Nostalgia Is Heartless, page 2
“No, it’s winter.”
“I might be coming down with something. You don’t think I’ve got the flu, Feline Flu, do you?”
“Sore throat, headache, cough, finding it hard to breath? Noticed any yellow streaks in your eyes?”
She shakes her head.
Feline Flu—or toxic kitty, as it’s sometimes called, mutated from a cat virus in the 2040s and led to a pandemic that killed 5 percent of the world’s population. It was rumored that a group of feral cats broke into a research lab and ate human cadavers. The bodies—six days dead—were at the perfect point of decomposition for the cats to nibble on, and the cause of death for all six was a strain of flu. Due to environmental heat factors, the disease mutated in the cats, causing a switch in the feline gene trigger, and soon spread to birds, then larger mammals, and ultimately to humans. The virus thwarted the human immune system by entering the genome and killing off any immune cells that threatened it. It was a master of mutation; every new strain meant fine-tuning the vaccine. A super vaccine eventually quashed the pandemic, but new pockets of FF still flare up from time to time.
Matt reaches behind Quinn, grabs the Birdsuit, and drops it in her lap. Then he tilts his head towards the valley. “Get going. There’s a northwesterly due later today, it’s gonna hang around for a week.”
“I hate wind.” Using her father’s shoulder as a brace, she climbs to her feet, then steps into her Birdsuit.
The suit is an aerodynamic dark blue body stocking with retractable wings that tuck into rivets running along the shoulders. The material is bio-inspired plastic, so it’s lightweight, flexible, and ultra-strong—lift without bulk or weight. Quinn tugs it over her expanding waistline—at seven months pregnant, it’s a snug fit—then taps Matt on the shoulder and points to the collar of her suit, indicating she needs help closing the seal.
Matt jumps up. He flattens down the collar around her neck. Then he adjusts the cuffs and spins Quinn around. “Breathe in,” he says.
She does, and he fastens the seal down her back.
“You think it’s okay to fly? I mean, with the baby.” She rubs her baby bump.
“Honey, it ain’t my life, it’s yours. Do whatever you want. Whatever makes you happy,” he says with a glint in his eye.
Quinn knows her father is serious. Do whatever you want—this is how he lives his life. He is a Humanist living in the wilderness, doing whatever makes him happy, and what makes him happy are trees and mountains and rivers. To him, trees are sacred. The Earth is sacred. He believes, like all Humanists, that he is connected to every rock, every blade of grass, and every droplet of water. Humanists will never leave this planet, regardless of the effects of climate change. Humanists don’t see their future in the stars, like many of the Transhumans, who would happily make a new life on another planet. Humanists believe they will shrivel up and die if they leave the Earth.
Quinn sees how easy it is for Matt to do whatever he wants—he is single and financially successful, and he has created a simple life for himself. But this is not her life. Her father doesn’t have a baby human growing inside him. He doesn’t have to worry about giving birth, childrearing, finding a job, finding somewhere to live, and negotiating a relationship with Tig.
The reality of jumping off a precipice is not lost on Quinn; escaping gravity facilitates her sense of freedom. But she knows she can’t leap from one ecstatic, bird-like moment to the next. She can’t fly away her fears of the future forever.
Besides, the Birdsuit won’t fit her for much longer.
Fully dressed in her liquid blue costume, Quinn strides over to the lip of the roof and casually steps off the edge. Now gravity has her, and the rush is exhilarating. She closes her eyes and a ripple of ecstasy surges through her. Then she unfurls her feathered wings. Like an oversize origami model, they spring into elastic action.
Hovering next to the house, she considers her options. East leads towards the sun and into the old-growth forest, where the air is stable and settled, where the view is picturesque but familiar. Northward, the mountains rise, and on the other side there is a deep gorge where cool air from the valley rushes upward and crosswinds eddy and swirl along the cliff face.
She turns and heads north, towards the gorge.
The sky is cloudless and cerulean. Along the valley floor a river snakes a steely line between the trees, and she follows its trail. It has not rained for a decade, but a subterranean spring, called the Source, feeds the river and sustains the surrounding forest.
