Futures
2050 Version 1.6

My senior commander is very displeased. His green eyes blaze with anger. This is my third infringement this week. I questioned his new regulation that we come to work via the most efficient route possible. Sometimes in the morning I just don’t have the energy to walk the extra five minutes to the tram stop, so I catch the bus instead, which takes nine minutes longer. He punishes me for my insubordination with an hour on the battery-charging bicycle. Lately I’ve been spending a considerable amount of time on that BCB. Why can’t I just keep my mouth shut? I mean, I probably need the exercise, but I’ve got to try and control myself before I get in serious trouble. If this keeps happening people might think I don’t care anymore, and things could get ugly.
I deliberately choose to think constructive thoughts as I pedal the energy back into the dead batteries. I love our Earth. I do whatever it takes to protect it. I will bring down anyone who tries to destroy it. It is a privilege to be part of the Planetary Police Force and to be entrusted with these responsibilities. I spin those wheels as fast as I can and sweat drips from every part of my body. I do believe I am a good person on the whole. It’s only that sometimes I should be more careful to obey my boss to the letter and to act like I love it.
Finally the hour is over and it’s time to shower and go home. Time to embark on the tiresome commute back to the cantankerous teenager waiting in my flat. My eyelids are heavy and my back aches as I hang from the handrail on the tram, but again I try to think positively, as my counsellor has taught me. I love my son. I am fortunate to have a child. Millions of women don’t have this right. I am stepping up to my responsibilities. I am a role model for my boy. I fill the whole trip home with these affirmations and by the time I walk up the stairs of our building I’m convinced that I’m a strong woman and a devoted mother.
He is watching the screen when I enter and automatically, I scan the room. A tap is dripping, there is an LED light flashing on an unused device and a piece of cheese is drying out on the kitchen bench, on its way to becoming inedible. I want to scream. Consciously, I pause and take a few breaths before saying in an even tone, “Hello Dylan. Could you please turn off the tap, unplug your device and do something about that cheese.”
Glaring at me, he sighs, slowly pushes himself to his feet, unplugs the machine, closes the tap, throws the cheese in his mouth and swallows. “Okay? Is the planet protected now? Are we all safe again?”
“Look Dylan. Darling. I know you think it doesn’t make a difference, but every little thing that every person does adds up and can destroy us in the end. And I’m a police officer. I can’t let this kind of thing go on in my own house!”
He is ignoring me and watching the screen again. Why can’t he understand? If we didn’t enforce the rules he wouldn’t be here today, lying around and insulting his mother. Why is he so rebellious? I will have to start getting tougher on him soon, but today I’m exhausted. I need rest.
I should have listened to Ruby. I should have accepted that we all have to make sacrifices to maintain the precarious balance of life on this planet. She would do anything for this world, but there were far too many rules for me. It was all so inflexible. So claustrophobic. I needed to think for myself. Sometimes I just needed not to think. As a teenager, not conforming meant counselling sessions and ecology courses. When I grew up the consequences become much more serious. I broke the law once too often and that is how I ended up living in my car, constantly on the run. By defying the standards of society I have sentenced myself to a life of perpetual vigilance. It is exhausting. I am not in jail yet, but I am certainly not free.
If the police don’t catch me, the stress will no doubt kill me in the end. It is never easy, yet there are still flickering moments when I think the struggle might be worthwhile. Yesterday, for example, as I swam in Windjana Gorge amongst the crocodiles, it was possible to believe I had a part to play in the history of this incredible country. The immense limestone cliffs, the fossils of prehistoric sea-life, the Wandjina spirits painted on the rock, the fish, the birds, the ancient reptiles all filled my soul to create something much larger than could be confined by any prison. If only I could stay here! Regrettably I know that even here in north-western Australia, possibly one of the most sparsely-populated corners of the world, they will soon track me down. I must keep moving.
