Welcome
Committee

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You wake in fright. 

Conscious, eyes open, you sense that you’re completely restrained and sedated and you imagine the sensation is similar to having Locked-in Syndrome. All you can see above you are cubes, off-white office standard ceiling tiles that extend to the limits of your vision. A masked face leans over you and says, muffled, ‘Welcome to the World of the Future. Your drugs’ll soon wear off, let’s get you unplugged, my good chap.’

They start removing tubes from every orifice and you’re glad for the drug numbing. Once done, they leave and you never see them again. With just a breathing tube left in, muscle stimulation pads begin working your dormant muscles. You fall back asleep. 

You’re woken an indeterminate amount of time later by an automated feminine voice, ‘Good morning. Post stasis sleep requirement now met. It’s currently 14:35, Sunday the 31st November, 2145. Your completed stasis duration was 65 years. Melbourne is a grey 11℃, but inside the Cube, it’s a balmy and consistent 21℃. As we say in the CBC, one season in all days. Please rise and shower in the facilities located in the ensuite bathroom, then dress. You will find your pre-stasis clothing in the supply locker. On exiting, clean your pod of any waste matter as per the terms and conditions stipulated in your TimeBnB contract. Additional cleaning services may be deducted from your account and could influence your credit rating. To all our customers, TimeBnB wishes you,’ the voice takes on a sing-song quality, ‘a lovely tomorrow!’

 

~

 

In an office in the upper layers of the Temple of Sleep, a man dressed as a wizard sits across the table from you asking questions about your past life. ‘You’ve been deep 65 years? Hole-y shit. You got put under,’ he scrolls for a moment, ‘2081. Rigorous testing year. Stasis trials lasted 12… 12 Months! How do you feel?’

‘My limbs feel heavy and swollen. My teeth feel loose. Ugh.’

You need to spit and the wizard passes you a kidney dish. 

‘Awful. You know, a hobby of mine is studying stasis trials. I find it fascinating how we test what I consider untestable: an individual’s resistance to Future Shock. In my opinion, quantifying tolerance for the unexpected is impossible. But, it seems you’re considered extremely adaptable to the future.’ He shows you his screen, ‘C3 rating, eligible for stasis stretches upwards of 70 years. Tickle me impressed.’ 

‘Thanks.’ You give a modest smile. 

‘Care to tell me about your trials?’

‘If you like.’ 

You give a phlegmy cough then begin, ‘I applied for a stasis mortgage in ‘79. I was homeless, after being evicted from my tenement due to black mold. I was desperate. It took several more difficult years before I was accepted by TimeBnb. I remember after another unsuccessful visit to my Stasis broker, Bob-Bob, I thought my application was rejected. I went on a drunken tear, committing to a life of debt and misery. 

‘Next morning, naked and hungover, I was ripped from the sweet embrace of sleep, a hessian bag was put over my head, my limbs were zip-tied and I was rolled in my carpet. I woke in a dank basement, and could hear two men beyond my cell discussing how they were going to slice off and steal my face. You know what I thought, wrapped in my soft Persian rug? Least I’m warm. I love being warm. Apparently, my heart rate didn’t breach 80.’

The wizard laughs at you, ‘Jeez. We don’t do IRL trials, thank Christ. I guess you were one of the lucky ones.’ 

‘And that was just the start. Afterwards, there were months and months of VR and IRL tests. For VR programs, I would be admitted to the day clinic in the Temple of Sleep. I was immersed for weeks at a time. Each moment was opening a door in a deadly virtual labyrinth.’ You stretch your arms out, clicking several more things back in place. ‘I remember one VR sim, waking to a world with ascendant AI. I was melted down and my corporeal slurry was put through a sieve to extract my neurons. The resultant mass was fed into a scanner and I was completely digitised and uploaded in the clouds. I remember being interested in the idea of becoming the opposite of alone.’

‘Wild, friend.’ The wizard interlaces his fingers and leans on his elbows. ‘You want another drink?’

You nod, feeling your dry mouth with a rough tongue. He retrieves a cup for you and the water tastes fresh. He plays with his screen for a while, taking notes. As he works, you have to ask, "So… are you dressed, are you a Wizard?" 

‘Sure am.’

‘...’

‘I’m the Wizard January. Call me Jan.’

‘Nice to have your name, Jan. So we’ve invented magic in the future?’

‘No more than we’ve invented nature. In its most common form, magic is conscious human thought translated into language and art. I use this magic for work.’ He exhales deeply. ‘Though, it’s slow at the moment. My rent on the top floor of the Temple of Sleep is covered by this TimeBnb side hustle. Mind you, I love talking to people like you, those waking from deep slumber.’

You nod. ‘Sure, sure, but what does your magical work entail?’

