Hieroglyph (80 page)

Okay. What had Gaia reminded him to do? Assuming he was about to be fired and become a house-husband, he might as well cover the checklist.

Oh yeah. Pick up Dad.

Carmody turned on the goggles' aroma detectors and followed a scent of liquid nitrogen. He descended to a low-slow lane, barely dodging a skylarking vette, and did a body tuck to land squarely in the catcher's mitt at Seventh and Fifty-Eighth Street.

With ringing ears and scraped palms, Carmody dusted himself off, wincing as body-repair implants dealt with the usual bruises and a fractured finger.

“Watch out!” came a cry from above. He stepped aside to make way for the next flying person, coming in for a semi-crash landing.

“There's got to be a better way,” Carmody muttered. “Sometimes I wish we still had subways.”

Ten minutes later he had signed at the desk for his father. The old man was tucked into a carrier pouch, strapped to Carmody's chest. Awkward and heavy, but with room left to stuff in that carton of eggs.

If I took the car, I'd have to pay ecobal fees and parking . . . but I'd also have a spare seat to strap him into. Or the trunk. Oh, well, being unemployed will have compensations.

He took an elevator to the fifth-floor catapult room, paid his dime, and stood in line till it was his turn. Enviously, he watched as some teenagers hustled past the people-launcher to an open-air platform, where each one took a running start and then
sprang
into the sky. Well, of course anyone could do that, if you had plenty of free time to practice . . . and the agility of youth. Why, twenty years ago Carmody had been quite a big deal at his local hoverboard park. And he wondered if anyone still used them anymore, so graceful, silent-smooth. And it didn't
hurt
when you rode a board! Only when you fell off.

“I am a son of light,” he murmured, preparing his mind for the coming jolt-and-fling, always disagreeably jaw-jarring. “I am a son of light.”

“
You're MY son,
” groused a voice within the carrier pouch
.
“
And need I remind you that it's dark in here?
”

Carmody rolled his eyes.

“Hush, Dad. I gotta concentrate.”

But he unzipped the pouch to a safety stop, so his father's gel-frozen head could see out. Carmody focused on the mantra, controlling his implants much better this time, with less emotion and a bit less pain, as the robot attendant held a taut saddle for him.

“I am a child of light . . .”

This catapult needed tuning. It flung him with a nauseating initial spin. Fighting to correct, Carmody gritted his teeth so hard he wondered if he chipped one. This time, at least, he managed to enter traffic without too many micro-fines.

“I can fly . . . I can fly . . .” he convinced himself, while roaring ahead, weaving two hundred meters above the street, tired but homeward bound.

“I . . . can . . . fly . . .”

DAD JUST HAD TO
keep kvetching.

“You call this traffic?” he demanded, as they cruised over the southwest corner of Central Park. “When we first moved to this city, during the Big Reconstruction, only taxis and buses could fly! And just in narrow lanes! At least once a month, some fool would do a forced landing onto the groundstreet, clogging things, like the traffic jams you see in old movies. Just look at you punks, complaining about getting to flit about like gods!”

Carmody glanced toward the free zone above the lake, where no rules held—where fliers darted about with abandon, doing spirals, spins, and loops. Sure, that looked kind of godlike, if you thought about it. Maybe Dad had a point.

But miracles don't seem that way when they become real-life chores.

“Like my own pa used to bitch and moan about his airplane flights.” Dad's voice—querulous and chiding—emerged from the encapsulating globe. Now transformed from expensive cryo-cooled to economical plasticized-state, he wasn't legally a person. The comments were produced by an inboard AI whose algorithms query-checked their estimated reactions against the billions of neurons in Dad's gel-stabilized brain, staying relatively true to what he
might
have said.

“My pa would fly from Raleigh to Phoenix on business and then back in two days, eating peanuts and watching movies while crisscrossing a continent that
his
great-grampa took a year to cross by mule, and almost died! But all he could talk about were narrow seats and luggage fees. And went on and on about having to take his shoes off.”

Yep, this sure sounds like my old man—the same lectury finger-waggings, without fingers. If I hadn't promised to keep him on the mantel for at least ten years, I'd dump his nagging skull in that lake over there.

But Carmody knew he wouldn't. Within a decade the emulation would be much better, perhaps simulating the old guy's better, deeper side, maybe even some wisdom, too. And perhaps, someday, the glimmering, ever-alluring promise of “uploading” to wondrous realms of virtual reality.
If I want my own kids to take care of my head, I suppose I should set an example.

Anyway, wasn't this just another example of what Gaia had been nagging him about? A crappy attitude, taking everything too hard. Oversensitivity to life's harsh edges. An imbalance of grouchy sourness over joy. Okay, things weren't going too well, right now. But something was definitely wrong
inside,
Carmody had to admit.

He'd been resisting adjustment, and no one on Earth could force him.
I can straighten out all by myself,
he grumbled, knowing how puritan and old-fashioned it sounded.

They used to prescribe drugs.
He shuddered to imagine what an unsubtle bludgeon that must have been. Nowadays—

I suppose it wouldn't hurt to adjust my implants, to let me see a picture wider than just downsides. So I can choose to cheer up easier. Especially if I'm going to be looking for another job. Be a better husband and father. Maybe go back to my music. Or at least concentrate better when I have to fly!

On impulse, Carmody swung left at Eighty-Third and cruised between condominium towers with their own landing ledges on every floor. Wary for incautious launchers, he slowed to a near hover at the end of the block, exertion stinging his eyes as he looked down and west at P.S. 43, where little Annie attended second grade.

