Centenarian Ships Update [on The Feed: audio, text, video AI]

Centenarian Ships leave from your locale in April.

All those not enrolled will be incarcerated and sent on secondary ships in May.

Happy Travels!


The Garden
Pete, a rare gardener, and his accountant wife, Thalia, have been kind enough to put me up—only the cities have work for a ninety-six-year-old.

My plan is to hold this job until my forced departure from Earth on The Centenarian Ships. The new workplace is called The Garden: an old federation house with a real garden, actual earth and loam, the kind that you can dig your hands into. Worms tunnel, ladybirds land on the roses, and you can handpick figs and pomegranates and citrus fruit. A kaleidoscope of colour, with birdsong in the mornings and evenings, and a great pond in the middle with fountains and goldfish and koi and frogs.

Grevillea (doubt it’s her real name)—all wild loops of auburn hair, who owns and runs the business—welcomes me, hand out, as she has every day so far. I hope she doesn’t feel the creaks in my bones as we shake hands. Even with all the anti-aging drugs, the years still creep over you, just a lot slower and gentler than it did in my own grandparents’ time.

I breathe easier in Grevillea’s Garden. The dust, which has me sneezing in the streets, never seems to touch the place. It’s as if the vegetation and soil soak the dust up to provide a haven for me and all those warblers and chirpers.

I head over to the barista bench, where I’ll soon be creating crescent moons and love hearts with my pours.

I don’t get my hands dirty like Pete and the other gardener, Baz, who is one of those weird Womban creatures. The café, with its verandah overlooking the greenery and a few tables situated under the trees too, is booked months ahead. Grevillea is a canny operator and always keeps a couple of free tables for regulars, and some for passersby. A tour of the green Eden, however, costs more points than a regular worker like me can afford.

Like always, today is hectic––no time for me to practice the new, more intricate flower pattern, which I haven’t yet nailed––so it’s all foamy tops of simple hearts. Everything is measured automatically––I can’t really burn the milk or the coffee, even if I try.



Centenarian Ships Update [on The Feed: audio, text, and video]

This year’s ships may or may not land on Mars. This is contingent on spaces available on The Red Planet. But regardless, the luxury liners are fully equipped to cater for decades of enjoyable travel through space on your final journey of a lifetime.

Happy Travels!



Grevillea has been firmly insistent I take no part in the cleanup at the end of the workday. Why argue? I sit at a table with The Long Valley by Steinbeck, resting my feet on a chair opposite.

I have reread “Johnny Bear” and am about to begin the next when Pete and Baz come in for the evening meal––Grevillea’s custom of getting the staff together after the workday.

Pete slumps across from me and skulls a couple of glasses of water. “Boy did Baz and I work up a sweat, Yi-Yang. Hard guy to keep up with.”

“Thalia coming today?” I ask. Pete’s wife oversees the finances for a bunch of businesses, including Grevillea’s, and sporadically joins us. I get a little nervous around her. Might be that she is overly neat and overly groomed and overly capable. Not the type I have ever understood well, but then again, I’ve only known her a week or so as I’ve only been in the city for eight days, marking time until I board The Centenarian Ships.

“Not today.” And he nods toward Baz, who is repeatedly backing into a wall. “Thalia can’t handle him. You’ve seen The Feed, haven’t you?”

You can’t avoid it. The Feed is in every restaurant, every home, every café. Excluding a few of us oldies, almost every adult has The Feed Input inserted behind their ear, linked to the brain, so they can upload even quicker, scan the news, download, get updates, even project to other devices. Rumours are some are being stolen from people’s heads. Can’t see why though, not like it’s expensive anymore or exclusive. Maybe for the thrill of it? Maybe they have some way of accessing info we’ve been told is private?

“All that Womban news,’ Pete says, “my wife … she’s one of the many who wants them removed.”

I shrug uncomfortably. “I don’t access The Feed much.”

Pete laughs. “Well, you and Grevillea must be the only two around.”

The Garden was a rare “Feed-free” venue.

Grevillea comes over. Must have been eavesdropping. “Now, Yi-Yang,” she says, addressing me. “I won’t have you learning poor habits from Pete. I’m sure he didn’t intend to say ‘Womban.’ It’s incredibly insulting.” Grevillea eyes Pete warily. “You didn’t mean it, did you, Pete?”

“Course not, boss. Bad habit. Sorry.”