My nap is not going to happen any time soon, because the phone rings and it’s my mother. She is a national hero and she is almost deaf. Both these facts mean she does most of the talking and I do most of the listening. She is not impressed with Dylan’s behaviour. Apparently she rang him earlier and he was rude, mumbling, and practically hung up on her. It is her opinion that he should be sent away to labour camp to learn about respect and manners. My mother is accustomed to having her opinion treated very seriously, but I’m not ready to send my son away just yet. He is only fourteen. We argue for some time, although I think all she can understand from my side is that I’m not agreeing with her. Eventually I shout into the phone my thanks for the advice, which I will think about, and the conversation is over. Although Dylan pretends to watch the ads I know he is listening. I should talk to him now and tackle the problem before it gets any worse, but I simply can’t face it. I’m so tired! Instead, I cook the simplest meal from tonight’s menu and we eat it in front of the screen. I tell him to clean the dishes before he goes to bed and I’m asleep in about ten minutes.
I estimate I can stay in this place for two more days. It’s a little dangerous, but I weigh up the risk against the beauty here and decide it’s safe enough. My car is out of sight from roads or helicopters and there are food sources around. Earlier, I quizzed a Bunuba ranger, as casually as I could, about the edible plants, animals and fish of the area. Of course I have my provisions, but I always attempt to supplement these with bush food. Although it’s unlikely I will find a great deal to eat in these couple of days, I need whatever nutrition I can find.
During the day a trickle of tourists visits the gorge. They are the privileged few who have permits to own vehicles, as there is no public transport here. At night I must be the only human for over a hundred kilometres, unless there are other fugitives in hiding. Camping has been banned for years and the closest place to stay is in Derby, about two hours down the road. Even the driving elite have to be back in town for the curfew, so that gives me some daylight time to myself.
I would spend all of the scorching day in the river, except that I don’t want to attract too much attention. Most tourists do not venture into the water with the fresh-water crocodiles. I am used to them and know that they are almost always harmless, but I find a hidden place to rest instead. When the temperature finally drops slightly, and all the visitors are gone, I have a quick swim and begin to hunt for food. In the fading light I am far more wary of rustling noises in the bush and splashes in the river. Although I know the crocs are generally not aggressive, I don’t want to take one by surprise. They are not my prey. Although I’m sure one of them could make a few substantial meals for me I am not that brave or desperate yet.
With cautious movements, I wander through the scrubby trees with my home-made spear. I hear a variety of creatures around me but they remain well-hidden. My efforts remain unrewarded until after the sun has set. Changing strategy, I return to the river and shine my torch in the water. It doesn’t take long for curious fish to gather under the light. I hold the torch in my left hand and slowly raise my right arm. When my target fish seems settled, I slam the spear down into the sandy riverbed, hoping it first impales that tasty-looking perch. It misses, and the fish quickly disperse. I decide to eat beans tonight and try my luck with a fishing line instead, early in the morning.
I make my way back to the car park and search for my vehicle in the bushes. I have erased the tracks quite well, so it takes some time to find. The darkness is complete by the time I’m sitting in the back of my car with the boot open and a can of beans heating in the portable microwave in the grass. The oven is ancient, from back in the days when camping was legal. They don’t make them any more. One day it will stop working and I’ll be in real trouble. Cooking on a fire is far too risky. Smoke attracts police like light attracts mosquitoes. I’ll probably have to start a raw-food diet when that day comes. I don’t want to think about it. A ping tells me the beans are ready, so I grab a spoon, turn off the torch and eat in the dark. Millions of stars flicker with their various frequencies into infinity above me. Maybe one of those suns out there has an orbiting planet where life is both thriving and free. Maybe.
I live in a small but charming cottage and the garden is my sanctuary. I have a large quantity of “old man’s beard”, which I drape over the lower branches of the large bunya pine tree in the middle of the back yard. I arrange the lichen so it falls in a pleasing, asymmetrical curtain, through which the flowers at the back of the garden are visible. I’m overjoyed with the effect, but for some reason I go back into the house. When I come out again a few minutes later, the bunya tree has been cut down and taken away and my garden is ravaged and bare. That tree grew in that spot for hundreds of years. The cockatoos loved to peck open its pine cones. I’m devastated and now I see the man who is responsible for this travesty. He is around sixty and he’s wearing a council uniform. I shout at him, “Why did you do this?” but he says nothing and appears unconcerned, smiling. My anger grows and grows until there is nothing else, only the sheer rage of frustration, and I wake up fuming.