The school's protective force field shimmered like reflections off the Hudson, a kilometer farther west. A brilliant safety feature, invented to give parents some peace of mind that their children were safe—the dome sparkled every time an object crashed into it, erupting with half-blinding brightness. In just the few seconds he had been watching, dozens of flashes forced Carmody to damp down the filters of his goggles.

Thank heavens for the dome.

WHAM! Another collision, as a student slammed against the inner surface, caroming amid a cascade of electric sparkles before zooming off again, to swoop and cavort amid some incomprehensibly complex playground game. Giving chase, a girl sporting red boots, garish epaulets, and a ponytail struck the force field with her feet, amid a shower of sparks. Crouched legs helped her spring off again, in hot pursuit.

Carmody had no such endurance. Concentrating, biting his lip, he managed touchdown on the condominium building's roof. Then he stepped to the edge, muscles and nerves twitching.

Kids. Their generation takes it all for granted. They're the ones who'll roam the sky with real freedom, painless and comfortable—all of them—with the powers of superheroes.
He sighed.
I just hope some of them appreciate it, now and then.

He looked for Annie . . . and the goggles picked her out from the recess throng. A small figure, dark hair kept deliberately natural, though with a tidy ribbon, she flew amid a formation of friends, in a calmer, less frenetic game. Annie's own specs must have alerted her to the parental presence, because she split off from her pals, doing a lazy dolphin glide just inside the closest part of the barrier, back-stroking, giving Carmody a wave, a smile. It filled his heart, in such a heady rush, that he swayed.

Then a bell sounded. Recess ended. Juvenile implants tapered down, damped by teacher control, forcing them to land. He stood there, intending to watch till Annie filed back inside the school . . . only then Carmody's phone rang. A curt, businesslike summons, impending at the left edge of his percept.

The boss. Crap. And just when I was remembering how good life is. Well, let's get this over with. I was a company hotshot till last year, so there ought to be a decent severance.

Mr. Patel's image wasn't aivatar but true-view, beamed from his office. Carmody grimaced, knowing that his own glowering expression would be conveyed to the manager. Resigned, he felt determined to face what was coming, with dignity.

Look, I know this wasn't a great day . . .
he was about to start. But Patel spoke first.

“Bob, I wish you had stayed, but I understand your reasons. Look, I know things haven't been great, lately . . . I didn't pay close enough attention to personnel dynamics and thought you were exaggerating your concerns about Kevin. But his stunt today proves you were downplaying, instead—”

Carmody interrupted.

“Then you know it was his doing—?”

Patel shrugged. “Sure. Oh, he used a new grilf trick that's hot on the streets, right now. But come on! Like we don't have people out there, hovering over the new? Arrogant putz, his worst sin was having such a low opinion of our skills!”

“Huh . . . then my work . . .”

“I've got the report. It needs several polishes before I take it upstairs, but I think your trend analyses are unassailable. You just underestimated market obstinacy. It needs a phase factor of at least two weeks to take into account how everyone holds on to their biases and assumptions. But we can pounce on the transport upswing in ten days. Good work! You'll have my notes for those polishes by the time you get home.”

Carmody reversed his own assumptions. Instead of asking about his severance package, he decided to switch tracks.

“Not tonight. It's been a rough week and I'm decompressing. Taking the family out for a sunset picnic and a fly-stroll. Tomorrow can wait.”

“Well, okay. Tomorrow then. Only fly carefully, will you? I just replayed your jump today . . .
everybody
has. They're calling you Mr. Almost-Splat!”

Carmody couldn't stave off a wry smile. That sort of nickname could do a fellow good, in his line of work.

“Tomorrow, then.” He clicked off.

He glanced again at P.S. 43, now quiet under its almost-invisible protective dome. It was still another hour and a half till school would let out. Annie was in a carpool, anyway, so no need to wait around. In that case—maybe he could make it home in time to surprise Gaia. That is, if anything ever surprised his wife.

Carmody looked across the expanse of roof and pondered. The nearest public catapult was a block away . . . and Mr. Almost-Splat was feeling pretty daring.

“Son, are you sure you want to . . .” asked the gel-stabilized head of his father. Then the old man's gelvatar wisely shut up, letting Carmody concentrate as he sped along the rooftop toward the farthest edge.

We'll have our revenge,
he thought, while his legs pumped hard, picking up speed.
The best kind of revenge, for having to watch our kids surpass us in every way. The satisfaction of watching THEIR children surpass them!

Heck, I'll bet Annie's son or daughter will come equipped with warp drive!

They'll bitch and complain about it, though. It's just the way we are.

Suddenly filled with fire and pain and a volcanic sense of utter thrill, a child of light launched himself over the parapet edge, toward the great, orange ball of a setting sun.

Oh yes,
he added.
Eggs.

Mustn't forget eggs.

Nubephoto/Shutterstock, Inc.

“SHARING THE FIRE”
—
Ed Finn

Read “Sharing the Fire,” an essay on thoughtful optimism and collective agency by Ed Finn,
Hieroglyph
coeditor and founding director of the Center for Science and the Imagination at Arizona State University, at hieroglyph.asu.edu/transition-generation.

INTERVIEW EXCERPTS
—
David Brin

David Brin explains how science fiction can help us prepare for the future, what science fiction writers can learn from history, and more in an interview at hieroglyph.asu.edu/transition-generation.

RESPONSE TO “TRANSITION GENERATION”
—Jim Bell

Jim Bell, a planetary scientist at Arizona State University's School of Earth and Space Exploration, discusses how science fiction inspires scientists at hieroglyph.asu.edu/transition-generation.