Grevillea nods curtly, then goes over to Baz and scratches his back and head. It seems to calm him, as he stops shoving his rear into the wall.

“Back in the day,” says Pete to me, “they wanted to demolish this place. Offered her major points, but Grevillea stood firm, said she had a family legacy and a vision. ‘The past is worth cherishing’ were her words, and the quote spread over The Feed like wildfire. Gotta love her. Basically, told them to go shove it.”



The womban, Baz, waddles over to us, Grevillea follows. “Good day’s work, Baz?” I ask. I haven’t spoken to him much. Aren’t many of them on the farmlands. I ensure I don’t recoil while Pete scratches Baz’s head to contented grunts.

The Womban’s incisors are mammoth, the bottoms of them especially white as if they’d been chipped clean off.

Baz pulls two tiny leather pouches out of his trouser pockets––one green, the other brown––and hands them to me.

“Baz’s family,” explains Pete.

“Family?”

“Yep,” says Baz. “My wife and daughter,” and he pauses to snort, “Jaye and Mel.” His voice, between grunts and sniffs, sounds earthy, like he forces it from someplace deep, someplace elsewhere.

On opening the pouches, I discover fur in both, like that on Baz’s body.

“Go on, smell ’em,” says Pete.

I do. Both strong, one pungent, the other musky-sweet, not much different to Baz’s own odour. I grasp that these scents are the equivalent of family pics. I give the pouches back to Baz. “Nice,” I say.

“Thanks,” says Baz. “Mean more to me than anything.”

Grevillea, overseeing us all, pats my knee. It isn’t patronising. I decide I like her. Not for the knee-pat, but for caring.

Two of the waiters bring out food and join us: Elias, with doe-like eyes and a mop of brown curls, and the taller, charming Imran are a newly married couple. Pleasant, genuine types, who have no problem with Baz and his habits. It’s of no concern to them when Baz wanders away from us to crouch around their legs. Imran and Elias raise their hands and allow Baz to sniff away.

“Who do you think it’ll be today?” I ask Pete.

“Almost always, Grevillea. Maybe Imran and Elias? Some days, when Thalia is not around and I’m totally sure of where I’ve been, I’ll let him do me.”

“What about the rest of the staff?”

“Can’t you see them all, putting on a brave front, but cringing away on the inside. Answer is never. Not even with Grevillea around.”

“It’s okay, Baz,” says Grevillea. “If nobody else is offering, I’m here.”

I clear my throat. If I want to stay here for the next three-and-a-half years I have to earn my keep: win Grevillea’s trust, not only through my work but also through my character.

“Baz!” I call out.

Baz rubs his muscly rump on the ground in what I guess is a sign of pleasure, doesn’t even bother standing, just keeps his butt to the floorboards and paddles over using his hands. Really close this time, his nostrils quiver as he sniffs me all over, drinking me in. A snort indicates he’s finished.

“Showered this morning.” As Baz speaks, his voice warms me and I in turn warm to Baz. Perhaps the inimitable tone, rumbling from the caverns of his belly, speaks to me of something pure, of soil and loam, somehow. “Washed hair with an anti-dandruff shampoo, but it won’t help, actually has a scalp mould infection, common in those who wash too often.”

“Thanks, Sherlock,” I say. The olfactory part of a Womban’s brain is hyper- developed, part of the gene-splicing experiments that produced the new peoples generations ago. I recall a line, think it was from the legendary naturalist Attenborough–– I love those old docoes––about hyenas being able to sniff out what occurred at a place over the previous day or two.

“Yi-Yang’s been at the coffee machine almost all day,” Baz says, “ventured out on to the verandah during his morning and afternoon break but didn’t go into the garden itself. He has been to the bathroom three times. And he’s eaten asparagus for breakfast.”

Although most present are horrified of his talent, we applaud. I nod to Baz, hold out my hand, and wince as he grips it too firmly with his stubby palm. Grevillea rubs his back again and winks at me in approval.

“Should be on The Force,” I say to Pete.

“What with viewers recording our every movement? No need these days.”



Centenarian Ships Update [on The Feed: audio, text, and video AI]

Despite recent unrest in Australia, Wombans will be on The Centenarian Ships. Centenarian Ships have passengers from all over Earth regardless of wealth or status or creed or splice. Your final trip is one of inclusivity.

The Centenarian Journey is the great equaliser.

Happy Travels!


