Lifespan of Starlight (6 page)

I read that email through three times, mouthing the words to make sure that I’m reading
right. This is crazy. I can’t keep reading fast enough.

Most of the deleted browsing history is linked to sites about something called Relative
Time Theory and a lot of the emails are from Mason explaining it to Boc.

I get the feeling that they were talking during the day and then messaging at night.
Some emails seem to pick up in the middle of a conversation and then drop out before
it’s finished,
I guess when they met up again at school. But even with the gaps,
I find myself reading through the strangest, most amazing of ideas …

All our lives, we’ve been moving with the flow of time because that’s all we know,
that’s what we expect,
says Mason in one email.
But in truth, time isn’t flowing.
Reality only exists as separate moments, like frames in a movie.

Or dots in the grid?
from Boc.

Mason again:
Yes, that’s it exactly. We think we move with the flow of time, allowing
it to carry us along because that’s what we believe is happening. Our mistake is
that we believe time is outside ourselves. Steady. It’s not. The way we connect with
time is changeable. That’s the clue.

That’s the clue …

Except, I can’t find the rest of that message sequence. I search around for a while,
and read through one of the sites on Relative Time Theory until my brain is about
to explode.

After that, I give up on the site and pick up another conversation:

We already experience changes in time without realising,
Mason writes.
Sometimes
whole hours, whole days, fly past. Right? Other times, when you face a split-second
crisis, everything slows down. Your mind will slow its experience of time in order
to survive. Think about it. Our sense of time changes because we control the passage
of time within ourselves.

I lean back, thinking it through. I’ve never heard time described this way.
We control
the passage of time within ourselves.

Soon I lean forwards and re-trigger the session. I pick up the rest of the conversation:

That’s all very well about controlling time, Einstein,
Boc says in another message.
But you haven’t said anything about travelling through time. Jumping ahead like the
gap you found on the grid. That’s way different.

Mason replies:
I had trouble getting my get my head around that, too. Maybe it will
help if you think of time as a river. Okay with that?

Sure. Okay. The river of time.

Mason continues.
Everyone thinks they’re stuck inside the present moment, being carried
along with the flow of time. But the whole river exists at once, not just the bit
you’re travelling in, right?

Got it.

So instead of being swept along with the river, imagine if you could freeze it. Then
you could move to a different part of the river – just pick whichever part of time
you want to be – then unfreeze the river so time starts flowing again. Only you’ve
changed where you are in it.

Yeah, I guess. Except time isn’t really a river is it, Mase?

No, Boc – I was making a point. Here’s the thing you need to understand: we need
to learn how to slow our sense of time to a stop. From there, you have the power
to return at any point you choose. In theory, at least.

Fine. No problem,
replies Boc.
But how exactly do you plan to do that?

Mason’s reply came back as a single word:
Meditation.

Alistair’s in the share kitchen when I collect our evening delivery on Saturday.
‘Agent X, reporting for duty?’ he calls slowly with his eyes still on the chopping
board.

I dump our bag on the island bench and check out his spread of ingredients. Baby
carrots, bean shoots and a shrivelled green capsicum half. ‘What you cooking?’

‘Stir-fry surprise.’

‘What’s the surprise?’

‘Leftover chilli beans,’ he says, and glances up. ‘We’re in beta testing. Want some?’

I shake my head, chin in my hands, because of course it’s rude to accept someone
else’s rations, even a five-year-old kid knows that. But I keep watching anyway.
Now that we have enough rations to cook some decent meals, I’m on the lookout for
ideas.

We’re quiet while he chops, but that’s just how it is if you want to catch up with
Alistair. It’s a slower world where he lives, one with few words.

‘How long until the test?’ Alistair says after a while, still looking at the chopping
board.

‘Four days.’

‘How’d the practice tests go?’

‘They were okay. I got 93 for maths and 89 for problem solving.’

‘Reading comprehension?’ He picks up the half capsicum and slowly begins to scrape
out the seeds. His hands look stiff as he works, as if his joints need to be oiled.

When I just shrug, he stops scraping and waits.

A sigh. ‘76?’

‘That’s okay. It’s enough.’ Alistair pushes his chin forwards when he sees the look
on my face. ‘You’ll be fine, Scout.’

‘Maybe.’ But I don’t say more than that. Don’t want to jinx it by hoping too hard.

Mum’s probably wondering why I’m taking so long, but I don’t take our delivery back
yet. Instead I hang around, pulling dry skin from beside a fingernail.

‘Have you heard of something called Relative Time Theory?’ I ask.

Alistair stops with the capsicum and looks up. ‘Can’t say that I have.’

‘It’s sort of the idea that time is just in our mind. That it comes from the way
our brains make sense of each separate moment.’

There’s no movement from Alistair at first, he just stares at a point on the bench.

I’ve almost given up on a reply when he says,‘Time definitely seems different for
me these days. Each year seems to fly past faster than the last.’ A slow shrug brings
him out of his thoughts as he focuses on me. ‘Who knows? Maybe you’re onto something.’

I think about showing him the gap in that woman’s history map, but if I head down
that path, I’d have to tell him where the chip came from.

Years ago, Mum sat me down and told me how dangerous it could be for the people we
care about if I was ever found out as
illegal. There’s no way I want to put Alistair
in danger, so we’ve always had a bit of a speak-no-evil, hear-no-evil agreement between
us.

I’m not sure where to go next, but I don’t want to stop. ‘Some people believe that
if we understand time properly –’ I search for the right words. ‘We can learn how
to move wherever we want in it.’

A frown. ‘Where did this come from?’

