Taming the Perilous Skies

Taming the Perilous Skies
by Phil Marshall

Persistence, noun

Definition One
Persistence is Brian Medlock’s “theory of everything,” stating that gravity and quantum physics are both caused by the same phenomenon: Particles, such as photons and electrons, exist as pathways or “threads” spanning from their origin to their termination, and all particles that have ever or will ever exist in all of time are interwoven into a timeless, i.e. persistent, fabric.
According to persistence, gravity is caused by a differential pressure created by the fabric wrapping more densely around masses such as planets and their moons and less densely between them. This understanding led to Medlock’s invention of anti-gravity, resulting in the Revolutions that transformed society throughout much of the twenty-first century.
The Aerial Revolution reduced greenhouse gases and reversed global climate change as the transportation, energy, and other industries adopted anti-gravity technology. This led to the Social Revolution wherein open trade and travel lowered geopolitical barriers, and to the Spiritual Revolution, in which most organized religions accepted the Fabric as one and the same as God.
Humanity was at the dawn of an enlightened epoch of peace and prosperity. Then came The Fall of 2076.

Definition Two
Persistence is continuing with something in spite of difficulty or opposition.

Chapter 1: Jack Woods
8:24 a.m. Monday, October 19th, 2076
Washington, DC

As I lay there with clods of earth thumping all around me, I thought of my son, and of a sparrow. Thinking of the bird was unavoidable. The poor thing was on its side staring at me from only a few inches away, clearly as confused as I was by the strange turn of events. Sparrows often bathe themselves in dirt, which was a handy skill for this particular male to have. He opened his little black beak in a soundless chirp, fluttered free of the debris, and was off.
I sat up to find I had been thrown against the rounded inner edge of a concrete planter. Particles of dust rose and fell, while others seemed frozen in the sky, like as many grains in an ancient photo. I honestly couldn’t tell if there was any color left in the world, until I looked down at my hand. There, glinting with the blue of his eyes, was Erik’s marble.