Outside of The Garden
That evening Pete leads me home on a different path; he taps the small protuberance behind his ear. “The Feed says marches on Murray and Hay Street malls. Anti-Womban stuff.”

The haze is like nothing I have ever witnessed in the country, not even during the droughts––breathing masks are required on the worst days. The high towers spook me too, though I don’t mind the ones with vines overflowing from the top like emerald fringes.

People hasten past, some in work suits and others in fluoro vests, and a few, like me, in more casual gear. “Shouldn’t we go back and warn Baz?”

“Too late. We’ll never get through. He’ll be safe with Grevillea.”

“Poor bugger.”

Pete reaches for my arm. “Believe me, Baz can take care of himself––that’s part of people’s bloody fear. Stay close. Could get crazy.”

As he says it crowds emerge from the side streets around us. In the distance, there are more of them, chanting choral-like “Wombans out!” Not a protest to be praised––more like the racist protests of old Australia. I’d read about a few in the 1910s and 1920s. All this lot require is a bugle or two.

More and more spill on to the path, chaotically shouting, whirling about like a swarm.

“What’s going on?”

“They’ve got one,” says Pete. “No avoiding it now. If we get separated, meet me at home.”

Eight Forcemen appear in their navy combat uniforms, stun-guns out. Pete follows them as they run over to the mob. I stride after Pete––I can’t run, not on my joints; cartilage and stem cell tablets and injections can only do so much at my age. As I near the crowd, I catch glimpses of the Womban, gnashing and grunting and spiraling about as people come at it from all sides. The arrival of the Forcemen splits the pack open, giving me clear sight of three men who have the Womban backed up against a wall of a clothing store. He snarls and snorts, the men dart in and out, kicking and punching him.

Then in a move almost too quick for belief, the Womban pulls the nearest man behind him, grunting as the other two bloody his face. Then he rears in, his muscly rump holding his victim against the wall. When the Womban finally moves forward, the man is broken and still on the paving, dark fluid leaking down his legs, staining his trousers and the footpath. The remaining attackers retreat, spitting. The Forcemen step in. A blast from the stun gun and the Womban is rendered unconscious, hitting the ground like a sack of rocks.

Pete locates me. Squirming and apologising, we fight free of the press of bodies, and I throw a final look over my shoulder: the crowd remain, clouded in the dusty air, shivering in the haze, seeming to float like ghosts. My nasal passages and mouth are bone-dry.



Once home, I slouch at the dining table. Pete brings over two glasses and a bottle of scotch; bit of a change from the usual hot-choc. “Thalia should be home by now.”

I sip my drink, hoping the enjoyable burn will loosen my thoughts. I don’t know who I feel sorrier for, the Womban or the crumpled man. I say as much to Pete.

“Self-defence,” he says. “Can’t blame the Womban can you? But he won’t be in action tomorrow.”

“What do you mean?”

“Those that haven’t left on their own are disappearing––you know the odd type of disappearing. Mind if I put on The Feed?”

I shrug. “Your home, Pete.”

He touches the The Feed Input gizmo behind his ear, and a big screen on the wall flickers on: the Prime Minister, silver-haired, neatly suited, is announcing new measures to be enacted under emergency law.

“So soon?” I ask.

“Been developing for a while, Yi-Yang.” He taps behind his ear and The Feed screen vanished. He refills our glasses. “Bloody populist reactionaries.”



When Thalia finally arrives, you’d never have guessed she’d attended the protest: neat and proper as ever, heels clacking on the tiled floor, honey-blond hair in a tidy bob. As she sits next to me, I detect a light flush in her cheeks. “You should have seen it,” she says, her voice straining to hold in the excitement. “We’re really making a difference. So great to see us united for once. Fighting for our cultural integrity.”

Pete rolls the last caramel drops of liquid around in his glass. He doesn’t bother looking at Thalia. “Night, Yi-Yang.”

“Night,” I reply. I’m desperate to leave too, but Thalia shows no sign of following her husband. She leads off with “Wombans never integrated” and “Danger to others” and “Genetic splicing just went wrong with those Wombans.” How they “pose a danger to any children she and Pete might have,” although she doesn’t articulate what the danger is. Australia has to be “Completely safe from Wombans.” I let her talk. She assumes, I suppose, that having now seen Baz at work I’d be on her side, the right side, the side of the just. The conundrum is that Thalia can give me the boot anytime––I’m super lucky to find accommodation with her and Pete, super lucky to find The Garden. I require all the stability I can get before my time comes. Having my brain chemistry tampered with unwillingly is a huge fear of mine, perhaps an illogical phobia, but I don’t want to board the ships loaded up on psychotropic medication.