Two
Is it waxing or waning?
HEXAD, THE UNIFIED GOVERNMENT that oversees the six geographical regions of Earth, established headquarters in the city of Nihil the year the RE Wars ended in 2044. The Wars are defined as Religious or Regional, a title dependent on a person’s cultural ideology. The geographical scope of the Wars, which began after the economic collapse in 2036, is classified as east versus west, but the hostility was fueled by opposing religious doctrines. Now, alliances assign various meanings to the name of the Wars; some call them regional, others call them religious. Either way they lasted for almost a decade and tore the planet apart.
The city of Nihil occupies neutral territory in the Great North-West continent. The city rises over an area formerly known as Detroit, which was once a flourishing automotive district. It seemed fitting to build the twenty-first century’s new ecocity over the toxins of past industrial developments. The new smart materials—graphene, aerogel, carbon fiber, silicon, hemp, and bamboo—were laid down over the plastics, asbestos, formaldehyde, lead, and cadmium-based metals, which have no place in the modern world.
A luminous, crescent-shaped structure known as the Half Moon is the headquarters for Hexad. Inside is a self-sustaining colony of delegates, staff, and dignitaries. Viewed against the night sky, the Half Moon is a radiant arc of gold and silver metalloid. Fifteen hundred meters tall, it towers over the surrounding ecocity, and the symbolism of the looming, moon-shaped structure is not lost on anyone. Hexad is definitive—an overseer and an influencer—and like the moon, it has the power to pull an ocean from its shore. The hordes of military and civilians that have aligned themselves with the organization ensure that Hexad’s authority is absolute.
Legislative assemblies convene several times every month on the upper podium of the Half Moon in the Altimeter Auditorium. Today is one of those days, and Planck is currently waiting on a seat outside the closed doors of the auditorium.
Planck is a tall, heavyset human with red-tipped hair and a generous, open face that is neither distinctly feminine nor distinctly masculine. From one ear dangles an earring—a black circle within a circle, marked with horizontal and vertical lines, that signifies a gender-neutral identity.
Today Planck wears a new climate suite that ze designed and 3D-printed zirself. The fabric is metallic with gold contrasting cuffs, and ze thought it would harmonize with zirs new, bureaucratic position, bolstering zirs alliance with Maim Quate’s political party, the Democratic Republic.
Inside the Auditorium, Maim Quate, the newly elected leader of the megacity Unus, is addressing her fellow delegates. Her maiden speech is proactive on climate reversal. Public opinion is against her. Politicians are against her. Some of the Transhumans—those with fanatical, far-right beliefs—despise her. Planck suspects that in this political climate, she will be hammered—climate reversal is a tiresome subject.
Maim is an academic, a professor of history. She is not politically savvy, and she is not used to addressing legislators with hard-won agendas of their own. But she knows history, and she knows it’s unforgiving. The first attempt at geoengineering the planet, in the early 2030s, coincided with a dramatic change in ocean temperatures and currents. For a decade, the climate went wild and the planet was bombarded with erratic storms. Eventually the wild weather settled, but it settled over the Polar Regions. That is where it has remained. Geoengineering was not the definitive culprit, but it took the blame. Now Maim believes the topic needs to be reintroduced. The pendulum has swung too far, and it’s no longer possible for the planet to autocorrect. The Earth needs help. It needs human intervention to save it. Someone needs to broach the topic, and she thinks it may as well be her.
Seated outside the Auditorium, Planck stifles a yawn; the waiting is tedious. Zirs mind wanders, and ze devises an improvement to a new teacake recipe that includes a fruit-filled center but still keeps the insect sprinkles for crunch.
On the floor beside zir is a shoulder bag containing yarn craft. Ze knows the benefits of busy hands and a focused mind. Yarn craft helps pass the time. Ze takes a mid-weight ball of twine and a small, hooked needle from the bag, loops the twine around zirs finger in a pretzel shape, then slips the needle through the pretzel and tightens it—the first knot.
As Planck continues, stitch after stitch, ze visualizes the finished project: a shawl to cover Tig and Quinn’s baby. There are days when the air-system on Nanshe runs so cold that frost forms on the cabin windows—days when it is 55 degrees Celsius outside and 15 degrees inside.
