Split Infinity (27 page)
‘It’ll be okay,’ I say again, because I think I get now why she couldn’t say she was happy when I snuck into her room in what seems like a lifetime ago. Living on half rations, with a family depending on your success? I asked the wrong question. It’s not about happiness; it’s about getting by.
‘What do
you
want to do?’ Mum asks once I explain what’s happening, the plans to jump ahead. She’s curled up in her armchair.
‘I want to jump, and I want you to come with me,’ I say outright. ‘It’s okay if you’re scared. I can help you with that too.’
‘I don’t know, Scout …’ She drifts off, fiddling with a charm on her bracelet. Soon she looks up again, and sighs. ‘Honestly, I don’t
want
to jump ahead. That’s the reason I haven’t learnt. I’m getting older now …’
‘Not so old –’
‘And this is
my
time. My friends are here …’ She sighs and puts her hands out, helpless. ‘This time makes sense to me.’
She’s fought me every step of the way on this. I pull at a flake of dry skin from beside my thumbnail, thinking about my time in 2089: the sense of displacement, the deep-down knowledge that I didn’t belong.
Mum’s right. She would find it hard to face a strange new world.
‘Can I ask a question?’ she asks. ‘Have you thought about having the chip inserted now? So much has happened …’
This answer is easy. ‘Now that rations have been halved, I need the freedom to go off-grid so I can get water from the underground spring. I’m better off without the chip in my wrist.’
I’m okay with it now. I was born illegal, and I always will be.
‘Okay,’ Mum says carefully. ‘I don’t want to hold you back, Coutlyn. I’ve seen how much they care about you. I think you should jump ahead with the group.’
I’m not sure what to say at first. With Mum’s blessing, I know I’d make the full ten years. ‘But I can’t leave you on your own.’ ‘I have friends. I’ll be okay. And I
want
you to go. You’ve been stuck at home for so long. Here’s a way for you to
live
. You need to stay with your people …’
‘
You’re
my people,’ I say.
‘You know what I mean.’ One half of her mouth lifts in a smile. ‘And there’s one more thing. It’s not the reason I think you should jump, but while you’re gone, the chip would stay here, right?’
Mum gestures towards the bedside table, where I leave it these days. ‘Half rations …’ Now she taps the scar on her wrist. ‘Plus half rations, equals …’
My mouth drops open. ‘Full rations.’
It’s so simple. It’s a way to help her while I’m gone. Why didn’t I think of this? A way to pay her back for all she’s given up for me.
‘Scout.’ She rests a hand on my shoulder. ‘The choices I’ve made … I made them because I want you to have a life. To
live
your life. I don’t want to hold you back now. Your future … is in the future.’
She lets out a laugh and I find myself joining in. My head feels light. I’ll get to see 2095. I’ll be with people who know me for who I am.
Everything is becoming clear. I’ve been looking at it all the wrong way around. The chip will count for something after all, but it’s not for me. It’s going to save Mum.
M
Y MIND BURSTS
the surface of now. Reality shimmers around me. I’m sucking in hard, head dropped back, when I tip and stumble forwards. My hand grabs for the bedside table and somehow I stay upright.
A familiar room greets me: our bed sits neatly made beside me, two armchairs face a shimmering comscreen that looms over the room, a new window to the world. Photo pads of Mum and me have been hung in spaces on the rest of the wall, as well as a digital calendar: Mon 23 Nov 2095.
I smile. I’ve made it to a time I’ve never seen, no memories anymore of what the future might hold. Each of my tomorrows is again unknown, one more mystery waiting to be uncovered. But I’ll never escape what’s brought me here. And always, to my core, I’ll carry the truth of Alistair’s death.
I helped out with preparations before the jump. The conversation kept returning to discussions about water limits, ways to best store food, how to avoid being detected. But at least the location of the group jump was sorted. Straight after the firestorm, Amon and Echo’s folks built a fire-proof shelter in their side yard, fitted with an air purifier. It’s set up with provisions for food and water as well as various coms and a generator, a safe-haven during a fire. There’s even an escape hatch on the roof, in case the storm or fire or whatever causes the entrance to be blocked.
It’s also the perfect spot for a jump. It’s big enough for the whole group and designed to last. It won’t even collapse in an earthquake. Even if something happens to their house, the shelter will remain intact.
I decided not to jump from the fire shelter so I could drop in to see Mum as I went. It’s sort of been like coming home for the holidays, except without going anywhere in between. I needed to check that she was all right, but I never stayed more than a day or two. I’m anxious to catch up with the others, even overshooting the return date of a few visits – a result, I think, of travelling on my own, of not wanting to be left behind.
Mum was waiting here last time with a chickpea curry bubbling on the stove. Now the room seems empty, too tidy. Strange. I’m back early, this time, but only by a day. I don’t think she’d be expecting me. She must be out.
Judging from the sunlight against the window, it must be late morning. I pull on jeans and a top, then wander towards the kitchenette and find a note propped against a mug on the bench. It’s folded in half with ‘SCOUT’ scrawled in a corner. I unfold it.
Welcome home, sweetheart. Let me know when you arrive.
It’s Mum’s handwriting, sort of wobbly as if she scribbled it in a rush.
The woman’s chip is exactly where Mum agreed to leave it, hidden in a slip of paper behind my bedside table. The comscreen on the wall is new, sort of shimmery and see-through. Nice. I swipe it on and play around with the settings, resizing the whole thing and realising that it can be taken down from the wall and folded small to use as a compad.
