips pressed against hers, a softness Anna couldn’t have conceived of until feeling it. The softness was contagious, running through her body and rendering her boneless. The kiss took all her weight away and made her buoyant, floating dreamily through the atmosphere as the sugary taste of Lara’s lip gloss slowly seeped into her mouth, sweeter than cheap wine. Up until now, Anna Huff had never experienced joy this pure. But she recognized it now. She felt wonderful. She felt like she was being shot out of a confetti cannon. Lara caressed Anna’s cheek with a slender hand and that made the moment even hotter. Lara lingered on her mouth. There was a wet crease running across her lips, and Anna sensed that they were jusssssst about to open.

  Then Lara pulled away and dragged Anna to the back of the platform as more gunfire rang out from the hill and concertgoers ported out en masse. The band stopped. It was over. The world was back.

  “Go,” Lara said.

  “Lara, I—”

  “Go!”

  “I’ll find you.”

  Anna was just about to port out when a man grabbed her and yanked her back up next to the dressing kiosk. It was Jason Kirsch, clad in a black t-shirt and khakis, his hair parted down the center of his scalp.

  “What the hell is going on here?” Jason asked the two of them. “Lara, why were you kissing this girl? And why are you wearing the dress that I picked for you for my wedding?”

  “Stay away from us,” Lara said.

  “Little Lara, you’ve been in the family vault,” Jason said menacingly. “What have you done? This bitch you’re with is a crazed fugitive. Is she why you friended me a few days ago, hmm? What were you looking for in my history?”

  “Leave her alone,” Lara told him. “She’s just my friend.”

  Just a friend?

  “I don’t think so,” Jason said. Her grabbed Anna by her hair and brought her down to her knees. The PINE agents below held up to let Jason do his work, turning their guns on any photographer who dared to snap a photo of the scene.

  “Where are the notes, you little shit?” he asked Anna.

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  Jason Kirsch squeezed her hair until it was tearing away from her scalp. “WHERE ARE THEY?”

  “LET HER GO!” screamed Lara.

  A second wave of PINE agents climbed the platform and encircled the three, turning their backs and forming a human wall. Anna was out of options.

  “The notes are in my bag,” she told Jason.

  “Give them to me,” he said, letting her go.

  Anna carefully reached into her handbag for her phone, but when she felt the eyeliner pencil brush against her fingers first, she grabbed it and wrapped it in her fist.

  “Here they are.” She shoved the pencil into Jason Kirsch’s eye. It sank in one inch, then two, then three. His eyeball exploded and he screamed red death.

  By the time the wall of PINE agents had turned around to see what had happened, Anna had already taken out her PortPhone and zapped away from the greatest and most terrifying moment of her young life. She had been prom queen for a night, but there was no telling if she’d ever get to bask in the glory. PIN
E wanted her. The Kirsches wanted her. The chase was on.

  EVERYWHERE

  Anna Huff needed a gun. She was now a very famous girl, if her push alerts and WorldGram following were any indication. Already the news had dubbed her the Preppy Psycho. Jason Kirsch was wounded but not dead. Lara Kirsch was nowhere to be found. Anna’s WorldGram comments were a toxic stew of death threats from Kirsch loyalists, spam, and vacuous cries of support from thirsty men and women alike. She couldn’t stop scrolling through all of them.

  There was no telling if PortSys had figured out Anna’s latest port ID yet, but she didn’t want to be unarmed when they did. She was in Dewey Beach, Delaware, huddled behind a row of townhouses a mile from the water that, shockingly, did not yet have a brick-and-mortar wall surrounding them. Across Route 1, she saw the chilly reflection of a tiny lake and the eaves of shoreline McMansions towering high in the air over their respective barbed wire-topped walls. A seagull circled around the lake and made a throaty whistle.

  Snitch.