A sailor at heart, Planck misses the boat life. On Nanshe, ze was chief engineer, medic, purser, bosun, and cook, and ze hopes they will be back at sea soon, just like the old days—the three of them together again, plus the meerkat, and of course the new baby. In preparation for the baby, ze is studying midwifery online, which will add to zirs existing degrees in fashion and psychology.
Planck’s TechBand vibrates. It’s Tig. Ze answers the call. “You there yet?”
“Yeah, I’m here, standing on the edge of a fucking cliff. My chest hurts, I can’t breathe. She’s still doing it, flying every day. You know how it freaks me out. Does my head in. ‘I can’t bear the sorrow, it gnaws at my belly, this fear . . .’” He quotes an ancient poem, The Epic of Gilgamesh, which he has read many times.
“‘We go on an impossible, even forbidden, journey, which from a rational point of view is futile,’” Planck responds, also quoting Gilgamesh. “Look, you’ve come all this way to find her, and now you’re together. I know it’s not perfect, but you have to work on it.”
“It’s different this time.”
“Of course it’s different this time. You leapt into this expecting it to be the same, but that was never going to happen.” Planck runs a hand through zirs red-tipped hair. “Look, you love her, and she loves you, but that’s not enough. You have to share your life, tell her who you are and where you’ve come from, or you have no chance.”
“I know. It’s hot, this place is sizzling. Are you hot?”
“I’m inside.”
“My chest hurts. I feel like I’ve been fucked in the heart.”
“Then you have limerence—I’ve long suspected it.”
“What’s limerence?”
“Heartache resulting from an intense but unfulfilled longing. And you’ll continue in this state of stress-induced cardiomyopathy until you—”
A group of delegates spills from the Auditorium and congregates close to the entrance. Planck steps away.
“—until you tell her the truth,” ze says quietly. “Everything. There’s no other way.”
“Yep, yep, I know. I’m gonna tell her today.”
“Great. Now, why aren’t you taking your Meds? It’s the job, isn’t it?”
“Military work pays double. Babies cost a lot. I heard that somewhere.”
“Yes, I heard that, too. I’m not sure why—they’re so small. Okay, I get it, but you need to go back on them soon, for all our sakes.”
“I can’t use the SelfMed. I need her to do it. She has to be the one.”
“Yes, okay. Well, hurry up and ask her. She’s done it before. She understands.”
Maim is swept out of the Auditorium with a throng of representatives. She scans the crowd, looking for Planck. Ze waves to get her attention, then points towards the perimeter gardens skirting the edge of the Moon complex, indicating that is where ze’ll meet her. Ze takes a deep breath before returning to the call. “Listen to me. She loves you. Go tell her the truth—you’ll feel better. We’ll all feel better. After that, we sort out the Phaistos Discs. We’re very close, so do the right thing and don’t fuck it up.”
Ze ends the call.
***
Maim waits for Planck at the edge of the topiary gardens. A middle-aged woman who moves with purpose, she wears a fitted black and gold pantsuit impregnated with a wearable Tech that is designed to monitor her body temperate, keeping it consistent throughout the day. (She is in her mid-fifties and often plagued by hot flashes, a symptom of her perimenopause.) Her grey hair is swept off her face and tied in a top knot, a style that Planck suggested, which has taken a decade off her age.
Planck greets her with a low bow. They fall into step and wander down a cobbled path that meanders between plants trimmed into cones, circles, and spirals. Kinetic paths generate energy that powers the area at night. Designated cycling and running tracks are also scattered throughout the gardens, and Maim and Planck step aside to let a runner pass, his self-riding bike following on voice command. “Faster,” the runner calls. The bike increases it pace and swerves, in a perfect arc, around them.
“So, how’d it go?” Planck asks.
“I mentioned geoengineering. It sent them into meltdown and I almost lost the room.” She pauses. “I wish Lise were here—she knows how to handle these science sceptics. But, the good news is the deforestation laws hold. The regrowth project is confirmed; hundreds of drones will plant 10,000 trees a day, and the area will be a no-go zone for humans.”