I lie still in bed until the emotion of the dream dissolves a little, though I remain indignant. The time has come to talk some sense into my boy, I decide. They took our trees from us. They tried to take everything and we have to fight back. The world needs our protection. As I brush my teeth, I think about all the species and forests and rivers and glaciers already lost to the greed of our forebears and the fire of my youth reignites. I love our Earth.
Over breakfast I remind Dylan how his grandparents, and many others of their generation, worked so hard, risked their lives, to bring the world back from the brink of devastation. All life on the planet would now be dead or dying if it wasn’t for their dedication, I say. I tell him that the work of his generation is to maintain the delicate balance we have achieved through all these years of research and discipline. And if he is not prepared to commit to preserving our way of life there will be grave consequences, not only for the world, but also for him personally. If the government learns of his recalcitrance and if he keeps it up for much longer, his life will hardly be worth living. There will be BCBs, labour camps, re-programming courses, jail and unless he learns to embrace the principles of our civilisation, he could very well end up in the fertiliser factory. Naturally he knows all of this, but he obviously hasn’t taken it to heart or he wouldn’t be acting out in the way that he has been.
His expression is sullen throughout my lecture, but afterwards he says he understands and he appreciates what Grandma has done and he will try harder to do the right thing. I hug him.
“I know it’s not always easy Dylan, but this is how it has to be.” I’m surprised to hear him sniffing back tears. Poor thing; he’s still so young. My greatest fear, of course, is that he will end up like his father, but I tell myself that he has a long way to go and many more years before he chooses which path he will follow. Many teenagers are disobedient and they don’t all become criminals.
“I’ll book us in for a counselling session and we can both go. We can help each other, ok? Together we can learn how to be good.” He nods, flicks his black hair and regains his teenage composure. It’s time to get ready for school and work, so the day begins.
At first light I wake and immediately prepare for my fishing expedition. It should be at least three hours before the first tourists get here. I lift a log and catch some beetles for bait. My brain flashes with a memory of teaching Dylan how to do this when he was very small and the legality of recreational fishing was still a grey area. I can hear his squeal of delight as he chased the scattering bugs. To escape this train of thought I bolt quickly down the path towards the gorge. My running disturbs a flock of corellas in the trees, and they pierce the air with deafening screeches.
When I reach the river I’m gratified to see several fish darting busily along the banks. I run the hook through one of the insects and throw in the line. Soon a small perch bites, but it fights against me when I try to reel it in. It tugs and splashes with remarkable strength and ultimately manages to swim away with the bait. With the next attempt, I make sure to skewer the beetle more securely onto the hook. This time there will be no free meal for the fish. Again, it doesn’t take long for a spangled perch to take the bait. It struggles valiantly, but in the end I succeed in flipping it ashore. Breakfast time!
I make it back to the car to cook the fish before the first tourists arrive. It’s the most delicious thing I’ve eaten for a long time. Afterwards, I am so content that I briefly fall asleep on the grass. I wake disoriented and hastily pack the car and hide my tracks, before returning to the gorge to spend the day alternately wandering beneath the cliffs, exploring for fossils, discreetly swimming in the river and relaxing in the shade.
I am swamped at work, as usual. There are eleven complaints to investigate in my in-box, and I’m supposed to do a monthly routine inspection on a market centre. All this is simply not possible to achieve in one day, so I start with the compulsory market check, then prioritise the most serious grievances and try to organise them geographically to minimise my time in transit. Derby has grown steadily in the five years since I have been transferred here, but it is still small enough to require only one police station, which means my jurisdiction is relatively large.
The first complaint is an allegation of food wastage in a restaurant near the port. They seem surprised to see me, which is pleasing as it increases my chances of uncovering any regulation breaches. I check their receipts, stock, bins, gardens and composting system. Something doesn’t quite add up. They seem to be spending more money than necessary for the meals they are making. The owner is a tall, white-haired Aboriginal man named Birrung. He is trying hard to appear calm, but his leg twitches uncontrollably under the table as we talk. He says he likes to buy top-quality ingredients and this is why they spend more than usual, but I am suspicious. Although there’s not enough evidence to pin anything definitive on him, I’m sure he is hiding something. Unfortunately all I can do now is tell him I’ll be back and he’d better be careful.
