Lifespan of Starlight (20 page)

I’m still here, barely inside the garage space, hovering nervously.

‘If I was going to turn you in, don’t you think I would have done it a long time
ago?’

‘I know. Sorry.’ I shake my head.

Creases appear on his forehead before he turns to keep going.

Still, I don’t move. I call after him: ‘Why haven’t you?’ I have to know.

Mason stops but doesn’t turn and I’m left staring at his back. His head turns so
that his face is in profile. ‘I don’t know, Scout. No freaking idea.’ The words come
sharp. Hard.

Okay. So that’s where we are.

Mason continues into the house, and this time I follow him
up the stairs to the main
house, then up a second flight of stairs to the bedrooms.

When I make it to the doorway, Mason already has the shirt draped across both hands
as if taking care not to wrinkle it.

He stretches his arms towards me, still refusing to meet my eye. As I step forwards
and take the shirt I can’t help smiling. ‘Thank you. I mean … I can’t tell you …’
He’s given me my life back.

Already I’m feeling for the slip of paper wrapped around the chip. Mason drops his
arms and strides away from me, ending up beside the window, as far away from me as
possible.

My fingertips find the familiar lump inside the paper and my whole being lets out
a sigh. So good to have it back. And now that I have the chip I’m reminded once again
of the woman.
I’ll make it count for something,
I promised her once. I hope I can
still make good on that promise.

Mason hasn’t moved, one hand holding back the curtain as he stares out at nothing.

‘So what now?’ I ask.

A glance my way. ‘What do you mean?’

‘Well.’ So many questions. What next with time skipping?
What about us?

‘Do I need to be worried?’ I ask.

Back staring out the window. ‘No.’

‘What about Boc?’

Mason doesn’t move. ‘You don’t have to worry about Boc.’

‘You sure?’

‘Scout, the minute anyone tracks that chip, they’ll find the gaps in our history
maps. We don’t want to be answering questions any more than you do.’

He’s right, of course. But I didn’t realise until yesterday that Boc has gaps in
his grid map as well.

I can’t help going there. ‘Boc jumped for eighty-three minutes? How did he manage
that so soon?’

My reaction seems to help bring Mason out a little. ‘Told you, the guy knows no fear.’
Our eyes meet for the first time since he found me out and it almost hurts, being
seen this way. I force myself to stare back. There’s softness in there, deep down
and hidden. He hasn’t forgotten.

‘How long can you stay away these days?’ he asks.

‘Nearly ten minutes.’

Mason goes quiet again, but the tension’s eased. ‘Have you tried to go further?’

‘Yeah.’ I shift my feet. ‘But it’s like I’m being held back or, I don’t know, I’m
scared I’ll get lost if I go in too far.’

Mason doesn’t reply, just clenches his jaw. He’s quiet for a while and I expect him
to ask more questions, because I have questions too. Has he found the same changes
to his sleep patterns that I have? Does he find that he doesn’t need so much food
when he skips?

‘Better get back to school,’ he says, to the window.

At first I don’t move. I’m not ready for it to be over.

He stays staring out the window, so I force myself to turn and make my way out of
the room. I’m not expecting him to follow
but when I head out and into the sun, I
glance back to find him close behind.

He starts tinkering with the security system and I’m left hovering, wondering. The
door shuts with a
shht
.

Mason turns my way, lifting a hand to shield his face from the glare. ‘She’s your
mother, isn’t she. Miya?’

I’m working out the best way to answer, the best way to protect her, when he snorts
and lets out a dry laugh: ‘You look totally alike.’

‘Yes. But she never knew about the chip. That was all me.’ No matter what else happens,
I have to keep her safe.

It’s as if he hasn’t heard, staring into space and shaking his head. ‘You know what
really gets me? I had no idea. Never guessed once.’ He shrugs. ‘Stupid, hey?’

‘Not stupid.’ I take a breath. ‘You just believed what you wanted to believe.’

‘Tchyeah.’ He’s not just angry with me, he’s angry with himself for not realising.

‘Mason, that’s just human nature –’ How often do we hold onto an idea that we wish
was real rather than face the truth?

He’s not listening. ‘And the woman? Did she say anything before she died?’

‘She was barely conscious.’

‘What about her deets? Did you see anything before you wiped the chip?’

I tear a strip of dry skin from my fingernail as I try to remember. ‘I don’t think
they were real. Maybe time skipping
messed around with the records.’ There was nothing
on there that you’d expect from an old woman and the insertion stamp was too recent
to make any sense.

Mason pushes his hands into his pockets. ‘I can’t help thinking, if I’d
been
there
when she came back. I knew what she was capable of doing, and I wasn’t there. So
many questions I could have asked. And now –’

He shakes his head, eyes narrowed. As if it’s my fault.

I think I understand. Everything that happened between us, in Mason’s mind, was meant
to have been with someone else, a strange mash-up of that woman and me. A person
who doesn’t exist. The kiss, the synchronised time skipping, none of it would have
happened if he knew who I really was.

Even though it smells stale and old, I slip on the shirt. This is the best way to
keep it safe. The bike stand takes a second push with my foot before it clicks back.

‘Thanks,’ I mumble, and bite my lip. ‘For not turning me in.’

No reaction.

Guess I wasn’t expecting any. I swing my leg over the seat and roll towards the road,
blinking away the tears.

T
HE MOOD IS
one of stunned relief when I show Mum the chip. No celebration. We came
too scarily close to a future without it.

The credits have been clocking up this whole time, but we’re still thousands short
of the hundred thousand we need to have the chip inserted. Mum goes to visit Dr Ryan
anyway, asking if there’s any way we could have the procedure done now and pay the
rest back in instalments.