Planck scoffs. “Tree planting won’t save the planet—it’s just popular. People love trees.”
“I also pitched genetically modified Suberin, drought and flood resistant, uses fifty times the carbon of standard crops and stores it for a hundred years, and they liked that. They liked the hundred years part. They’ll be dead by then; it won’t be their problem.”
“Another long shot.”
“It’s not the only weapon in our arsenal. I’ve tabled plankton farms, carbon sinks, and supercharged photosynthesis in a C4 rice crop. Conversion efficiency of solar energy to biomass is ten times higher than traditional crops. We’ll get there.”
“What’s our biggest threat?”
“There’s a group of Transhumans. They call themselves Shun Mantra.”
Planck frowns. “Oh, I’m familiar.”
“They want Coin distributed to the leaving project, not the staying behind and saving the Earth project. It’s my understanding they’ll do anything to get what they want.”
“They give Transhumans a bad name. Also, terraforming a planet would cost trillions.”
“Yes, yes it would, and it’s not happening. It was universally agreed. It’s an absurd idea. Mars was a fucking disaster, we’re certainly not colonizing Titan . . . or Enceladus.
Planck notices the luminous crescent moon rising over the city of Nihil and directs Maim towards the auditorium’s ten-meter-high, floor-to-ceiling windows. They stand in silence for almost a minute, viewing the moon as it climbs into the night sky—a stunning sight.
Eventually Maim asks, “Is it waxing or waning?”
“Waning,” Planck says. “The waning moon, symbolizing femininity and the cycle of time.”
“And this building, the Half Moon—is it waxing or waning?”
“Depends where you’re standing. From one direction it’s waning, from the other it’s waxing.”
“Yes, of course.” She laughs. “You know what Lise would say. She would say it’s all about perspective . . .” She winces and clutches her chest.
“Are you okay? Do you need to sit down?”
She shakes her head. “It’s nothing; a heart flutter.” She waves a dismissive hand at zir. “What was I saying—oh yes, Lise. She would say it’s perfectly possible for two versions of reality to happen simultaneously. It just depends where you are in the universe.”
Planck is not so easily distracted. “You sure you’re okay? You’ve turned a horrid shade, like buttermilk.”
Maim pauses. “Sometimes, when I think of her, my chest hurts. I feel a bit lightheaded.” She shrugs. “Good lordt, it’s hot in here. Are you hot, or is it me?”
“It’s you. Are you sleeping?”
“Not much. You think its menopause—or worse, FF? Do you think I have FF? Apparently the virus has mutated and—”
“You don’t have FF. You’ve been fucked in the heart.” Ze pats her forearm.
Maim considers the large, gentle hand resting on her arm. She smiles. “Perhaps you’re right. I miss her. It’s been nine months since she disappeared. What’s happening with the Phaistos Disc? I sent it to Quinn months ago. Has she worked out how to use it?”
“The message you sent with the Disc might have been a bit obscure.”
“Really? I said it was her birthday present.”
“You said it was a 5,000-year-old Phaistos Disc, the text was indecipherable, and it means something or nothing.”
“I wanted it to sound like Lise. I thought Quinn would make the connection—Lise discovered how to open time, then she mysteriously disappears and the Disc arrives. It’s obviously a time portal. It’s quite clear.”
“She has no idea. I believe they’re using it as a fruit platter.”
“A fruit platter! Oh, good lordt. Okay, I know you’re dying of boredom and you miss her. Go see Quinn, and while you’re there maybe mention the fruit platter is a time portal, and we would really appreciate it if she would find out how it works, then went back in time and found her mother. For all our sakes.”
“Okay, and then we can finally bring the Discs together and . . .” Ze claps zirs hands.
“Wait, did you say Discs? As in plural, as in . . . more than one?”
“I did say that didn’t I?” Ze knits zirs fingers together. “Do you want the truth?”
“Oh, good lordt. There is more than one, isn’t there? No, I don’t want the truth. I have enough to worry about. I trust you to work this out.” Gazing over Planck’s shoulder, Maim sees a man exercising in the distance. “Good lordt, Niels hasn’t changed at all. He still looks 25.”