He waves me goodbye at the door, looking way too relieved for my liking. What is he up to? If I don’t catch someone committing a crime today Senior Commander Nolan will not be happy. Again. He cannot accept that there are days when people are just not breaking any rules. In his world, no-one ever does the right thing and he is completely surrounded by eco-criminals constantly getting away with violations. Well, he could be right. I would love to know that restaurant guy’s secret. Unbidden, a mutinous voice inside me suggests that maybe he wasn’t hiding anything. Maybe he looked nervous because his career and liberty were under threat? Maybe he knew that even totally innocent people sometimes get punished for imaginary crimes? Maybe his relief was simply a reaction to the fact that I didn’t drag him away to a labour camp on a whim?
Aaaarrrgh! Where did that voice come from? These were exactly the kind of thoughts I wanted to prevent Dylan from thinking. We must be good citizens. We have to trust that our superiors are working for the benefit of us all. There is just no other way! I love our Earth! I will bring down anyone who tries to destroy it. The balance is fragile. There are threats all around, many of them hidden. I’ve got to catch one of those eco-fuckers today. At least one! Just as I’m thinking this, a radio call summons me to an emergency situation at Windjana Gorge.
The minute I hear the last tourists leave, hunger calls and I return to my car for either some of my rations or the fishing line. I haven’t decided which yet. As I approach the car park, my blood is chilled by the sound of a vehicle door closing. Sightseers never arrive this late. No! On this section of the path, there is nowhere to hide and no way to get off it. I retrace my steps as quietly as I can. As soon as I am able to leave the path, I scramble through the undergrowth. I don’t want to make too much noise, but I need to make sure I’m out of sight. I try to keep my adrenalin-flooded brain clear. After a few hundred metres, I crouch behind a bush and endeavour to become invisible.
I concentrate on listening. There are voices. I can’t understand them, but they are getting closer. It sounds like two men. Soon I can make out some words. I don’t think it’s the casual talk of tourists. While it is possible, of course, that all these years of living on high alert have made me paranoid, I’m sure they’re looking for me. I understand the word “car” and am certain they’ve found my vehicle. When they are on the path directly below me, I hear,
“… must be over the chase by now. Such a long time.”
“Yeah, you’d think so. He’ll probably be relieved when we…”
I knew it. It’s the police. This is not the closest they have been to finding me, but it’s pretty damn close. Panic rises in my throat and as soon as the voices are no longer audible, I crash through the bush away from the path with no real plan of action. The gorge wall looms not far away, taunting me with its impenetrability. My only hope is to get on top of the range and try to get to my car from the other side, since there are probably more police waiting in the car park. The only problem is that the cliff is impossible to climb. Nevertheless, I continue until I reach its base and then proceed along beside it. Maybe farther along I’ll find some way to get up.
I’m now bearing east, in the same general direction the police went. I try to move more quietly and sure enough, after a while I can hear them talking again. From this vantage point, it appears as if there might be a kind of gap in the rocks up ahead, where it might be almost possible to ascend. There is no other choice. I creep along, stopping to listen after every couple of steps. When I reach the gap I discover it is not exactly the easy climb I’d been hoping for. Also, attempting this ascent will make me clearly visible to anyone around. However it still seems to me to be the only available option. I crouch silently and wait for the voices to fade into the distance. I wait ten minutes more. Now, I judge, is the time to execute this insane plan.
Victor has been running from us, from me, for so many years I have lost count. I always hoped this day would come. Once, I honestly loved him. I believed the three of us would live our whole lives together. I mean, I knew Dylan would move out of home one day, but I thought my family would always be there for me. It didn’t turn out that way. The struggle to stay virtuous has been so lonely. My husband broke away, and broke the law, over and over again. I guess he had the same instinct for independence that I have, but he lacked the strength or the sense to fight against it. As for my son, the harder I try to hold on to him the more he wants to push apart from me. But at least Victor won’t escape this time. Finally I have the chance to lock him down, lock him up, lock him away, forever. I’ve been waiting for this for a long time.