When Thalia eventually pauses for breath I say, “Be careful, Thalia. Got pretty rough today.”

“You frightened?” she asks, surprising me. I assume she’s referring to the wombans again, but before I can reply, she clarifies: “About the ships?”

It confounds me. Such animosity one way, yet she’s still capable of real compassion, of empathy. Am I frightened? Like anyone my age, I am terrified. Flying into space on those big luxury liners, looking for new places to colonise or simply flying on until supplies run low after a couple of decades or so, and you slept. Soon Mars will be sending off Centenarian Ships of its own.

“Frightened?” I say, smiling with relief at the change of subject. “Not one bit. Chance for another adventure.”

“Brave. Wish my Dad had thought that way. He was a lot older than Mum, but she went too, took the long-term partner option.” Thalia sounds so different from the woman who’d been spouting hatred moments ago. “Well, I hope you’ll be comfortable with us.”

“Off to a lovely start.” What else can I say?

Thalia grins, staring past me––must have been at something on her Feed. She almost shrieks, “Watch!”

The Feed spits onto the wall screen.

New emergency incarceration laws have been passed. Wombans, for their own safety, are to be rounded up and duly processed.

Thalia’s bleached symmetrical teeth shine.



Centenarian Ships Update [on The Feed: audio, text, and video]

Ships arriving in your locale will arrive following the Singaporean Boarding. All ships will be equipped with the latest gaming programmes—and there is more great news–– for those interested in the weekly dining experience, we have expanded the menu to include an additional thirty thousand recipes from across the globe.

As Centenarian Ship passengers, you will not have communication with Earth. The psychological impact of constant communication with the home planet affects a Centenarian’s well-being and will impact your final journey.

Happy travels!


The Garden
Pete insists on an early arrival to work. We head through a dawn cloud of yellow-grey dust so thick we wear sunglasses along with scarves over our mouths. At The Garden, Grevillea paces the café floor.

“Rounded most up last night,” Pete says grimly. “Celebratory march today. Bet my wife attends.”

“Do you want to talk to the boss alone?” I ask him.

Pete shakes his head. “So long as it remains between the three of us,” he says. “Think you’re a good sort.”

Up close Grevillea is an unhealthy pale, irises pinkish, eyelids puffy; wrinkles seem to have materialised overnight and stand out like etchings. She jerks her chin towards the front door. Imran and Elias enter, arm-in-arm.

Imran reminds me of an older version of Aladdin, temples sprinkled with salt and pepper. He takes in Grevillea’s vexed face. “We came to say that we expect you’ll do right by Baz.”

Elias chimes in, “We’re prepared to hide him, then smuggle him out when we can.” He swallows. “But from the look of you, it’s too late. Poor guy.”

Grevillea can’t find her voice. Elias puts an arm around her. “It’s not your fault, you know,” he says. “Fucken red necks. And in this bloody day and age.” Elias looks at me as if asking for leave for what he says next. “We’re all the bloody same: hit one hundred and you’re on The Centenarian Ships, no matter how you’ve been spliced.”

Imran shakes his head. “Elias and I will set up, Grevillea. You sit and rest. You took care of Baz. Gave him hope––more than most.”

Pete is set to leave for the garden when Grevillea yanks his sleeve. “There’s a boarded area over a hole not far from the pond. Make sure everyone stays away from it, won’t you? And, Pete, we’ve got some handcrafted boats coming in for the pond–– arriving early morning, 2 am sharp. I’ll need you around.”

It seemed a ridiculous hour and I say as much.

“The city’s busy with celebrations, so there’s been a delay. Easier to get things through empty streets.”

Still doesn’t make sense, but who am I to question the boss.

Few customers come. Several bookings never arrive. I guess it relates to the celebrations in Forrest Place. The usual warm chatter is replaced by an eerie quiet, broken only by the occasional scattered whisper. Imran and Elias are let off early. It doesn’t look like there’ll be a communal dinner either. And for the first time, and this may be my old eyes playing tricks, I think the city’s dust has infiltrated the café. Grevillea takes up the broom more than once.



“Head off home, you two,” Grevillea says when Pete checks in on us all in the late arvo.

“You’ll be OK?”