“I might be coming down with something. You don’t think I’ve got the flu, Feline Flu, do you?”
“Sore throat, headache, cough, finding it hard to breath? Noticed any yellow streaks in your eyes?”
She shakes her head.
Feline Flu—or toxic kitty, as it’s sometimes called, mutated from a cat virus in the 2040s and led to a pandemic that killed 5 percent of the world’s population. It was rumored that a group of feral cats broke into a research lab and ate human cadavers. The bodies—six days dead—were at the perfect point of decomposition for the cats to nibble on, and the cause of death for all six was a strain of flu. Due to environmental heat factors, the disease mutated in the cats, causing a switch in the feline gene trigger, and soon spread to birds, then larger mammals, and ultimately to humans. The virus thwarted the human immune system by entering the genome and killing off any immune cells that threatened it. It was a master of mutation; every new strain meant fine-tuning the vaccine. A super vaccine eventually quashed the pandemic, but new pockets of FF still flare up from time to time.
Matt reaches behind Quinn, grabs the Birdsuit, and drops it in her lap. Then he tilts his head towards the valley. “Get going. There’s a northwesterly due later today, it’s gonna hang around for a week.”
“I hate wind.” Using her father’s shoulder as a brace, she climbs to her feet, then steps into her Birdsuit.
The suit is an aerodynamic dark blue body stocking with retractable wings that tuck into rivets running along the shoulders. The material is bio-inspired plastic, so it’s lightweight, flexible, and ultra-strong—lift without bulk or weight. Quinn tugs it over her expanding waistline—at seven months pregnant, it’s a snug fit—then taps Matt on the shoulder and points to the collar of her suit, indicating she needs help closing the seal.
Matt jumps up. He flattens down the collar around her neck. Then he adjusts the cuffs and spins Quinn around. “Breathe in,” he says.
She does, and he fastens the seal down her back.
“You think it’s okay to fly? I mean, with the baby.” She rubs her baby bump.
“Honey, it ain’t my life, it’s yours. Do whatever you want. Whatever makes you happy,” he says with a glint in his eye.
Quinn knows her father is serious. Do whatever you want—this is how he lives his life. He is a Humanist living in the wilderness, doing whatever makes him happy, and what makes him happy are trees and mountains and rivers. To him, trees are sacred. The Earth is sacred. He believes, like all Humanists, that he is connected to every rock, every blade of grass, and every droplet of water. Humanists will never leave this planet, regardless of the effects of climate change. Humanists don’t see their future in the stars, like many of the Transhumans, who would happily make a new life on another planet. Humanists believe they will shrivel up and die if they leave the Earth.
Quinn sees how easy it is for Matt to do whatever he wants—he is single and financially successful, and he has created a simple life for himself. But this is not her life. Her father doesn’t have a baby human growing inside him. He doesn’t have to worry about giving birth, childrearing, finding a job, finding somewhere to live, and negotiating a relationship with Tig.
The reality of jumping off a precipice is not lost on Quinn; escaping gravity facilitates her sense of freedom. But she knows she can’t leap from one ecstatic, bird-like moment to the next. She can’t fly away her fears of the future forever.
Besides, the Birdsuit won’t fit her for much longer.
Fully dressed in her liquid blue costume, Quinn strides over to the lip of the roof and casually steps off the edge. Now gravity has her, and the rush is exhilarating. She closes her eyes and a ripple of ecstasy surges through her. Then she unfurls her feathered wings. Like an oversize origami model, they spring into elastic action.
Hovering next to the house, she considers her options. East leads towards the sun and into the old-growth forest, where the air is stable and settled, where the view is picturesque but familiar. Northward, the mountains rise, and on the other side there is a deep gorge where cool air from the valley rushes upward and crosswinds eddy and swirl along the cliff face.
She turns and heads north, towards the gorge.
The sky is cloudless and cerulean. Along the valley floor a river snakes a steely line between the trees, and she follows its trail. It has not rained for a decade, but a subterranean spring, called the Source, feeds the river and sustains the surrounding forest.
Two
Is it waxing or waning?