  Only one of the townhomes in Anna’s row appeared to be occupied, although when squatters took over a place, they usually kept the lights off anyway. The adrenaline and parched heat from Phoenix had worn off of her and the brutal cold was taking hold. She was more tired than she’d ever been. All she wanted was a bed and the chance to replay her night with Lara over and over and over again. She could still taste Lara’s lip gloss on her. She could have eaten a whole tube of it. She took a deep breath, smiled, then hugged herself. It feels good to be in love. Great, even. God it feels good to admit it. No shame in the feeling anymore.

  Bryce Holton was still awake. Network Z showed him loitering around the railroad crossing in Rockville. Anna chose a pin just out of his range of eyesight: around the corner from an abandoned Army surplus store overlooking the tracks. When she ported to Maryland, she peeked around the corner and saw him handing a dimebag to a kid who couldn’t have been older than eleven. She picked up a piece of rebar lying next to a crumbled parking barrier and held it firm. Her hands were developing an affinity for hard weaponry.

  Bryce’s preteen client ported out. That was Anna’s cue. She ran at Bryce with the iron bar and caught him right in the face as he turning around to see who was coming.

  “Owwwwww!”

  “Remember me?”

  “No.”

  “Yeah well, this is for Sarah.”

  Anna smashed Bryce’s kneecap with the rebar and he let out another howl. This was the fourth man she’d beaten up today, and she was getting a taste for it. She grabbed his gun out of his waistband.

  “Hey man, you can’t steal that!”

  “Sorry not sorry,” Anna said. She was gone a second later.

  Now she was in Cuernavaca, Mexico, her frigid toes and body gradually warming back up. She walked, without much of a plan, along a darkened and empty street until it opened up into a bustling thoroughfare. She sped past the Baby Rock discoteca and saw all manner of clubbing sleaze—American, European, nouveau riche Chinese—demanding that the bouncer check for their names on the guest list. She hid her face. She was famous for assaulting the prince of porting, and for being a girl who kissed another girl. She knew that few people would take kindly to the former and that certain people out in the free zones, no matter the country, wouldn’t take too kindly to the latter either.

  PINE agents were so widely despised in Mexico that a gunfight immediately broke out any time they dared to port in, which is why Anna thought it was the best place to enjoy a temporary respite from law enforcement.

  She guessed wrong. After three more blocks, she saw an American PINE agent port in ten yards from her and train his rifle on her.

  “FREEZE!”

  She did as she was told, but the PINE agent didn’t count on the plainclothes Federale who was waiting in another club line across the street. The Federale opened fire and the PINE troop dropped to the ground, blending in with the scattered refuse immediately.

  Anna ported out of Cuernavaca and onto the wholesale floor of the resurrected Tsukiji Fish Market in Tokyo, where she slithered between hordes of fishermen porting in from the East China Sea and restaurant buyers zipping in from all over the world to snatch up anything fresh from white plastic bins in front of the fish stands: boulders of priceless tuna loin, whole sea cucumbers, crab claws as long as table legs, spiky urchins cracked open to reveal the golden uni custard inside, and the rest of a revitalized marine life bounty. A pair of tourists watched in equal parts anticipation and horror as a fishmonger nailed a fresh horse mackerel to a plank and filleted it for them to eat while it was still alive. They posted a five-star review on WorldGram as they gulped the fish down.

  Loading trucks speeding by came within a hair of clipping Anna’s ankles on every pass. She stole a towel from behind one fish stand and dried herself off as she snuck by another fishmonger running a mako shark carcass through a bandsaw. She walked at a half-crouch, looking like she was constipated, desperate to remain concealed among the churn of buyers and vendors and insufferable foodies blasting in to shoot port-bys of themselves eating a wriggling octopus tentacle. Near another booth, she caught a glimpse of her face on a tiny, standard-def television sitting on top of one of the coolers.

  Shit.

  She slipped behind another food stall and snagged a folded white apron off its steel shelving, cinching it around her waist, and around the dress that had made her look so fabulous just an hour earlier. Now was not the time to look fabulous. She opened up her phone and made an old school voice call to Bamert.