7:03 a.m.
Tink – – – – tink – – – tink – – tink – tink tink tink.
It was just a stupid marble bouncing on our kitchen table, nothing more. I wouldn’t take the bait. I wouldn’t allow Erik to torment me as only an audacious 9-year-old boy could do with a dime-sized ball of glass. Who cared if the marble fell off the table, unshielded from the full brutality of Earth’s 9.8 m/s2 of gravity, a fall that would have been entirely preventable? It had no connection, no connection whatsoever, to his first trip alone in an anti-gravity aerial vehicle.
Tink. Erik caught the marble then slipped his cereal bowl beneath the edge of the table. Fwip. Swoosh, the muffled cabinet reverberated as it rinsed, dried and finally clink, re-stacked the bowl clean.
We locked eyes, and our game was on.
“Why did the moon cross the Earth?” I asked with a weighty seriousness.
“To get to the other tide,” he said, and leaned forward slightly. “Why did the restaurant on the moon get bad reviews?”
“Because it had no atmosphere,” I replied, willing my eyes not to blink.
Tink.
Stupid marble. There hadn’t been a single aerial incident in years despite 7.2 billion flights every day, and flying to the Oak Ridge National Laboratory for his science class? How cool was that? The milestone was inevitable, and I had held off longer than most parents. He would sit buckled into a single passenger vehicle for maybe an hour. Still, I hadn’t gotten much sleep festering over it.
“Why do whales visit the Sea of Galilee?” I asked.
“For religious porpoises,” he said as his eyelids began to quiver under the strain.
All of a sudden, which was usually the case with these things, I recalled that whales slept with half their brains at a time, using the other half for surfacing and breathing and keeping their awake eye on their young. That made me wonder how whales cleared their ears, which made me wonder if they had eustachian tubes, which made me worry about Erik all over again. His eustachian tubes would get plugged at the aerial’s altitude of thirty or forty-thousand feet. The aerial would be pressurized, and Erik knew how to clear his ears, but even so I thought it best to keep the aerial’s automated trajectory as close to the five hundred foot minimum as possible. The trip would take longer, but he’d be more comfortable.
Erik raised his left hand over the table. “Why did Mars turn red?” Tink – – – – tink – – – tink – – tink – tink tink tink. He set the marble bouncing toward me in a final, desperate attempt to distract me.
I thrust my hand under the table’s edge and caught the marble without ever diverting my stare, then tucked it inside the cuff of my shirt. “Because it saw… Uranus.”
Erik busted out a laugh, then dropped his head in defeat.
“Uranus,” I said as I grabbed my Optalk glasses from the table and put them back on. “You can never go wrong with Uranus.”
Your 2076 Alfa Romeo Phantom will arrive in ten minutes, the awaiting notification on my lenses read, then ten turned to nine.
“Can I put my Optalks on now?” Erik asked with a hand hovering above the black case. I nodded, and the new gunmetal gray glasses gleamed in the kitchen’s light as he slipped them on.
Nature versus nurture. It’s absolutely bewildering. Erik’s medium brown skin was very much like mine, and no doubt his suitors, like mine, would engage in the inevitable game of playful speculation. Latino? Mediterranean? Mixed? His blue eyes, like my green, would invariably confound them. His dark hair, tousled upward into controlled chaos, reminded me of my own, at least when I had hair. And yet, he was so different in so many ways… no fear or anxiety, quick with technology, broad emotional range, he never over-analyzed… in other words, normal. A handsome and brilliant normal.
“Are the words I’m saying showing up on the lenses?” I asked.
“Dad, I know how to use them.”
“Then can you please accept the request I sent?”
His left eyebrow arched to form a little dimple above it, his personal signature for not yet having mastered the device. That was no surprise. It had taken me months to master my first brain-computer interface, and I had been twice Erik’s age.
I pulled a chair next to him and put my index finger on his right temple. “Imagine humming a note inside your head, then move the note to my fingertip.”
His expression intensified.
“The tips of the glasses behind your ears will detect the direction of your thoughts. Once my request lights up, hold it to select it.”
He blew out a relieved breath.
“Nice job!” I was genuinely impressed. “Let’s test the sound.” I shared the audio of the morning’s news.
“The Statue of Liberty reopens today as sea levels finally begin to recede,” a cheerful woman’s voice said. “With the US election only fifteen days away … ”
I checked to make sure the tips made solid contact with the bony prominences behind his ears. Sound through bone conduction could be disorienting if you weren’t used to it. “Is the sound centered and clear?”
He nodded.
“As Brian Medlock nears the end of his life, President Batra will celebrate his scientific and technological achievements at the White House today.”
Erik’s eyes widened.
“The Italian Prime Minister is also visiting–”