‘Well, mainly, I differentiate AI content from human content. Science can’t explain why I’ve such an affinity for telling the difference, but my accuracy is unbeaten, neither by man nor machine. Mind if I yarn a bit?’

‘Proceed, my folk.’

The wizard smiles at your anachronism. ‘My mate Judy reckons it’s ‘cause I’m part of the Millennial generation, born in 1986. I was actually part of the Somnus Group.’

‘The progenitor stasis trial?’

‘You betcha, very first human trials for long-term stasis of ‘47. After Somnus, several of us formed a group called the Historians. We’d all use stasis 11 months of every year, waking for the month of December. Our belief was that if we went into stasis too long, we’d become detached from reality and would struggle with reintegration. Our aim from stasis was to prolong our lives and see the distant future, and become living historical records. Historians.’ He scoffs. ‘Funny how that works, aiming to live forever. Of the 15 starters, there are only five active Historians remaining. As one of the oldest in the Somnus Group, the only Millennial, I could be the last of my generation.’ Jan looks amiss, ‘What, what was I saying?’

‘Hmmm… your friend Judy reckons.’

‘Right. My friend Judy has this theory: I was born in the 20th century, during a period of great technological upheaval, from analogue to digital, and this upbringing imbued me with innate talent for sniffing out AI.’

The wizard raises his finger. ‘But. What I believe — and you can choose to believe — my talent springs from a lifetime of nourishing my artistic knowledge and practice and, hence, my ability to use and perceive magic. Words have power, and this lost, often misused magic is what I harness. Mine is bardic magic, the power of a poet, and it’s a magic present in all true art. AI still seems unable to make, in my opinion, authentic art or magic, as far as I can tell. People hire me to sniff out the mark of the machine.’

‘Right.’

‘Magic, analysing art and content, requires a lot of screen time, so it’s actually quite enjoyable mixing it up with TimeBnb stuff, especially when the person is so ancient,’ Jan slaps the table.

You frown, ‘Sure. You’re bloody old to be continually reminding me.’

He strokes the length of his beard, tossing it over his shoulder. ‘Yes. Maybe the oldest! I've seen a lot. But, in all my years, I’ve never slept longer than 11 months. Not brave enough for what you underwent. The gulf of knowledge you must consume to live right now in 2146, 65 years since you've seen the news… I don’t have the patience for that.’ 

‘I don’t think patience is the right word.’

‘You know, I was there when the Central Business Cube was completed. Let me catch you up on that moment.’

You nod. 

‘Picture me looking unbelievably handsome, front row of the closing ceremony watching the long dead Lord Mayor of Melbourne, Francis ‘The Permit’ Doyle, declare:’

 

“Due to declining air quality, the CBD of Melbourne must accept enclosure. After 25 years of incredible engineering and architecture, I now declare the Central Business Cube officially open for business. On this date, the year of my Lordship, 2055, we enter a new phase for our great city. Our future city is no dome, it is a place of straight lines, and only the most righteous angles will protect our glorious commercial district. One of our founders, Robert Russell, dreamt of the Hoddle Grid project, an organised collection of parallel and perpendicular streets that would form the Central Business District, the CBD. This area became the beating heart of the great southern bastion, our city of Melbourne. Russell's dream will be protected forever more, but now in the 3rd Dimension and presented by Etihad, the best choice in scenic blimp travel.” 

 

‘The Mayor cut that ribbon and so it was and here we are.'

The history lesson interests you, but you’re anxious to leave.

‘When can I go home?'

'Well, takes time to vacate your place.’ Jan gestures at his screen, ‘add on that you've got reeducation at a halfway house,’ he gestures again, ‘ for a week. We have the timing on point these days, so it should be a pretty smooth transition. Says here your 2nd cousin once-removed is renting your spot, Geof...'

'Baby Geoffrey?' 

'Can't tell you if he goes by that nickname anymore. Your remaining family is expecting you whenever, they know you're up. Let’s see, you live… Westbourne, King St proper, upper 6. Not far from here. There’s a pretty good halfway house nearby, Forwardpackers, on Uniacke Court. It’s run by Father Siobhán, but don’t fret, she doesn’t proselytise, she told me it’s easier being a lush if you wear the cloth. She’s a good guide, and it’d be a fine place to spend your re-up week. You can barely hear the Men’s Gallery DJs through the floor.’  

‘Can I skip the halfway house and go straight home? I’ll pay. Is this a matter of money? Or bribe?’

‘Money, valuable metals, yeah, the usual. Says here you earnt quite a stack from your pre-stasis investments.’ He smiles at you. ‘That’s what I’d say if I was a dickhead. No, if you want to go straight home, you’re welcome to. It’s your home, mate. You’re not a prisoner and you’ve a good set of legal rights, even if they’re unknown to you. Post stasis re-education is heavily recommended but it’s not law. I understand your desire, so let me message your cousin. As a bonus, it seems Baby Geoffrey has refreshed your insulation and soundproofing a few years ago. Your apartment should be so quiet you’ll be able to hear your own digestion.’