“Yeah, Pete. Get some rest. I thought Thalia would be here with the accounts—but I’ll sort it out tomorrow. She’s never missed a meeting before. I’ll hang around. Don’t think I’ll be able to sleep tonight anyway. But you’ll be back at 2 am, won’t you? Help with the heavy lifting?”



We are halfway along our usual route home when Pete charges off in a new direction, his finger fiddling with the device behind his ear. It takes all my energy to follow him up a slope, through an older part of town. A few precious Victorian-era buildings still stand: a gothic church at the hilltop, an old girls’ school beside it, and then the towering floors of a hospital rear up. Before I know it, I find myself chasing Pete across the custard-coloured vinyl floor of the Emergency Ward entrance, straight to Admissions.

Then we trail an overworked triage nurse with swollen ankles as she meanders through a ward, until at last we stop at a bed, its occupant wrapped tight in starched white sheets.

Although Thalia’s head is heavily bandaged, traces of cherry still ebb through. A saline drip, and what I assume is morphine, are plugged into her arm. Thalia is as dormant as a princess in an enchanted sleep. Rows of occupied beds stretch either side of her. “I’ll have a doctor talk to you as soon as possible,” the nurse says, almost without breaking stride.

Pete holds his wife’s limp hand as his mouth tightens.

Not knowing what to say, I stay silent.

The doctor, when he arrives, is accompanied by a Forceman. “Happened after the celebration,” the Forceman says. “Someone’s ripped her Feed Input straight out. Not even the viewers picked it up. We’ve searched all over the footage for signs, but she’s obscured; we catch her and then it’s shady, and then she’s obscured again, then she’s on the ground, a bloodied mess. Can’t be anything else but deliberate. I’m very sorry.”

Pete asks the doctor: how far have they dug? Has she lost part of her brain? When will she wake?

“We may need to induce her into a temporary coma if she comes to, I’m afraid. Part of her Uploads will be gone. She’ll be changed, but we think we can insert a new Feed Input. She’s lost plenty of blood. A few years ago, we wouldn’t be able to save her. But the tech’s better now.”

Pete stares at Thalia until long after the doctor and Forceman have left. I go and return with coffees, and Pete is still staring, so I leave again and use the few points I have remaining on energy bars. Pete mumbles thanks and eats and drinks like he doesn’t taste anything. Visitors arrive and leave from other beds. Several lights are flicked off. The triage nurse returns and tells us they’ll be moving Thalia to a private room soon.



It is well after midnight when Pete rises and kisses Thalia’s icy cheek, then he gathers her jacket––smudged with blood and dirt––from the bedside.

The quiet streets are well-lit, parts in chromatic glory, others in white, and others, as we approach The Garden, in a ginger glow.

Grevillea opens the door at the first knock. “Knew you’d come.” Grevillea looks as though she hasn’t rested at all, shadowy pits under her eyes, her skin paler.

I wait while Pete tells Grevillea about Thalia––he doesn’t say where his wife was when attacked, but I figure he doesn’t have to. Wanting to be useful, I give them space and make three coffees; by the third, I see that, without thought, I’ve finally mastered the frilly flower design. That one, I decide, is for Pete.

I know Pete trusts Grevillea, but I still can’t fathom why decorative boats in a pond are so important. Important enough to leave his wife’s side.

Their voices hush as I bring over their coffees. Pete has Thalia’s jacket out and Grevillea is shaking her head. A stray moth flutters around the light, conjuring shadow puppets dancing on the walls. Pete sips his coffee, ignorantly destroying the intricate flower in the foam.

After a while, he stands, jacket in hand.

“I said no, Pete. This needs to be fast and quiet. What’s the good of it anyway?”

“I’m risking things too, Grevillea. I care. I’m here.”

“And I’m appreciative, Pete. Truly. But––”

“It could help, a clue or two.”

“Don’t see the point.”

“It’s my wife, Grevillea. Surely you understand that.”

“I do. I really do … but there’s more at stake. Besides, Thalia never gave a damn about Baz.”

It is as if I have vanished. Maybe that’s all you are at my age, an invisible witness, before you vanish altogether on The Centenarian Ships.

“Can’t stop me. Fire me if you want, but I’m doing this.” He places the jacket down on a table. Then goes to the back-verandah door, turns the handle, and finds it locked. “The key, Grevillea.”

She shakes her head.

“We’ve only got an hour or so,” he says with a tone as tight as a wire. “Please, give me the bloody key.”