I message Mum telling her that I’m here and send a different message to the other skippers. Even though it’s only a couple of weeks in my personal timeline since I last saw Mason, I’m itching to see him again. I flick refresh once or twice but find no replies. That’s okay. The group’s not due back until tomorrow, and there’s a good chance they’ll all land on time. That’s if our idea about synch jumping is right.
I’d be able to see for sure if I could get into the grid, but when I hack my way into the raw coding, it just looks like the loops and squiggles of an alien language. Annoying.
I’ll have to find a way around that, maybe connect with hackers on the dark web, but for now I check out the sparkpad pages.
I was half-expecting them to have been pulled down but it turns out to be the opposite: tens of thousands of read-throughs, and loads of users adding their own chapters to the story. Some don’t seem to get that it’s not a work of fiction but others do, posting their own tips and warnings, asking if other ‘readers’ would like to meet up in the real world. One’s even set up a get-together for all time skippers: location to be advised. Date: 1 March 2145.
Still no reply from Mum, so I catch up on news while I wait. It doesn’t take long to pick up a loop-repeat of themes, a swirling wind of unrest. Rations are still halved and the protesters are more organised: bringing parliament to a stop, blocking freight trains, even an attempt to storm the water-treatment plant. Jails are at full capacity and more illegals than ever have been forced out of the city, mostly ex-citizens charged with inciting unrest and anyone convicted of accessing more food than their rations, which means anyone on low-level rations who had no other way to survive.
I shut down the news feeds, standing away from the comscreen and gulping down 300 units of water. This is a world that I’ve never seen, but so much is familiar. Already my thoughts are shifting to the compost skips, whether it’s still possible to hack them during a blackout, and whether the illegal settlement is still upstream of the Maribyrnong Canal. I make a mental note to check that the underground spring hasn’t been discovered by the authorities.
A flash in the air makes me jump and gasp. It turns into a chuckle when I see it’s a reply from Mum.
Maybe easier if you come to us. Rm 307, 145 Furlong Rd, St Albans.
I frown. What does she mean by ‘us’? I stash the chip deep in my hip pocket and head into 2095.
The building at 145 Furlong Road is a giant box made out of cream moulded polymer; a swish new flat for Mum perhaps? Maybe she finally spent those extra credits on it. I slip on a beanie and pull it low, reaching for the entrypad.
I pull back. Something’s not right about the message Mum sent but I’m not sure what’s going on. I’m tossing up whether to call Mum, to hear her voice for real, when the door slides up and a woman in slacks and a fitted black shirt squints into the sunlight. A red circlepad with the words ‘POLICE REQUEST’ sits on the wall just beside her. I guess the current state of things in the city means places like this are on permanent alert, ready to call the police at a moment’s notice.
‘Can I help?’ Her tone is stiff, more warning than offer.
Before I can stop it, one foot steps back. I plant my boots into the gravel, stand my ground. Her shirt has some sort of logo but it’s difficult to make out:
Sun … shine Private
. I think?
‘Miya Rochford … is she here?’ Don’t want to say more than I have to.
‘Oh, I didn’t realise …’ There’s a glint of recognition before her expression shifts again. ‘Yes, of course. Room 307.’ She points towards the lift, but even as I follow the line of her gesture I can see her watching me, trying to suss me out.
I’m not about to give away any answers. The hall is empty when I reach level three, all doors closed. No signs other than room numbers.
I find 307, take a breath and swipe.
Mum’s perched upright on a wide pillow in a narrow bed. Her hair is loose, her cheeks milky clear. ‘Sweetheart.’ She shuffles higher in the bed, extending a limp arm before letting it drop.
A man with curly dark hair is sitting against one wall, holding a shimmering compad open as if he was caught part way through reading aloud. His shape seems too big for his armchair.
I don’t move. The way she’s speaking, it’s thick, too slow. She’s so pale. Who’s that guy? None of this is right.
Again, Mum lifts an arm, a faint wiggle of one finger. ‘
Coutlyn
.’
Something pulls me towards her as a lump rises in my throat.
She’s meant to be safe now. She’s meant to have all that she deserves and more.
I press a cheek against her shoulder, tucked into her arms, aware the whole time we’re being watched.
‘Found us all … right?’ she asks. As if it’s just her and me, at home.
I pull away, swallow down the fear. ‘What’s going on?’
She manages to smile then, a slow shake of her head. ‘Of course. Yes. This is Jorge.’ Each word comes thick, slow. ‘He’s a specialist … nurse and … we’ve become close.’
Jorge dips his head as I try to summon some sort of reply other than a scowl.
My skin prickles as his eyes linger over me, trying to work me out. He’s wearing a woollen shirt and brown corduroy jeans, sort of retro but I don’t think he did it on purpose.
‘Doesn’t … she look … young, Jorge?’ Mum says with a lift in her voice.
I’m no older than the last time she saw me, but according to the chip I’m meant to be twenty-five. She’s putting this on for weird Jorge.
Jorge nods awkwardly. ‘I’ll leave you in peace.’ He stands and squeezes Mum’s hand before ambling out the door. ‘Nice to meet you,’ he says to me as he leaves.
The door drops with a
pfft
and I perch on the bed beside her. Alone, finally.
‘What’s going on?’ I want the real story this time. Nothing she’s said so far has been close to a real answer.
Mum’s staring at the closed door. Her eyes move to me, but nothing else. It’s as if she’s somehow afraid to talk. ‘I have motor neurone disease, sweetheart. It’s a condition that stops … my nerve signals working. My muscles are wasting. Speaking is diff … icult.’ She lets out a slow sigh. ‘I didn’t want you to worry. But … we’re past that now.’