HEXAD, THE UNIFIED GOVERNMENT that oversees the six geographical regions of Earth, established headquarters in the city of Nihil the year the RE Wars ended in 2044. The Wars are defined as Religious or Regional, a title dependent on a person’s cultural ideology. The geographical scope of the Wars, which began after the economic collapse in 2036, is classified as east versus west, but the hostility was fueled by opposing religious doctrines. Now, alliances assign various meanings to the name of the Wars; some call them regional, others call them religious. Either way they lasted for almost a decade and tore the planet apart.
The city of Nihil occupies neutral territory in the Great North-West continent. The city rises over an area formerly known as Detroit, which was once a flourishing automotive district. It seemed fitting to build the twenty-first century’s new ecocity over the toxins of past industrial developments. The new smart materials—graphene, aerogel, carbon fiber, silicon, hemp, and bamboo—were laid down over the plastics, asbestos, formaldehyde, lead, and cadmium-based metals, which have no place in the modern world.
A luminous, crescent-shaped structure known as the Half Moon is the headquarters for Hexad. Inside is a self-sustaining colony of delegates, staff, and dignitaries. Viewed against the night sky, the Half Moon is a radiant arc of gold and silver metalloid. Fifteen hundred meters tall, it towers over the surrounding ecocity, and the symbolism of the looming, moon-shaped structure is not lost on anyone. Hexad is definitive—an overseer and an influencer—and like the moon, it has the power to pull an ocean from its shore. The hordes of military and civilians that have aligned themselves with the organization ensure that Hexad’s authority is absolute.
Legislative assemblies convene several times every month on the upper podium of the Half Moon in the Altimeter Auditorium. Today is one of those days, and Planck is currently waiting on a seat outside the closed doors of the auditorium.
Planck is a tall, heavyset human with red-tipped hair and a generous, open face that is neither distinctly feminine nor distinctly masculine. From one ear dangles an earring—a black circle within a circle, marked with horizontal and vertical lines, that signifies a gender-neutral identity.
Today Planck wears a new climate suite that ze designed and 3D-printed zirself. The fabric is metallic with gold contrasting cuffs, and ze thought it would harmonize with zirs new, bureaucratic position, bolstering zirs alliance with Maim Quate’s political party, the Democratic Republic.
Inside the Auditorium, Maim Quate, the newly elected leader of the megacity Unus, is addressing her fellow delegates. Her maiden speech is proactive on climate reversal. Public opinion is against her. Politicians are against her. Some of the Transhumans—those with fanatical, far-right beliefs—despise her. Planck suspects that in this political climate, she will be hammered—climate reversal is a tiresome subject.
Maim is an academic, a professor of history. She is not politically savvy, and she is not used to addressing legislators with hard-won agendas of their own. But she knows history, and she knows it’s unforgiving. The first attempt at geoengineering the planet, in the early 2030s, coincided with a dramatic change in ocean temperatures and currents. For a decade, the climate went wild and the planet was bombarded with erratic storms. Eventually the wild weather settled, but it settled over the Polar Regions. That is where it has remained. Geoengineering was not the definitive culprit, but it took the blame. Now Maim believes the topic needs to be reintroduced. The pendulum has swung too far, and it’s no longer possible for the planet to autocorrect. The Earth needs help. It needs human intervention to save it. Someone needs to broach the topic, and she thinks it may as well be her.
Seated outside the Auditorium, Planck stifles a yawn; the waiting is tedious. Zirs mind wanders, and ze devises an improvement to a new teacake recipe that includes a fruit-filled center but still keeps the insect sprinkles for crunch.
On the floor beside zir is a shoulder bag containing yarn craft. Ze knows the benefits of busy hands and a focused mind. Yarn craft helps pass the time. Ze takes a mid-weight ball of twine and a small, hooked needle from the bag, loops the twine around zirs finger in a pretzel shape, then slips the needle through the pretzel and tightens it—the first knot.
As Planck continues, stitch after stitch, ze visualizes the finished project: a shawl to cover Tig and Quinn’s baby. There are days when the air-system on Nanshe runs so cold that frost forms on the cabin windows—days when it is 55 degrees Celsius outside and 15 degrees inside.