‘Just something I read.’

Alistair goes quiet again. ‘So you’re saying we could travel through time if we understood
it properly? A case of mind over matter?’

‘Sort of. I guess …’

‘Interesting,’ he says. ‘Never heard of that one before.’

‘Yeah, don’t worry.’ Now that I’m saying it out loud, it sounds impossible. ‘I know
it sounds crazy.’

‘Maybe it does.’ Alistair’s watching me closely. ‘But they said the same about lots
of things that turned out to be true. Ever heard of Galileo?’

‘Yeah. Think so.’

‘I’ll send you a link.’

‘Okay, thanks Alistair. Better go.’ I grab our delivery and head for the hall. ‘Hope
the beta testing is a success.’

Studying takes over the next few days. It’s easier to concentrate now that I’m on
full rations, but I also find out how tired you
get when you eat a full lunch. I
decide to keep hungry enough to stay alert. Calm but focused, that’s the goal.

Every now and then, I drop in on Mason and Boc during a study break. I’m sure they’re
watching me too. The way I see it, I’m simply returning the favour. Once I even catch
them in the middle of an argument, Mason saying that it’s worth a try and Boc telling
him it’s a waste of time. I’m not sure what the ‘it’ is, though.

I even have a go at meditating once, sitting on the end of the bed, concentrating
on my breathing and allowing my mind to sink. It gives the sensation of tension trickling
from my brain and into the base of my neck. It’s really refreshing, and I’m better
able to concentrate after I finish.

Do I reach the point where time seems to slow?

No way. Not even close.

On the day of the test, Mum arranges to start work late and catches a train in with
me. It’s not just for moral support. She hasn’t said it out loud, but I know she
wants to be there just in case. I’ve double-checked the deets on the chip and we’ve
talked through it all, but this is the first time it’s being tested for real.

We come out of the concourse at Southern Station, and it’s as if the city is being
overtaken by thirteen- and fourteen-year-olds, moving in bunches of three or four,
or sticking close to their parents. Everyone applying for a select-entry school has
to sit this test; twenty-two schools in total now that Karoly High School opened
last year. Pretty much everyone who thinks they have a chance is currently making
their way to the Exhibition Building.

There was a time when these select-entry schools were only for the kids who couldn’t
afford the traditional elites, but these days everyone’s desperate to get in. The
game isn’t so much about who you know; it’s all about your contribution to the state.
Or, in the case of everyone my age, it’s about how much you’re likely to contribute
in the future. Your IP: intelligence potential.

Everything started changing around the time the ration system was brought in. And
then when Christophe Eichmann won the Nobel Prize in physics, Mum says there was
a huge jump in kids applying. He went to Nossal High, one of the first select-entry
schools, and is the guy who invented the thermal inverter, which harnesses the hot
winds that are whipped up during a heatwave and uses them to mega-load solar energy.

Everyone has to learn about Christophe Eichmann because he’s the goal we’re all aiming
for, basically. His ration level would have been so high that no letter exists to
describe it. He died in 2065 but I’m sure the entire country sends him a prayer of
thanks on days when the world is a fan-forced oven and we get to flick on the air-con.

We make it to the entrance foyer with about a zillion other applicants and shuffle
obediently towards the security gate. Most of the parents are already saying their
goodbyes, but Mum stays
close. We near the centre gate and I can see the photo IDs
flashing up on a comscreen to one side as each person walks through.

Mum squeezes my forearm as my turn comes, then hangs back as I wipe my palms against
my thighs and walk through the gate. My photo comes up, just like it has for everyone
else. In it, I’m wearing a white shirt with a school emblem half chopped off at the
bottom. Photoshopped in, of course.

The woman sitting at the entrance desk doesn’t even glance up and I find myself walking
free, no longer crammed in with the crowd. I turn to look back at Mum, standing to
one side on the other side of the gate, and almost cause a jam in the flow because
I think I see tears in her eyes.

She raises her eyebrows.
Keep going.

Still I hesitate, but by now she’s laughing as she shakes her head.
Keep going already.
I can’t help grinning as I wave at Mum one more time. No-one else would understand
the mountain we just climbed. Of any test I’m doing today, the entrance gate was
by far the largest.

With all the others, I head into the massive halls. So many desks laid out row after
row, so many others aiming for the same goal. I don’t let the nerves spike. At least
for once, I’m on equal footing. For the first time in my life, I have just as much
chance as anyone else.

I
T TAKES FIVE
days before I receive an automated email from the selection co-ordinator:
‘Congratulations
on
successfully completing phase one of your application to attend Karoly High School
in 2085. Please book an interview for phase two by following the instructions
here
.’

My heart lifts to the ceiling before slapping to the floor as I read on. The email
also requests the contact details of a registered teacher who is willing to give
a verbal reference.

Straight away, I hit Mum’s work number. ‘They want to speak to one of my teachers,’
I blurt as soon as she answers. ‘What are we going to do?’

A pause. ‘Scout, I’m with a client right now.’ Considering she’s at work, I should
have expected that. ‘But I’ll … wait. You made it through?’

It gets a bit fun from there because the client who’s with
Mum has a son who just
finished year twelve at Nossal, so she joins in with the celebration.

Mum’s about to hang up, when she says, ‘And Coutlyn. We’ll talk later, okay?’

‘Yeah. Thanks, Mum.’

As the compad goes dim I breathe out and let my shoulders drop. I just did exactly
what I’d promised myself I wouldn’t: asked Mum to solve a problem when I should be
doing that myself. Maybe I can set up an automated voice recording, I don’t know.
I have two weeks to work it out.