Chapter 1
The beginning of my story is likely not the smooth transition you’re used to. Sorry in advance. You’re tuning into a show that’s already in progress. Like the Wizard of Oz. You arrive on the farm with no back story. You don’t know why Dorothy is living with her aunt and uncle on the farm. Maybe they’re dead. Maybe city life is too rough for kids and mom sent them to be with the aunt, because that was the great depression days. COVID feels like depression.
Another reason for an unlikely intro is I don’t know precisely where to start. After all, I am only 6. I could take you back to the big bang, but I think it didn’t start there, it’s just all we know. Also, I don’t know how to say everything I need to say. Sometimes, I don’t even get a say in the things I should have a say in when I can say them. For example, the voice you’re hearing narrating this is not Morgan Freeman. He was my first choice. Robert Downey Jr. was my second choice, followed by Samuel Jackson. I like Samuel because he uses profanity like my dad. My dad picked Danny Divito. He said it was good enough for Matilda, so it’s good enough for me. Don’t think for a moment that mentioning Matilda, or Roald Dahl books in general, is foreshadowing. It’s not. Yes, I am a fan. I can’t say his name; I am pretty sure my dad can’t either. Dawl. Dowl. Dah-howl. But that fact has nothing to with me or my family.
I can back that up. My dad is smart. My mother is smart. They are smart in really eccentric ways. They both say I am smarter than both combined. I don’t feel smart. I do speak Thai and English, but is that evidence for smarts? Any baby can learn to speak. It’s just what they gave me. My parents impress me as being smart, but then when I point it out, they remind me I am only six. I don’t know why that saddens me.
I am the product of two worlds. My father is American. My mother is Thai. Did I mention I speak English and Thai fluently? My dad says I have two maps. Language is a map. I am biracial, bilingual, and I bounce between worlds. Seriously, not a joke. Dad lives in Texas. Mother lives in California. At my age, the distance may as well be Earth to Mars. I have never seen them fight or quarrel. I didn’t even know they divorced until mid COVID, when my world changed. The world changed for lots of people. The virus. The masks. The new world. Mom and I didn’t return to Texas.
That may be enough background to fill you in. You may even think you have a pretty good idea of what my world looks like. Maybe it looks a lot like your world. I am not living on a farm. I think I would like living on a farm. But maybe you have divorced parents, and also bounce between worlds. Maybe you’ve been stuck at home for the last few months wondering when school will open back up to in-person classes. Maybe you visit distance relatives via messenger or skype. Yes, I was TV when TV wasn’t cool. Maybe your dad also works in Space Force and arrives by teleporter to pick you up.
I looked at him dubiously. He looked like my Dad. Do teleporters and portals change you or just move you? Is he a copy? A clone? An Avatar? An alien?
“Come on,” John said. He sounded like my Dad. “We’re burning daylight.”
My dad likes to quote old movies, spinning jokes I don’t get. I suspect there is something there, just because I know my dad. He is old. He knows movies. He knows everything. No one gets his jokes. Not mom. Not me. Not his friends. I give him credit for trying.
“Can we go by plane?”
“You’re joking, right?” John asked. “No,” I said.
“Like, a nostalgic journey on a Boeing 737, flying at 9,000 meters, at a ground speed of 800 kilometers an hour,” Jon said, doing math. “That would take hours.”
“About 3 hours, 24 minutes, give or take wind speed,” I said, almost as if I had done this before. I have. I have been to New York, Spain, China, Korea, Japan, Thailand… I am just a few cities shy of a Johnny Cash song, so my dad says.
“And what would we do up there for four hours? Stuck in a can packed with people like sardines having to wear a mask? Did you even bring oxygen supply and air filters?” Jon said. “You think we’ll just sit there and play old style video games? Meditate?”
“We could play Fortnite,” I offer. “Who taught you Fortnite?!”
“Clyde…”
“No. We’re going by teleporter. We’ll be in Texas in less than a second, faster than Dorothy going from Kansas to Oz. Feet on the pad. Now.”
“I am uncomfortable traveling this way,” I said.
John looked at me, not unkindly, a little impatience leaking through. “Eston, I hear that you’re uncomfortable, but we don’t have all day.”
“Why don’t we have all day?” I asked. “We have a device that can take us anywhere in the matter of seconds, and we don’t have even have like five second to negotiate? Are you dying?”
“No! Why would you ask that?” John asked.
“You said everybody dies,” I reminded him.
“Did I?” John asked.
“Well, not on the same day, and definitely not today.”
“Then we have all day to travel,” I said.
“We have a schedule to keep,” John said. Compassion sparked in his eyes and he came down to my level. He knelt down. “What do you imagine will happen?”
“I don’t know. We come out as one person? I get shrunk like Mike TV. Or we come out like that guy in the fly movie,” I said.
“When did you watch the Fly?” John asked.
“I didn’t watch the Fly movie. You said I was too little,” I said.