A sailor at heart, Planck misses the boat life. On Nanshe, ze was chief engineer, medic, purser, bosun, and cook, and ze hopes they will be back at sea soon, just like the old days—the three of them together again, plus the meerkat, and of course the new baby. In preparation for the baby, ze is studying midwifery online, which will add to zirs existing degrees in fashion and psychology.
Planck’s TechBand vibrates. It’s Tig. Ze answers the call. “You there yet?”
“Yeah, I’m here, standing on the edge of a fucking cliff. My chest hurts, I can’t breathe. She’s still doing it, flying every day. You know how it freaks me out. Does my head in. ‘I can’t bear the sorrow, it gnaws at my belly, this fear . . .’” He quotes an ancient poem, The Epic of Gilgamesh, which he has read many times.
“‘We go on an impossible, even forbidden, journey, which from a rational point of view is futile,’” Planck responds, also quoting Gilgamesh. “Look, you’ve come all this way to find her, and now you’re together. I know it’s not perfect, but you have to work on it.”
“It’s different this time.”
“Of course it’s different this time. You leapt into this expecting it to be the same, but that was never going to happen.” Planck runs a hand through zirs red-tipped hair. “Look, you love her, and she loves you, but that’s not enough. You have to share your life, tell her who you are and where you’ve come from, or you have no chance.”
“I know. It’s hot, this place is sizzling. Are you hot?”
“I’m inside.”
“My chest hurts. I feel like I’ve been fucked in the heart.”
“Then you have limerence—I’ve long suspected it.”
“What’s limerence?”
“Heartache resulting from an intense but unfulfilled longing. And you’ll continue in this state of stress-induced cardiomyopathy until you—”
A group of delegates spills from the Auditorium and congregates close to the entrance. Planck steps away.
“—until you tell her the truth,” ze says quietly. “Everything. There’s no other way.”
“Yep, yep, I know. I’m gonna tell her today.”
“Great. Now, why aren’t you taking your Meds? It’s the job, isn’t it?”
“Military work pays double. Babies cost a lot. I heard that somewhere.”
“Yes, I heard that, too. I’m not sure why—they’re so small. Okay, I get it, but you need to go back on them soon, for all our sakes.”
“I can’t use the SelfMed. I need her to do it. She has to be the one.”
“Yes, okay. Well, hurry up and ask her. She’s done it before. She understands.”
Maim is swept out of the Auditorium with a throng of representatives. She scans the crowd, looking for Planck. Ze waves to get her attention, then points towards the perimeter gardens skirting the edge of the Moon complex, indicating that is where ze’ll meet her. Ze takes a deep breath before returning to the call. “Listen to me. She loves you. Go tell her the truth—you’ll feel better. We’ll all feel better. After that, we sort out the Phaistos Discs. We’re very close, so do the right thing and don’t fuck it up.”
Ze ends the call.
***
Maim waits for Planck at the edge of the topiary gardens. A middle-aged woman who moves with purpose, she wears a fitted black and gold pantsuit impregnated with a wearable Tech that is designed to monitor her body temperate, keeping it consistent throughout the day. (She is in her mid-fifties and often plagued by hot flashes, a symptom of her perimenopause.) Her grey hair is swept off her face and tied in a top knot, a style that Planck suggested, which has taken a decade off her age.
Planck greets her with a low bow. They fall into step and wander down a cobbled path that meanders between plants trimmed into cones, circles, and spirals. Kinetic paths generate energy that powers the area at night. Designated cycling and running tracks are also scattered throughout the gardens, and Maim and Planck step aside to let a runner pass, his self-riding bike following on voice command. “Faster,” the runner calls. The bike increases it pace and swerves, in a perfect arc, around them.
“So, how’d it go?” Planck asks.
“I mentioned geoengineering. It sent them into meltdown and I almost lost the room.” She pauses. “I wish Lise were here—she knows how to handle these science sceptics. But, the good news is the deforestation laws hold. The regrowth project is confirmed; hundreds of drones will plant 10,000 trees a day, and the area will be a no-go zone for humans.”
