“This, no?” He gestures to the documents. “The tiger team’s striding fertile ground; we’re about to grab the lofty fruit.”
Quinn thinks Mori’s brain works like a random, scattered, vacillating system of neurons that don’t always connect.
“What did you talk about after I was so ungracefully dismissed?”
“Nothing.”
He glances her way. “You okay?”
“I’m so sorry, I can’t do this.”
“Relax, you don’t have to tell me everything, you’re allowed to have some secrets.”
“No, not that, I can’t do this, you and me. I can’t marry you.”
“You’ve changed your mind?”
“I’m not a hundred percent.”
“What percent are you?”
“About eighty.” Eighty percent negative. “It’s too soon, I just need more time.”
Leaning on the edge of the desk, he runs his palms down his thighs.
“I’m so sorry.”
“No, no, I understand. We’re singing from the same sheet music. It’s been a whirlwind, for both of us. Take all the time you need. I just want you to be happy.”
She holds her breath, then lets it out with a long sigh. “You should do the event, the dinner. I mean, you’ve worked so hard. Just no wedding.”
“Just no wedding. Okay.”
“I’m sorry.”
“No, no, don’t be.” He shakes his head like an insect is bothering him. “It’s fine, really it is.”
“I’m sorry.”
“Don’t worry, trust me, I’ll be just fine, just fine. Now, you look tired. Go lie down, and I’ll take the final readings. We’ve still got a lot to do.”
She nods; she’s shattered.
He takes her hands in his. “And, just a thought, this afternoon wear the cloud dress.”
Her hand retracts, but his grip is firm.
“Wait, listen, it would be great for the business, Fourth Estate will be there. Think of the images; it’ll go viral.”
He wants her to wear a simulated cloud. Many times, she’s rejected this idea; she’s a scientist, she has a PhD, it took her six years to develop her climate model, she’s not wearing a white, fluffy cloud. But now she’s indebted, so she nods. She’ll wear the cloud dress. It’s the least she can do.
He grins at the win. “One last thing.” He nestles close to her ear. “Don’t wear anything under the cloud.”
It’s out of character, but she concedes. It could be just what their relationship needs.
Plan C: It’s done. He made it easy for her; she knows he did. The wedding is canceled but the event is on, and she’s the welcome committee. A few hours’ rest is exactly what she needs. He’s just so thoughtful.
Headed toward her sleep zone, she passes a flock of cute, curly-horned sheep grazing on a patch of the island’s native cabbages, which she knows are truly awful and only fit for sheep consumption because she ate one once. This group of sheep is her favorite. She’s named each one: Maryam Mirzakhani, Richard Dawkins, Marie Curie, and her good friend Stephen Hawking. She has breakfast with Stephen most mornings. They stroll around the complex until they find a pleasant place to sit and contemplate the day ahead. Often, she’ll take her journal and automatic pencil and make notations on the solar flare data as she eats.
Stephen sees her and wanders over, nuzzles his forehead into her knee. She scratches the back of his neck. Sheep have a similar basal ganglia and cerebral brain cortex to humans and are much smarter than people realize.
“Up for a walk?” she asks, because right now she needs a chat and he’s a good listener. They make their way across the grass, heading north, up the sloping hills surrounding the Station, where the grassy base of Mount Ross rises, giving way to rocks and trees—a familiar spot with a clear view of the village and harbor. There’s a neat place amongst the stones to rest, and Stephen hunkers down beside her.
“Bad day,” she says. “I’m riddled with guilt. Sounded like one of those AHA people, I’m a disgrace. I wonder if he was in the War; he looks like he was in the War. And I canceled the wedding, but that’s a good thing.” Then she remembers something Hawking once said—the scientist, not the sheep—and, looking into the sheep’s eyes, she says, “‘Remember to look up at the stars and not down at your feet. Don’t give up work; it gives your life meaning and purpose and without it life is empty, and if you are lucky enough to find love, don’t throw it away.’ Well, I’m not throwing it away, I never had it. And I’ve got the first two covered.” She closes her eyes and falls asleep in the furrow between the rocks, under the mid-morning sun.
***
When she wakes Stephen is still there, resting beside her. She checks her Band; a message from Lise. Her mother refuses to send holograms; she hates the technology and won’t even acknowledge a holo request. She says it’s a complete fad. The novelty will last a couple of years and then everyone will go back to dialogue and messaging each other. “A bit of diffracted light and noise and people think it’s magic. It’s not fucking magic, it’s science. If the medium is still the message, and I think it is, then it’s not a message I’m sending.” She shook her head when she said this. “You’re too young to remember the book debate. People predicted they’d be gone, that all text would be digital, but here we are, still reading them, hard copies. And autonomous vehicles: hot for a few years, then we realized we liked driving and found autos interesting. Trust me, the same thing will happen to holograms.”
Quinn opens the message. It reads, “You and I, we are entangled qubits. Our reality is not bound by classical concepts of physics, it’s what we make it. There is no point mulling over the past or the future, because they don’t exist, just as the concept of ‘now’ doesn’t exist. Just live. Life is for living. Whatever decision you make is the right one.”
Quinn smiles. The consolation of unconditional love.
Six
He keeps staring at Quinn
like a lost puppy.
IN A SMALL APARTMENT on the other side of the planet in a small, out-of-the-way city called Hobart, Maim Quate, leader of the political party Democratic Republic, brews her morning tea in the food prep. This is not her kitchen, but she likes this space; she’s always liked blue kitchens, and the honey-colored timber floors and benches contrast so nicely with the blue cabinets and walls. What did Lise call this color? “Orbit the Moon.” She smiles as she thinks that Lise would have happily paid more for the name. Maim wears a rust-colored kimono, not her size, but it’s a loose cut and she likes the way it smells—like Lise. She takes her tea and heads back to the sleep zone. Moving to the left side of the bed, she pulls back the cover, then changes her mind and slips over to the right side of the bed. Drawing the golden wraps around her, she sips her tea and thinks she likes this room, too. The walls here are a deep yellow and the name is easy to recall: Cartoon Yellow.
***
In Kerguelen, Lise’s sleep zone is a rudimentary, compact space with modular furniture. The bed rolls out from underneath the storage, and during the day a table folds from the wall and the space works as a dining and study area. It’s small but she’s is happy to have her own cabin and not share with Ada. Bringing her as a plus-one was a terrible idea, and she berates herself—what was she thinking? How did she let herself be coerced like this? Maim is the one who should be here with her, not Ada. But of course Maim couldn’t come, not in her position; it’s too difficult, too dangerous, for her to travel. They haven’t made their relationship public yet, but they will after the election, after Maim wins—Lise is sure she’ll win. Maim and her party may be the only hope the planet has.