The limestone wall has many irregularities and holes for my hands and feet. I just wish it wasn’t so high! After the first couple of metres my heart hammers against my ribs as I search for something safe to hold onto. Very soon I’m fatigued and my arms are weak and shaking. There is still so far to go. I remember something my wife’s mother taught me, almost two decades ago, and I try to push up with my legs instead of pulling with my arms. They may be disappointed in me, but at least I learned some skills from my activist in-laws. I do not look up or down, but fix my attention only on the next hand or foothold. I rest my big toe on a tiny ledge and it gives way, skittering down the gorge, causing me to scream in a whisper. I inhale deeply and blink my vision clear. I keep climbing until my limbs tremble so much I hardly know what they’re doing. In utter desperation I look up and see that I am only a couple of metres from the top. Relief gives me strength, and I push myself up and up and over the edge to lie on the rock, panting and quivering.
I wait until the convulsive gasping eases, then stand up feebly and walk through the bush in a vaguely westerly direction. To find my car I will have to descend from this range at some point on the other side. I will also have to hope that there are no police waiting for me when, or if, I get there. There are more rocks to climb up here, but nothing compared to the sheer cliff face I have just conquered. My strength is depleted, however, and as I try to navigate around a large boulder I slip and tumble into a crevasse where I am stuck for several minutes. When I finally manage to wriggle my way out I discover my shoulder has been injured and the pain is excruciating. I sit on a rock, circle my arm and massage the shoulder with the other hand. It makes no difference, but I have to keep going.
Somewhere amongst the rocky vegetation I lose my bearings, and I’m surprised when I arrive at the steep escarpment which must be the other side of the range. There is no way to get down. From what I remember from where I parked, the cliff was also impassable around there, so I follow the ridge away from the car in a south-easterly direction hoping to find some way to descend. There is no tree cover here on the edge and the heat is still fierce. I have finished the little water I had with me, but it must be close to sunset now. I don’t know how far I walk, but it seems like a long way. My shoulder throbs.
At last the ridge gets a little lower and the plain below gets higher and I see a possible path to the bottom. My muscles and lungs have more or less recovered from the climb. It is only the shoulder that bothers me now. I take it very slowly and skid much of the way on my rear, but eventually I make it down to the plateau, with only a few bruises. Now I just have to find my car. I head back up along the escarpment, towards what I assume is the north-west, from the sun in my eyes. It is far easier going on this terrain. I can walk quite quickly, even whilst watching out for snakes. When I estimate I have gone far enough north and I believe this section of the range looks familiar, I slow down and begin to carefully scour the bush to the west for my car.
I can see Victor coming down from the range. When he falls, I hear my involuntary intake of breath. I don’t want him to be hurt, which is ironic I guess, as I’m about to ruin his life. We used to be in love. We were once a team, playing for the Earth, but he couldn’t stick to the rules of the game. Can I really do this to Dylan’s father? Oh, why couldn’t he have been stronger for me and for his son? How is Dylan supposed to know the right way to live, with Victor as an example? If only he could have demonstrated a little discipline…
Methodically, I walk back and forth in lines of about two hundred metres. It’s hard to judge the accuracy of these lines and I end up in the same place more than once. Sometimes I think I hear something and freeze for several minutes. Each time I’m convinced it is a human voice, but in the stillness the only sounds I can distinguish for sure are birds and insects. Once, a goanna crashes across my path and as I flinch in fright, searing pain shoots through my shoulder and arm. I force myself to continue and after maybe twenty minutes, I’m overjoyed to catch sight of my car.
It seems like a miracle, but there it is and there are no police to be seen. Tentatively I creep towards it, fishing the keys from my pocket. I peer through the window and my usual chaos seems to be in place. Softly, I open the door and get in, incredulous at my luck. Now what do I do? To get back to the road I have to go through the car park. If they haven’t found my car, why would they be at the car park? I suspect I should probably think through all the possibilities more thoroughly, but I’m delirious to be reunited with my vehicle and I just want to get out of here as fast as I can.