“All you’re doing is risking a lot for little return.”

Like a song on repeat, Pete keeps requesting the keys. Grevillea eventually tosses them to him and he catches them one-handed. “Yi-Yang, lights.”

We step out into the serene, spot-lit garden. The water shimmers, crickets chirp, and frogs call, and there is that fresh green smell. I shadow Pete to where the planks have been put by the pond. Pete motions me to the far side, and although the bending is hard on my knees, I help him lift. Once the second plank is gone, I squint into the pit and catch two oily orbs glinting in the moonlight. I stagger back.

“Baz?” A familiar sniffing-grunt confirms it. Pete and I move three more planks, then Pete slides two at a diagonal angle into the hole.

Baz scrambles up the makeshift ramp.

Baz, left unwashed, has a stronger animal reek than ever, and I feel an unwarranted sense of repulsion (but I remind myself that any unwashed human smells rank). Baz sniffs us before squeezing our hands. Pete gives his scalp a good scratch and Baz makes a throaty noise a bit like a purr. “C’mon, Baz. Boats depart at two. We need to get you sorted.”

So much for ornamental boats.

“Bring in a branch, Yi-Yang.”

“What for?”

And Pete points to his own front teeth, and I look at Baz’s mouth where the incisors have already grown.

Inside, Grevillea has food and a drink ready for him. Baz furiously gnaws through the branch. Don’t know whether he’s lost much in incisor length by the time he’s finished.

“We got his family out,” Grevillea addresses me, “but the hole was the safest place for him. It’s all in the timing. Streets have been full of Forcemen and people are churning out hatred on The Feed.”

“They seem to turn a blind eye when they’re on the boats out at these early hours,” adds Pete. “Not their issue anymore. You can’t ever tell Thalia, Yi-Yang.”

“I don’t think Yi-Yang is the gossiping type.” Grevillea faces me. “You understand, Yi-Yang. Even Elias and Imran are unaware––hate keeping secrets, but the fewer who know, the safer this is.”

“Boats at 2 am?”

“We’ll have him on one bound for New Zealand.” She points at Thalia’s jacket. “You still set on this nonsense, Pete?”

“Baz. Got something for you.” Pete brings him the jacket. Baz takes it in his furry hands. “Go on,” says Pete. “Tell us whatever you can.”

Baz sniffs, then moves his rump up and down the chair. “Thalia’s perfume, Estia No. 4. Crowds. Town. People brushing by. So many people. Been on the pavement. Her blood. Earlier this evening. Blood, Pete.”

“What else?”

“Lots of blood. Too much,” his gravelly voice quails. “Gloves maybe. Material on her face, like clean tea towels. Then later, sanitised hands, anti-bacterial.”

“Any more, Baz? The gloves?”

“Wish I could tell you more. Wish I could.” And Baz flees over to the wall and rears into it heavily, again and again.

Grevillea puts an arm on Pete’s shoulder. “You need to trust the Forcemen to sort it out. Leave Baz with me for a while now. Got to calm him down. We can’t get him to the boat like this.”

“I’m sorry,” says Pete. “I thought­—”

“No time for that now, Pete. We’ll be right. Go have a coffee with Yi-Yang. We’ll get him out together. You and me. I’ll call you out when the time’s right.”

Pete shakes his head as we head into the kitchen. “I shouldn’t have done that,” he whispers.

I heat the milk. “Anyone would have done the same. Has to be awful to see your wife like that.” I perfect two flowers in the foam.

We don’t sit but lean against the monochrome steel of the kitchen benches, coffees in hand. In the other room we can still hear Baz backing away into the wall. Thump, thump, thump, thump. Grevillea is chatting to him, her voice calm.

“Nice,” says Pete, looking down at his cup. “You finally nailed the flower.”

Neither of us sip our coffees though. Thump, thump, thump.

“It’s good, Pete. You know, what you’re doing, helping in there.” Only a few days ago, I would have said “helping that creature.” That was before I’d heard Baz talk, smelled his family, understood his plight. Great to see you can teach an old dog like me new tricks.

Thump, thump. “Not so good. Shows how easy it is.”

“Pete?” The pendulum thumps slow.

“Wasn’t right putting him in danger just now. Getting him worked up with Thalia’s jacket. What if Grevillea doesn’t weave her magic in time?”

Thump. “I reckon Grevillea could soothe the seas in a cyclone.”