  “Ahoy ahoy,” he said from the other end.

  “They know my port ID.”

  “I can remedy that for you in just a moment. Or, at least, Burton can.”

  “I don’t have a moment.”

  “Well then, you better make one.”

  Two PINE agents ported in ten yards away. Anna ducked under a table selling contraband whale meat, then scurried behind a row of giant standalone refrigerators while market security screamed at the troops to go away. She took the gun out of her handbag and gripped it tight as the agents swept through the stalls, overturning storage bins and ignoring angry cries from the vendors. They spotted Anna fleeing behind the massive appliances and held up their rifles, but by then she had already ported to the abandoned passenger terminal of O’Hare Airport in Chicago.

  All of the gates and old concession areas of O’Hare were shuttered, never to be reopened. This was strictly a cargo and military aviation hub now. She blew in next at a gate that opened to a jetway to nowhere. The lone vendor in the concourse was a Thai hawker selling fresh noodles to all of the refugees, immigrants, and homeless folk loitering about.

  You need a different phone. Anna couldn’t keep porting with the one she had, but she still had to be able to port at a moment’s notice. She ran, gun in hand, over to a teenage girl sitting next to her sleeping mother on a gate area bench.

  “Excuse me, do you like your phone?”

  “Huh?” the girl asked.

  “Never mind.” Anna grabbed the phone out of the girl’s hands and gave her the compromised phone as a forced tradeoff.

  “Hey!”

  “Sorry.”

  A dozen PINE agents blew in but Anna had them beat once again, porting out with the girl’s phone—she didn’t have a passcode lock on it—before they could spot her and fire.

  She was in the Laotian countryside now, just outside Luang Prabang, consigned to a path littered with signs warning of landmines in the surrounding fields. The constant toggling in and out of daylight was fucking with Anna’s equilibrium, like she had left her Eustachian tubes behind while teleporting all around. She could barely keep her balance as she hurried along the path.

  The heat wasn’t helping. It deadened the air and rendered Anna’s drying job in Tokyo pointless. She could smell sweet incense permeating the countryside but couldn’t see where, exactly, the smell was coming from. Beat gunfire. A government mosquito control vehicle roared by, its loudspeake
rs blaring out directives in English to not go near any standing water because of an ongoing malaria epidemic. “GO TO THE HOSPITAL IMMEDIATELY IF YOU HAVE SYMPTOMS,” they warned.

  Anna called Bamert a second time.

  “Who is this?” he asked.

  “It’s me,” she said.

  “Your port ID says your name is Marguerita Consuelos de Vallos. That’s a gorgeous name.”

  “Can you help me yet?”

  “We’re working on it, Marguerita. Just keep moving.”

  “I wanna die.”

  “No, you don’t. You want to live. Move.”

  An American couple ported in. When they saw Anna walking along the path in her dress and apron, they double-checked their phones. She had to go again. She was about to zero in on a dead spot in Uganda when, without warning, she felt the shiver.

  Someone, somewhere, had selected Anna’s pin for her. They chose the center of the 5 expressway in Los Angeles. The wormhole dumped Anna into the passing lane and she had to leap over to the shoulder to avoid a Mack truck whizzing by.

  The entire freeway was a truck derby: moving trucks and oil tankers and garbage trucks and cement trucks and wobbly contractor pickups and container trucks that stretched the length of a hockey rink. Funding for street lights in LA was nonexistent, so the trucks barreled down the 5 illuminated only by their own menacing high beams. They drove as fast as possible, except when they were occasionally ramming into one another.

  The shoulder was no safer. Another truck came at Anna from the wrong side of the rumble strip and she had to jump on top of a concrete divider that barely kept northbound and southbound traffic separated. She was teetering on the barrier; it was no wider than a balance beam. Mr. Willamy’s awful balance training was proving useful once more. She opened up PortMaps again but another hole had already opened up right next to her. She held perfectly still until the wormhole timed out and she was “safe” again, then pinned the row of townhouses in Dewey Beach.