Кори Доктороу - Make Shift - Dispatches from the Post-Pandemic Future

Confusion aside, the public loved our show, chuckling at Doug Yau’s acerbic comedy, rapt by Chen Xi’s beautiful, rugged landscape sculptures, reminiscent of the highlands. “Authentically Hong Kong, distinctly Scottish,” wrote one visitor in a survey. Mission accomplished, said Tricia Lee in an email to our festival team.

Celia tweaked her code in the following days to accommodate the growing crowds, introducing a new timing system to reduce bottlenecks. I designed a way to nest performances inside each other, so that Katie Cheung’s AR violinist and her audience could sit within a larger dance performance. The result was that people could linger at Chen Xi’s landscapes or Tricia Lee’s miniature city if they were enjoying them and we’d route other audience members around or even through them.

During an operational review at the halfway point of the festival, Tricia hinted Little Kowloon was considering commercializing the dynamic distancing technology for use around the world, and that I would be welcome to join the team on a permanent basis. Rumor was that the tech could be worth hundreds of millions, a shot in the arm for the community and the wider diaspora.

I spoke to Celia again that evening about my misgivings. “I know why we made the decisions we did. The dynamic distancing triggers barely worked and Anna Hui’s work would’ve burned through our entire budget in the first week. But still, I wonder…”

“You were expecting something more unconventional? Or… logistically impossible?” she said, with a slight smile.

I shrugged helplessly. “I don’t know. I wish we could give people a more special experience, something worthy of what we’ve achieved here. Anna’s dance, it was so enchanting.”

“Enchanting? I think mesmerizing is closer. Don’t look so surprised! You and Cindy aren’t the only ones who think it’s special. But special isn’t enough by itself.”

“I suppose it feels like we’re only trying to get as many bodies through the door as possible, so we can be the best, whatever that means. I know this is only a festival, but these things matter. I never see anyone talking about the art, just the numbers.”

“But that’s where you’re wrong. There can be romance in numbers. Those numbers are people, and it’s not for us to say what they gain from our art.” She sighed. “They’re talking about making a TV show about me. About the Diaspora Project. A symbol of a glorious struggle. But it wasn’t romantic. It was awful. I had to fight for every dollar in donations, every boat, every plane, every person we could get out safely. The only way I got through it is by focusing on the numbers alone.”

“I get it. Everything is for the greater good, and what is it worth two people dancing if a hundred can see a show?” I instantly regretted it, and quickly added, “I’m not the one who’s lost their home. I don’t know what that feels like and I can’t blame you for doing whatever you feel it takes to protect your new home. But I am a friend. And it doesn’t feel right.” I said.

She was quiet for a long beat. “Yes, the CCP said the same thing against our demands for self-governance. I am not blind to the irony of the situation. You’ve done a lot for us.” Celia looked to her side, swiping through an invisible interface. “You can have the last day for Anna. Make the most of it.” Her avatar vanished.

I MISSED REUBEN’S EMAIL AMID THE RUSH OF PREPARATION FOR THE DANCE. CELIAhadn’t left me a single extra penny of computing time, so I was determined to wring every bit of efficiency out of Anna’s code. Cindy received a field promotion to cover my technical liaison role, and I hunkered down for two weeks, puzzling over sensor interfaces and plugging in the latest H1N3 models.

The night before the performance, Cindy ordered me to get a proper sleep and had the network admins bar my access to the festival’s servers. That’s how I finally ended up reading his email, buried under a mountain of unread newsletters.

“Elaine,” he wrote. “I’m afraid I can’t make it to the performance. I tested positive, and because I have certain complications, I’m staying at Western General. I’m sure I’ll be fine, but if I’m not, let me take this opportunity to be candid.” Only Reuben could view contracting a deadly disease as an opportunity, I thought. “I respect your foresight in taking dynamic distancing to the next level with Anna’s dance. It’s what she’d have wanted, and it’ll make the technology that much more valuable. If you need help handling Celia in the future, just let me know. Heung gong yan, ga yau!”

I took my glasses off and closed my eyes.

AFTER A FITFUL NIGHT, I ARRIVED AT THE MARQUEE AT DAWN. THERE WERE ONLY Afew people waiting in line. Some had brought thermos flasks with tea and coffee, and were sitting on folding stools and reading the news. I frowned, ducking inside.

The marquee was deserted. The tech crew had cleared the few bits of equipment needed for the past month of AR performances, leaving the maximum space for the dance. I began the startup process, dozens of fans in the walls and ceilings whirring to life.

With some creative programming, I’d figured out that a specific atmospheric profile would make it easier to predict the movement of respiratory droplets. And since I had the entire floor, I could run multiple dances at once. In fact, the more the better, because it was cheaper to run our servers hot rather than stop and start them, so I needed a constant flow of audience members, entry and exit as choreographed as a ceilidh, but everything in between as free as possible. More contradictions.

I popped my head out the door an hour later. The line had lengthened considerably, and oddly, I recognized a lot of the people from Little Kowloon. Surprisingly, the Hongkongers hadn’t shown much interest in their own marquee, perhaps thinking they’d seen it all before, or wanting to give locals more space to explore. But today was different. I spotted Cindy further back in the line, chatting to Tricia. They both gave me a thumbs up.

Everything was ready. I just needed to flick a switch and Anna’s dance would begin. I returned inside and imagined the space full of people spinning so close to one another, ribbons of lasers sparking in between them, orchestrated by a technology that anticipated but didn’t lead. The dancers became children and teachers, screaming and laughing and running but never colliding. Then a packed hall with voices raised, an angry debate, circles and spaces forming and collapsing, then a raucous marketplace, then a factory, then an emergency ward.

Then an empty marquee.

I pulled back the fabric doors, and nodded to the first in line. “Come on in.”

IT WAS JUST AFTER THREE IN THE AFTERNOON ON THE DAY BEFORE HALLOWEENwhen the man from Toronto showed up for the third time.

“Again?” Dionisia asked. “Seriously?”

Erin chewed some of the skin flaking away from her lower lip. A dry fall was better for the wheat, but it was murder on the skin. Erin watched the man jump down out of his rented black truck. He was trying to dress like a local, this time: all-season boots, jeans, a collared shirt under some kind of tactical outdoor jacket that seemingly couldn’t decide whether it wanted to be green or gray. She watched him amble up the drive, boots crunching in the gravel, as he squinted at all the pumpkins dotting the path. Most of them had already been carved, and he was clearly trying to identify some of the faces.