After a while, it grows quiet. Grevillea comes into the kitchen. “He’s better than before, but not nearly good enough to go, too easily spooked. Don’t know what else I can do. We’re running out of time.”

All along, I’ve been an onlooker. I hand Grevillea my cup. “Drink up,” I tell her. “And give me a minute or two alone with Baz.”

She looks perplexed but doesn’t object.

I enter the dining room, closing the door behind me.

Baz has stopped thumping his butt against the wall; however, he still rocks back and forth on the spot, biting the air.

Despite his awkward movements, I lean in, trying to ignore his gnashing incisors, and allow him to swallow down my scent. “You know me, Baz?”

Baz nods, still awkwardly rocking.

“OK if I talk?”

He nods again, although his movements remained unchanged.

“You know how old I am? Almost a Centenarian, only a few years to go. We’re not the same, I get that, but I reckon we are in a similar situation. For some reason, people think we don’t belong, so we’re forced off to places where no one can see us.”

Baz stops biting and I reach out, put my arms around his stocky frame and rock back and forth with him as one. “We’re both forced away from our homes, told we don’t fit. It sure as Hell ain’t fair. But we’ve both got to go someplace that’ll keep us safe. Someplace else that might care, that might help.”

We rock together, our seesaw gradually losing momentum. From the now ajar kitchen door, Grevillea and Pete peek out at us.

And then we stop altogether, and Baz holds me as much as I hold him.

As Baz and I release one another, Grevillea has already arrived and scratches his back.

Pete holds his thumbs up at me from the doorway.

“Stay here, Yi-Yang,” Grevillea says softly, kissing my cheek. “We’ve got to slip him out now, quick. Boats will be departing soon.”

*     *     *
Thalia survived. Both changed and the same. Caring part remained along with her exceedingly efficient and well-kept manner. Yet it was like she’d had a personality overhaul. “Product of The Feed uploads,” Pete says one day. “Our identity is shaped by it. By what we choose to upload. Most of hers were wiped. But there are signs, perhaps I am paranoid, of her bigotry reemerging. I’ll do all I can to avoid those rocky grounds.”

Pete took leave to cross the Tasman and visit Baz in New Zealand. Apparently, the botanical garden Baz works at in Dunedin rivals The Garden. Pete tells me Baz’s family took turns sniffing him out and telling him where he’d been daily. “You know,” Pete says, “I’d gotten used to Baz’s odour working alongside him. But when you live with them, after a few trying days, the Wombans’ scents become welcoming.”



Centenarian Ships Update [on The Feed: audio, text, and video AI]

Centenarian Ships not only allow for meaningful travel, but they also prevent overcrowding of Earth and allow for the gift of longevity. Perhaps there will be other Marses? Other planets to terraform?

Happy travels!



Pete keeps me informed on The Centenarian Ships and my inevitable leaving of the world behind. “Happy travels” riles me. Suppose all Centenarians have few choices at the end––in fact there’s only two: euthanise or embark. I suppose Earth is where we’ve made our choices. Hopefully played our part, a little good if we can, before the penultimate voyage.

*     *     *
Although colossal, they don’t seem much from the outside––they are not the metallic gleam you imagine as a child. Pete and Grevillea have come to send me off. Thalia would have come too, but since their recent split, they can’t bear the sight of each other.

We enjoyed our final dinner together at The Garden. They’d booked a swankier restaurant for my sendoff, but I told them it was The Garden with Grevillea, or nowhere at all.

Grevillea steps back to leave me some alone-time with Pete.

“Still frightened?” Pete whispers. He’s kept my fears secret.

“I gave up checking on Mars long ago. We’ll probably jettison off into space for a couple of decades. Trick is not to dwell over it. I’m more blue about leaving you all behind.” I smile. “At least these aren’t the 2 am boats, Pete––we’re all on the same ship this time.”

Pete wraps his arms around me and doesn’t look like letting go.

“It’s a new journey,” I say, granting Pete permission to release me.



Wombans will already be onboard, having arrived via Singapore with the earlier pickups. I am surrounded by all sorts of folks on the travellator that advances us towards the immense Centenarian Ship’s hatch. People wave and yell distant farewells. Every Centenarian faces backwards, every Centenarian except me. I don’t see anybody quite like Pete ahead; still, there is couple nearby, almost an older version of Elias and Imran; and there is a lady with loopy curls like Grevillea, only they’re snowy.