You feel your stomach turn. ‘That reminds me.’

The wizard smiles again, wider, ‘Yes, let’s eat. You seem like a good sort, let’s go to The Friggen Lutely, its a bar owned by the Temple of Sleep. I still have a Historian members card and the food is top notch… and by that I mean free. Plus, a walk, what the doctor ordered.’

 

~

 

On the street, you begin to get your city feet. The pedestrians bustle around you, eternally impatient, and you purposefully set your pace a meter behind the wizard to watch him interact with the riff-raff. Sometimes he gets ahead of you, but he's easy to spot in the distance, with his turquoise robes flowing around the colourful press of humanity. While not quite the density of the ancient Walled City of Kowloon, the crush of the people and the towering buildings within the Cube gives you an unfamiliar vertigo. You look above and the endless criss-crossed skywalks and towering buildings adds to your feeling that you are boxed in. You rub your right temple to ease the pressure in your skull. 

From a street vendor, Jan gets you a youtiao. You eat the oily donut and a satiated gut lifts your mood. 

Occasionally, several people harass you or solicit something, but they don’t linger once realising you’re under the protection of the wizard. Occasionally, January gives whispered advice to a passerby and, more than once, he gives out a small parcel from his sleeve. He regularly turns to you to give narration.

‘Shanghai Colony, best xiǎo lóng bāo dumplings west of Chinatown.’

‘That bloke, hi-vis, nose bone,’ he points, ‘an absolute criminal. Owner of The Grind. Wouldn’t know the difference between cost and value if someone pointed a gun at him and asked if he valued his own life.’

‘There, disreputable looking lady with the parrot, best sedatives and hypnotics in the Cube.’

‘Don’t drink from that fountain.’

He puts a hand on your chest. ‘Smell that?’ He gestures down the tunneled Kitz Lane, ‘the Canivegan Enclave. About 7 years ago, the group started eating lab-grown human flesh to illustrate vegan theory. The org splintered after several members grew to love the taste.’

‘That, that isn't illegal?’

‘Sure, in theory, but the meat is modified enough that the DNA straddles the line between human and chimp. It’s now somewhat kosher.’ You turn down the lane and walk past a grill-top operated by a human covered in a coat of hair so thick it hides their modesty. The wizard continues, ‘I guess you call that frying meat, homunculus? Canivegans have an antagonistic relationship with… well, everyone, but they produce phenomenal produce.’ You walk past a tight market stall and Jan picks up an apricot, sniffs it, then asks you to smell it, explaining that it makes him feel like the Godfather in the movie The Godfather. 

You stroll on.

Up an elevator, you rise to the skyscraper line and exit to a grimy corridor. Jan opens a nondescript door and you enter an expansive suite called The Friggin Lutely. A robot welcomes you and takes your coats. The place is unexpectedly cozy, a mixture of speakeasy and leather-bound library. Weaving through the many armchairs and hushed conversations, you make your way to the balcony. The wizard is no longer with you, presumably gone to fetch a drink, so you take a moment alone to stare over the building tops, taking in the concourse. Your breath is taken by the wind and you’re hit by that special, confusing beauty of human metropolis. Melbourne is vastly different from the last time you saw it, but you get the confused nostalgia of a lost traveller returning home. 

The Cube interior has a rough V-shape, with the western and eastern sides of the city standing tallest. From each corner, the building clearances slope down gradually, to finally meet at ground level in the largest clearing of the city, the Swanson Street Bizarre. In this artificial valley, between the lights and the windows and the concrete, the gulls, cranes, Indian Mynas, drones, mag-trams, Peregrine Falcons, magpies, clouds, helicopters, quads, micro jets, kites, all swirl in the air, just as busy and chaotic as the fray below. 

Jan, with a tray of food and drink, interrupts your absent gaze and directs you to a seat.

‘How does it feel?’

‘To be 65 years between drinks? Mentally, nervous, excited. Physically, awful.’

‘Anyone you want to look up? Curious of those alive or descended?’

You take a moment with your drink, ‘None spring to mind.’

‘Keeping your screen close to your chest, hey friend?’

You look him dead in the eyes. ‘Look, wizard, I’ve travelled to a time where all my loved ones could be dead. If there was a reason for that level of escapism, I’d share it with someone I’ve known for more than a couple hours.’