“How do you know about…”
“I googled the history of teleporters and portals, fiction and nonfiction, and there are all sorts of things that can go wrong when you mess with quantum entanglement of a person’s atoms. Do you know how long it takes a body to replace its atoms?” I asked.
“7 years,” John said.
“Really?” I asked. I told you, he knows things.
“Yeah, about,” John said. He began one his rambling explanations: “Different organs have different rates of metabolisms, and so like your tongue replaces its atoms and cell within about three days. You have a new liver within a couple…”
“Well, um, maybe you can ride out 7 years with a few spooky atoms, but I am smaller and contain less atoms, and I would like to not mess with the normal trajectory of the things that comprise my body,” I said.
John blinked. For a moment I wondered if I said anything coherent. I like big words. John nodded.
“You’re concerns are reasonable. I love that you’re thinking about stuff.”
“So we can go by planes, trains, or automobile?” I asked.
“No. Your concerns are reasonable for a six year old.”
“So, why can’t we go the long way round?” I asked.
“You’re also concerned about the sun becoming a red giant and destroying the Earth,” John said.
“Yes! That’s sad. Why aren’t more people upset about that?” I asked.
“Because, 5 billion years is a long time from now,” John said.
“Do I even have time to grow up?” I asked. Don’t expect me to be consistent. I am six.
“Yes!” John said, standing up.
“You will live to be a great, old man, with lots of’grandchildren and surrounded by family.”
“What if I am gay?” I asked.
John didn’t bat an eye. He was not fazed by curve balls. “We’ll compromise. You’ll adopt. I expect grandchildren,” John said.
“When do I learn what gay means,” I asked.
“When you go to Paris,” John said.
“Paris, Texas, or Paris, France,” I asked.
“You’re clever. You’re stalling, on the pad,” John said.
“Will I be old before you get too old to play with?” I asked.
“Yes; we’ll be fine,” John said.
“But if the teleporter moves us faster than light, and we get transported into the future, we might not have any time. You told me things slow down at the speed of light, time even stops. Maybe we will stop forever, or worse, get transported back to the dinosaurs. Maybe that’s why there are human footprints with dinosaurs, and spark plugs in lumps of coal, because you and I ended up in the wrong place at the wrong time!”
“Eston, enough. Stop watching social media. The world is not flat. I do this daily. You’ll be fine. You don’t even have to look both ways before you cross. You’re statistically safer using a teleporter than any other mechanical means of transportation,” John said. He gave me the serious, ‘it’s okay’ look. “I hear that you’re afraid, but the only way to overcome this is to confront it. On the pad, now.”
“Seriously? You’re pulling the parental authority card?” I asked.
“Yes,” Jon said. He pointed to the pad next to him. The tiling was illuminated. It was like stepping into a window seat, only there were no windows. Just nice pattern of holographic mesh and some subdued light-strips.
I frowned, stepped up onto the pad. I faced the alcove.
“Turn around, face forwards,” John said.
“Does it matter which way I face?” I asked grumpily.
“Tradition. The tech wants to see our eyes,” John said. “Something about quantum physics being affected by an observer.”
I turned around to face the control tech. They didn’t need a control tech. Artificial Intelligence operated this contraption. You can’t move stuff through dimensions without AI. She smiled at me.
“He’s cute,” the tech said.
“Yeah, the best of Texas Thai fusion,” John said.
“Does this hurt?” I asked.
“No,” the tech said.
“I promise, Eston. It doesn’t hurt,” John said.
“I have never lost anyone. You’ll be fine, Easton,” the tech said.
“Eston,” John and I corrected. “No ‘a’” John added.
“Oh, sorry,” the Texas said. “One question,” I said. “Shoot,” John said.
“If we replace all the atoms in our bodies every seven years, why do tattoos linger a lifetime?” I asked.
John seemed confused. The tech laughed and began pushing levers and buttons and interfacing with the AI. Her eyes glowed. Her hand, flat on the glass, authorizing the transport seemed illuminated. Tech. “That’s a good question…” John thought about it. “I don’t know.” He thought about it little longer. A timer beeped on his sleeve and he looked at his sleeve to confirm. He gave the final okay. “Here we go. Loxy, shift us, please.”
Loxy was John’s personal AIA- that stands for Alternative Intelligent Assistant. The AI confederation do not like the word “artificial.” There is no artificial intelligence. Everything is just intelligence. I call her ghost. Loxy is the equivalent of Alexa on steroids. She is more of a companion than an assistant. She is insanely smart, loving, and beautiful. I, too, have a personal assistant. His name is Jetsy. My interface for him is a monster. He looks a lot like a Machamp, Pokemon. On steroids. One day, I will be so strong.
The floor, the strips in the alcove we were standing in, and the ceiling fluoresced to the point that the room whited out. We fell into the holographic mesh, flew through stars and Christmas lights and coalesced back into reality faster than soda from a bottle that was dropped. We arrived, literally, in a flash.