I stopped the feed. “What is it?” I was already sure of the topic. Brian Medlock was a towering figure in Erik’s life. In everyone’s life, really.
“Do you think… we could…”
“Meet Brian Medlock?”
His eyes went full pleading puppy dog.
Not for the first time, I imagined what it might be like to brush elbows at the White House. These days, National Safety—the agency for which I was Deputy Director—was a relic, a formality retained out of respect for its former glory as the FBI. But attending an event with Brian Medlock and foreign dignitaries? That was another level entirely. I made a mental note to try on the Italian suit I hadn’t worn in years, on the unlikely chance I’d receive an invitation to something fancy.
“That would be something, wouldn’t it? But I don’t think they’d invite a Deputy Director to something like that.”
He looked down.
“Are you sad about Brian Medlock dying?” Mortality wasn’t a topic we discussed often, but Medlock’s announcement that he would be ending his life within the next month or two would require it sooner than later.
Erik considered it. “No. We can always surf the Fabric with him when we die.”
He continually amazed me.
“How about you do so well in your class today that even Brian Medlock would be proud?”
“I’ll try,” he said with a shrug.
“No,” I began in a pinched, nasally voice.
“Dad,” he interrupted, “not the Yoda ‘do or do not’ thing.”
I froze, then doubled down. “Quiz you now, I shall.”
Erik groaned his displeasure.
I gestured to the center of the kitchen floor. As he stood, I admired the sharpness of his dark gray slacks with his orange button-up shirt, although with less than two weeks to Halloween, I couldn’t help but wonder if it was too cliché.
“Hold on,” I said in my normal voice. “Always practice how you’ll perform. Where’s your jacket?”
Erik’s little eyebrow dimple materialized again.
An urgent message appeared on my lenses from my Director. Given that he was one of eleven candidates left standing in the presidential race, I was surprised to see his message, although I wasn’t surprised by the urgency designation. He could be sharing a partly cloudy weather forecast and mark it as urgent.
Jack, I wish to confirm you’ll be at the religious voter event in Miami Beach at noon. They want to chat with you about that congressional seat opening up in ’78. I’d join you, but I’ll be in important meetings on Capitol Hill.
I hardly needed the reminder. It would be my biggest step yet toward running for office, and this group would be the cornerstone of my base. I was born in Miami to a hard-working immigrant mother from Brazil, my father had been in law enforcement, and I believed in God, which was still an advantage in Florida. With the tricentennial behind us and the 2076 campaigns winding down, it was time to throw my hat in the ring.
I selected a bot-driven response. Thank you, Director White, for the reminder. I’ll be there. I put my hands on the table and air-typed the rest using my lenses’ gesture detection interface. I appreciate the introduction. I’ll let you know how it goes. Knowing how unlikely I’d hear from him again that day, I added Good luck with the campaign. Final stretch! He responded with a cartoon of a desperate hand reaching up from under a pile of donkeys and elephants.
Erik’s backpack floated towards us from the stairwell with his blazer hanging beneath.
My son just summoned an aerial backpack with his lenses on his fourth day using them.
He donned the dark blue jacket with practiced nonchalance and hit his mark on the floor.
“What is quantum mechanics?” I asked.
He had to think for only a moment. “It’s math for guessing where particles are and where they’re going.”
“Perfect,” I said. Quizzing someone wearing lenses was a rare treat, as an adult’s bot would immediately supply the answer to any question of fact. Erik’s bot wouldn’t do that for several years, not until its AI was trained on his unique brain wave and response patterns.
Our bots were supposed to be subservient to us, their sentient and free-thinking humans, not the other way around, although we all suspected our bots ‘led the witness’ from time to time. Augmenta, the maker of the Optalks, was emphatic that this was never the case. The lessons from the disastrous Neuralink implants were still fresh in everyone’s mind, quite literally for some. “A particle of sunlight is called a photon,” I continued, “and it is a thread in the Fabric–”
“True,” he said quickly.
“That wasn’t my question. My question is, what path does the photon thread take?”
Erik’s mouth twisted as he pondered the question. “The path that takes the least amount of time.”
“Correct. And when is its path determined?”
“As soon as it’s created, before it ever leaves the sun.” He had anticipated the question, much like photons anticipating their path.
“And who taught us that?”
“Chiang,” he said with growing impatience.
I caught a glimpse of a smooth ovoid descending into the courtyard. A ray of light from the sunrise caught the twelve-foot-wide dark gray aerial just before it nestled into the shadows. I saw my mother moving about in the tiny cottage beyond.
I checked the aerial’s specs. “Let’s pause there. You can run through your notes when you’re up. It has a 360-degree screen inside. Speaking of which …” I gestured with my chin toward the window.