‘Fair fucking enough,’ says the wizard, laughing at you. You settle into a comfortable silence as you watch city shadows transform into night. A drone advertisement drifts by, of a man leaning on a shovel and mopping his brow sweat. He starts to dance next to his freshly dug grave and the screen zooms to the words on the tombstone, ‘No time like the Present. Pre-approval Mortgages through TimeBnb AVAILABLE NOW!’

 

~

 

You arrive home after 65 years. 

In your near empty lounge room, you stand awkwardly in front of an older man sitting in a single recliner. The only other piece of furniture is an ancient, threadbare Persian rug below the chair. The man’s scarred, Popeye-like arms rest on his barrel chest. He stares at a screen. ‘With yas after the stream.’ You and the wizard sit on the floor for 25 minutes until he is done. You cannot hear the audio, but from images you discern he is watching the season finale of a show called F.R.I.E.N.D., the story of six youthful roommates, all called Rachel, who live together in a cult hive mind in the one bedroom flat in Eastbourne. 

Once done, Baby Geoffrey clears his throat, ‘Straight to it. My Nuncle, from me and my kin, thank you for shelter. You and your apartment kept us safe, regardless of the fact we exchanged it for controlled rent. I’ve lived here since I was a baby and now, a man, I live here with my wife, Chauncey, my daughter, Beacon, my daughter’s wife, Wishglow, my grandson, Ambry, and my pet bilby, Rex.’

He cracks a beer.

‘I am conflicted about the news of you coming back from the deep. You are kin, so I'm happy to see you. But, you know, my daughter was born in this apartment, in a bathing pool in the kitchen.’ He pats the arms of his chair. ‘I don’t want to move out of my home, but I’m prepared to leave. My question is, Nuncle, can you handle this future? 2146 is a dangerous and unfamiliar reality for someone of your time. The psychic damage of future acclimatisation can be extremely hazardous.’

He finishes the beer and cracks another VB.

‘I wish you luck in your reintegration, but I will remind you of Time Squatting rights.’ He circles a finger, ‘This Place is mine if you pass unexpectedly. Heed then, your death might be sooner than you deserve if you don’t commit to re-education for at least one or two years. There’s facilities that can help, like Wilsmere, East of the CBC. I’ve called and they have a place if you’ll take it. They’ve a good rep, and they’ll smarten up those street smarts of yours. Let us a few more years here while you grow strong.’

You sit in silence for a while, locking eyes with him several times. ‘Geoffrey.’ You take a deep breath. ‘I need my home more than anything. If I’m to recover and adapt to this time, I need my space and the security it gives. I need my castle.’

Several rehearsed arguments seem to run across his furrowed brow. There is a longer silence than before, with a little less eye contact. ‘Well, Nuncle,’ he pulls the lever of his chair, rising with assistance, ‘welcome home. I shot my shot, missus’ll be happy.’ He tosses you the apartment passkey. ‘I'll see you at the family Labour Day BBQ, Aunt Sherly says you're to bring a potato salad.’ 

As he departs, he asks, ‘You know you’re something of a folk legend in the family? You remember your last words before your Timebnb stint?’

‘Yes, I remember what I said yesterday. Why wait for my parents to die?’

Geofrey nods and leaves. 

 

*

 

You put your bag down and consider bed, but you’re buzzing from decades of sleep and so you take up the wizard’s invitation for a drink. You follow him to a bar on King Ground, a grimy historic called The Colonial. You try to speak, but end up yelling over spilt pints. You leave after a couple of patrons get in a knife fight over bad drugs, and take to wandering the tunnels and lanes of the CBC, sharing a skin of plum wine. Eventually, tipsy and warm, you find yourself beneath the screens of Flinders St Station. The wizard turns to you, ‘It’s past my bedtime.’ 

He turns to leave, but spins for a last word, ‘You’re far, far from your time. One thing that might help, in my opinion, is to see yourself as a migrant, of time, not space. Come to terms with this, maybe even try and celebrate it. The true human experience is that of curiosity and discovery, and nothing is more curious than the future. Humans have always shuffled round this earth. Australians more than most. Behind Indigenous culture, migrant culture is the best we’ve got.

‘Personally, I'm confident you'll cope with reintegration. But, the stats are stacked against you. If you need help, I’m usually lurking round the Temple of Sleep. On another note, I have a project called Stories from the Cube. It's a short story collection I've been running for more than half a century. I often ask stasis users if they’d consider writing a story for consideration and share their thoughts on this bizarre future.’

You raise an eyebrow. ‘I don’t know that I’m much of a story teller.’

‘As I always say, every human has at least one story to tell. Plus, you’re pre-Cube.’ The wizard laughs at your facial expression, enjoying how easy it is to mess with you. ‘You’re a C3 Adaptable, a rare breed. I’d love to hear your journey. If not, at least writing is good therapy. Just consider my offer, hey? Consider creating a little magic.’

He fucking winks at you and leaves.