Planck scoffs. “Tree planting won’t save the planet—it’s just popular. People love trees.”
“I also pitched genetically modified Suberin, drought and flood resistant, uses fifty times the carbon of standard crops and stores it for a hundred years, and they liked that. They liked the hundred years part. They’ll be dead by then; it won’t be their problem.”
“Another long shot.”
“It’s not the only weapon in our arsenal. I’ve tabled plankton farms, carbon sinks, and supercharged photosynthesis in a C4 rice crop. Conversion efficiency of solar energy to biomass is ten times higher than traditional crops. We’ll get there.”
“What’s our biggest threat?”
“There’s a group of Transhumans. They call themselves Shun Mantra.”
Planck frowns. “Oh, I’m familiar.”
“They want Coin distributed to the leaving project, not the staying behind and saving the Earth project. It’s my understanding they’ll do anything to get what they want.”
“They give Transhumans a bad name. Also, terraforming a planet would cost trillions.”
“Yes, yes it would, and it’s not happening. It was universally agreed. It’s an absurd idea. Mars was a fucking disaster, we’re certainly not colonizing Titan . . . or Enceladus.
Planck notices the luminous crescent moon rising over the city of Nihil and directs Maim towards the auditorium’s ten-meter-high, floor-to-ceiling windows. They stand in silence for almost a minute, viewing the moon as it climbs into the night sky—a stunning sight.
Eventually Maim asks, “Is it waxing or waning?”
“Waning,” Planck says. “The waning moon, symbolizing femininity and the cycle of time.”
“And this building, the Half Moon—is it waxing or waning?”
“Depends where you’re standing. From one direction it’s waning, from the other it’s waxing.”
“Yes, of course.” She laughs. “You know what Lise would say. She would say it’s all about perspective . . .” She winces and clutches her chest.
“Are you okay? Do you need to sit down?”
She shakes her head. “It’s nothing; a heart flutter.” She waves a dismissive hand at zir. “What was I saying—oh yes, Lise. She would say it’s perfectly possible for two versions of reality to happen simultaneously. It just depends where you are in the universe.”
Planck is not so easily distracted. “You sure you’re okay? You’ve turned a horrid shade, like buttermilk.”
Maim pauses. “Sometimes, when I think of her, my chest hurts. I feel a bit lightheaded.” She shrugs. “Good lordt, it’s hot in here. Are you hot, or is it me?”
“It’s you. Are you sleeping?”
“Not much. You think its menopause—or worse, FF? Do you think I have FF? Apparently the virus has mutated and—”
“You don’t have FF. You’ve been fucked in the heart.” Ze pats her forearm.
Maim considers the large, gentle hand resting on her arm. She smiles. “Perhaps you’re right. I miss her. It’s been nine months since she disappeared. What’s happening with the Phaistos Disc? I sent it to Quinn months ago. Has she worked out how to use it?”
“The message you sent with the Disc might have been a bit obscure.”
“Really? I said it was her birthday present.”
“You said it was a 5,000-year-old Phaistos Disc, the text was indecipherable, and it means something or nothing.”
“I wanted it to sound like Lise. I thought Quinn would make the connection—Lise discovered how to open time, then she mysteriously disappears and the Disc arrives. It’s obviously a time portal. It’s quite clear.”
“She has no idea. I believe they’re using it as a fruit platter.”
“A fruit platter! Oh, good lordt. Okay, I know you’re dying of boredom and you miss her. Go see Quinn, and while you’re there maybe mention the fruit platter is a time portal, and we would really appreciate it if she would find out how it works, then went back in time and found her mother. For all our sakes.”
“Okay, and then we can finally bring the Discs together and . . .” Ze claps zirs hands.
“Wait, did you say Discs? As in plural, as in . . . more than one?”
“I did say that didn’t I?” Ze knits zirs fingers together. “Do you want the truth?”
“Oh, good lordt. There is more than one, isn’t there? No, I don’t want the truth. I have enough to worry about. I trust you to work this out.” Gazing over Planck’s shoulder, Maim sees a man exercising in the distance. “Good lordt, Niels hasn’t changed at all. He still looks 25.”