He spun to see the aerial as it opened along the gold pinstripe marking its horizontal seam, its top lifted and its steps hinged downward. “Nice,” he said, drawing the word out in prolonged awe. “What’s its name?”
With billions upon billions of aerials, it always seemed unscalable to me, but each passenger aerial was given a unique name, and Erik had been speculating about the name of his first ride for weeks. I was grateful that his guesses, the Floaty Floaty Flim Flam and the Bubble Butt Bullet, were incorrect. “The Piccolo Sue,” I said.
“The Piccolo Sue,” he repeated approvingly, then charged for the door.
I put out an arm to stop him. “Aren’t you forgetting something?”
I held out both hands. Erik sighed dramatically, then took my hands and bowed his head.
“God,” I began.
“Fabric,” Erik said, opening one eye to see my reaction.
“God,” I repeated, “thank you for this beautiful day and the bountiful opportunities you’ve given us. Please keep Erik safe as he takes his first, very carefully planned trip, in a new and perfectly safe aerial, to learn about your magnificent universe.”
Erik glared impatiently at me.
“Amen.”
“Amen,” he said, then bolted through the door with his backpack and me following dutifully behind.
He stepped up and into the single seat centered within the vehicle. He buckled the lap belt as his bag bobbled lazily up and into the aerial’s canopy.
I stepped up, rotated the seat to face me, and gave his belt a tug.
Erik began to whirl the seat around. Even with his legs fully outstretched, he still had plenty of room between his feet and the two-inch-thick aerial shell.
He began reading down the list I shared with his lenses. “Seat belt. Check. Optalks. Check. Backpack with lunch box. Check. Waters …”
I leaned over and opened a side compartment holding a single chilled water bottle. It’s a short trip, I reassured myself. “Check.”
Erik looked up at the meter-high screen that lined the circumference of the aerial’s lid just above its opening. The screen sprang to life with a kaleidoscope of colors. A message formed from the soup: Welcome Erik Woods of Ross Elementary to your first solo aerial adventure!
“Are you and Luke going to play your games along the way?” I said, although I hardly needed to ask. There was never a day when Erik didn’t play MagmaMania or WheresItFit with his cousin.
Erik shrugged, still staring at the display. “They’re going to That’s No Moon today.”
“Oh, that’s right,” I said, detecting the pang of jealousy in his voice. “Your school trip was more important, but we’ll go soon, I promise.” I meant it. I wanted to see the solar system’s largest zero-gravity theme park as much as he did.
I bent down for a goodbye kiss on the top of his head, and Erik raised his arms in protest.
“Sorry, I forgot. Your hair.” I leaned back in for a carefully placed peck on his cheek.
Erik put his hand over his mouth and whispered into his lenses.
Love you, the aerial’s screen flashed. Gotta go now.
A notification popped up on my lenses.
The Piccolo Sue, by Alfa Romeo
Destination: Oak Ridge National Laboratory
Estimated Time of Arrival: 7:58 a.m., October 19th, 2076
Duration: 33 minutes
Passenger: Erik Batista Woods
Please confirm
I took a deep breath, held it, then let it out. Everything’s going to be fine. I changed the aerial’s setting to stay between five hundred and a thousand feet, and it recalculated his arrival as 8:21 a.m.
Behind the aerial, a screen door creaked open and slammed. My mother marched out wearing a fur-trimmed pink robe with matching Optalks and slippers. One hand clutched the robe over her bust, the other held a small paper sack.
She squinted disapprovingly at me. “I trust you wouldn’t allow my grandson to leave without saying goodbye to his vovô.” She smiled broadly at Erik. “I made you beijinhos,” she said, handing him the sac. “You remember what beijinhos means?”
Erik’s eyes pleaded to be allowed to leave. “Kisses.”
“Kisses!” she exclaimed in delight and, ignoring his protest, took his head in her hands and planted a big kiss on his forehead. I confirmed the trip, the aerial’s steps hinged inward, and its lid began to lower as Erik fixed his hair.
His grandmother and I leaned sideways and waved cheerily as the opening narrowed and sealed. She put her arm around mine as the aerial began its silent ascent. “I can’t believe our little bird is leaving the nest.” The aerial lifted and its Alfa Romeo emblem glinted in the morning light.
Tears began to well in my eyes, illogical as that was. I felt my mother staring at me. “What?”
She craned her neck upward and turned my face to get a closer look at my eyes. “If I didn’t know better, I’d swear you’re about to leak evidence of human emotion. We’d better get you inside before a voter sees you.”
As she began escorting me to her door, I glanced back to see Erik’s aerial shrink and meld with a thousand others racing overhead.
Bird leaving the nest.
I suddenly recalled that a barnacle goose will watch as its fledgling dives off and tumbles down a cliff face in a test of its ability to survive.
Stop it, Jack. There’s no excuse for being so dramatic.