At least the answer isn’t difficult to understand: Payment upfront only.

I’m disappointed when I hear that but it doesn’t slow Mum. As soon as we hear back
from Dr Ryan, Mum shifts to her plan B: a veterinarian willing to accept cases like
us on the side. The vet is even more expensive than Dr Ryan, but she’s willing to
do the procedure straight away. It’s just a matter of paying an
extra fifteen thousand
credits as interest. I almost refuse to go ahead with it when I hear that; she’s
taking advantage because she knows we’re desperate.

But as Mum points out, we
are
desperate.

On a Sunday afternoon only a few days after I got the chip back, I find myself in
a doctor’s surgery in the city. No idea how a black market vet came to have access
to this surgery. Of course, I don’t ask.

The veterinarian is tiny, her shoulders so narrow that she reminds me of a child.
At least, she would if she weren’t so terrifying. Maybe it’s the way she holds her
mouth or the way she talks to the space just above my head, but sitting in that surgery
begins to make me feel way more invisible than I’ve ever felt by being off-grid.
If I do ever get caught and this insertion is traced back to her, I have no doubt
that her blood pressure will stay completely steady as she tells the police she’s
never seen me in her life.

Most people would turn away, I guess, rather than watch their flesh being sliced
open. But I find myself transfixed, sort of horrified at the blood and the thickness
of white tendons, and also amazed at the difference between this and the first time
I saw the chip.

It’s only when I’m hit with the memory of cutting that woman’s wrist open that I
have to look away from the chip, trapped between titanium tweezers as it’s lowered
into my wrist.

How strange. That was the last time I’m ever going to see it. My flesh will grow
around the chip just as it did for the woman
who died. I’m not just using her credits
now. From now on she’s quite literally part of me.

We make an appointment to return in three weeks for the fading procedure once the
wound has healed. Then I simply walk out of the surgery, a normal citizen whose wrist
has been strapped because of a sprain. No need to look twice; nothing unusual here.

The doors slip open as I approach, no different from when I used to keep the chip
tucked inside a pocket, but as I stride through, my steps feel stronger, bedded to
the earth.

I’m really here, a citizen. I’ve arrived. The doors shut behind me automatically
and I continue to the station, expecting an easy and safe train ride home just like
everyone else. I’m happy and relieved but also keenly aware that I’m shackled in
a way I’ve never been before. Everything is different now; there’s no going off-grid
anymore.

I conjure up my gratitude for everything that’s been made possible by the piece of
metal and plastic now residing in my wrist. The best news of all is that I made it
just in time for orientation day.

Karoly High is a distance out of the city. I read somewhere that it was designed
nearly ten years ago but you wouldn’t know that from walking through the grounds.
It’s sleek and modern with triple-glazed windows everywhere. There’s a huge oval
with a running track around the outside, and although I know the grass is fake –
it has to be – the colour seems so real and it sinks so naturally under my hand when
I test it that it’s hard to believe it’s not real, live, water-guzzling grass like
they have on display at the Botanic Gardens.

You can tell the kids who are here for orientation, not just from the way our uniforms
are spotless and just slightly too big, but also from the way we all stick together,
nervously shuffling along in packs.

After the initial tours, there’s assembly and a pep talk from the principal. Then
we’re sorted into mentor groups. Kess is in mine, thankfully. I’m not sure what I
would have done if we’d been separated; our shoulders have been as good as glued
since we climbed on the train at Footscray this morning. I told her that I’ve been
injured, that’s why I’ve been out of contact, and she seemed to believe me. We’ve
pretty much picked up from where we left off.

The mentor teachers take us through the timetable, study expectations and what to
do if we hit any trouble. Then it’s time to visit the specialist teachers. The science
block is huge and broken into various departments: medicine, chemical engineering,
nanotechnology. A whole corner of the school has been dedicated to crop beds of wheat
and vegetables for testing bioengineering techniques. The further into the day we
go, the more I keep thinking how amazing it is that I made it here. How close I came
to having it taken away.

A bit before lunch break, I’m called in for a full medical
check-up, my biggest risk
for the day. I’ve already prepared answers about the bandage on my wrist, even practising
my
ouch
if it’s touched. But the medic seems more interested in testing my fitness
and metabolism than checking a sprain. She asks a bunch of questions about my sleep
patterns so I give her answers based on the way I used to sleep. Before time skipping.

I’ve only just walked out of the med lab when there’s a ping on my compad. A whole
heap of files have landed in my school account: when I should go to bed; how much
I should eat; times of day that I’ll study best. So many resources focused on me
being my best, one of the chosen ones, with the future of the nation resting on our
shoulders.

Kessa catches me rubbing the back of my wrist during the lunch break, still tender
after yesterday. I’ve already told her it’s a sprain.

‘You okay?’ she asks, a loaded fork hovering. ‘Is it hurting?’

‘No, it’s all right.’ I grasp a can of water with my good hand and gulp.

‘How did you do it?’ she asks and takes a bite of spinach.

Carefully I place the can back on the table, swallow, and summon the words I’ve already
prepared about tripping on a tree root.

Before I let them out though, I glance over at Kess and find her watching me so closely
that the words evaporate and I’m left only with dry air against my tongue.

How long will I have to fake my answers like this for? My entire life?

A pool of tiredness rises in me and for a second, I let myself imagine how it would
be if I dropped a hint, maybe something about a secret. I could start by talking
about illegals or something. Test the waters, I guess.

Then I get a flash of the way Mason last stared past me, the distance in his expression,
and my mouth shuts. I already have the answer to my question about how Kessa might
react. I’ve known for years how real citizens think of illegals.