I love our Earth. I will take down anyone who tries to destroy it. I am a role model for my son. I will be good. I know Victor thinks society’s rules have gone too far and I have become heartless, but he is wrong. I still love him in some form, but I just can’t let him get away with what he has done. We all have to be responsible for our actions. If Dylan gets the idea that he can defy the law without consequences, he will never survive in this world.
I start the car in electric mode. While this ensures the engine is silent, driving through the bush is by necessity a noisy operation. I’m not sure of the exact location of the car park and I decide the faster I get there the better, so I tear around between the trees with my good arm on the steering wheel, searching for the gravel. My car is the same model that the police drive. In fact it was stolen from them. It is small, efficient, handles well on rough terrain and it’s very, very fast. I love it. I’m not completely confident I could outrun a police vehicle in a chase, however. When at last I find the car park I see two cars, but no people. Oh yeah! Just as the heaviness floats away from my neck and shoulders, I hear a noise behind me and cool metal touches the back of my head.
He has to pay for his disrespect of our Earth. If he doesn’t have the fortitude to be good by himself, he must be coerced. I don’t want to make him suffer, but I know I’m doing the right thing: for him, for Dylan and for me. It is my duty.
“Stop the vehicle! You’re under arrest.” She’s been hiding among the mess in my back seat. Fuck! Why was I so careless? She presses the gun hard against my scalp and I have no choice. I pull over next to the police cars and raise my hands. She gets out, hauls me from my seat and drags me under the a boab tree. This is the end of my life as I have known it. She cuffs my hands in front of me, motions me to sit and radios to her colleagues that I’ve been captured and they should return to the car park. She sits on the grass next to me and looks directly in my eyes.
“We’ve been following you for a long time, Victor. Why did you run for so long? Did you really think you could stay free? It must have been a nightmare.” I can tell she is truly curious. She should probably hate me, but I don’t see that in her. She has shattered my future, but I don’t hate her either. I answer honestly, “Well, I didn’t want to be sent to the fertiliser factory and you know I’m claustrophobic and totally terrified of jail. What else I could do but keep running?.”
“You won’t be sent to the factory. You’ll probably get life in prison. You should have thought about that before you broke the law, I guess. Did you even remember you had a son?”
“Don’t be stupid… How is he?”
“Confused. Morose.”
“Look. For his sake, after he was born, I did try to follow the line, but it just wasn’t possible for me. This is not a democracy. Nobody listens. Rich people still get to drive around in cars and have more than one child and go overseas, so why shouldn’t the rest of us? And their wealth mostly comes from coal and oil from the old days, from their grandparents. How is that fair? Their piles of money were made from destroying our environment, and now we get punished for leaving the lights on.”
I know she knows it’s true, but of course she can’t admit it. “We prosecute rich people too. They have to follow the law like everyone.”
“Ha! They donate to the parties and they always get off. There are no rich people in jail. They fund the government and they can do what they like.” I don’t know why I’ve been drawn into this pointless debate. My life is over and I’m arguing with my ex-wife.
I have wanted this to happen for many years, but it does not give me as much pleasure as I’d expected. When I picture Victor alone in a jail cell all I feel is misery. But from the beginning he must have known this would be the end. Deliberately and consciously, he brought this outcome upon himself. He tries to justify his defiance, and I can’t help but point out the ultimate failure of his selected path.
“That may be true, but society still needs laws and breaking the law gets you nowhere. The laws were made to keep our planet viable. You are going to jail for the rest of your life. Your son hates you as much as he hates me. You can’t really be happy with your choices, can you?”
She’s wrong, or only partially right, but that doesn’t stop her words from cutting me deeply. When she sees the wound she’s inflicted her expression changes from righteous to sympathetic. She puts her hand on my aching shoulder.
“You were good at it, though. You kept us guessing for a long time. Just… maybe you should have kept your car more tidy? Or checked the back seat properly?”
Half of my mouth smiles unhappily. “You’ve got a gun. You would have caught me anyway.”
“True,” she agrees.
I hear the other police officers coming up the path. My chest tightens as the reality of my situation begins to sink in. I want to rotate my aching shoulder, but I can’t because of the handcuffs. This restriction of my movement, a taste of the rest of my life, causes panic to flood my veins. I rock backwards and forwards and moan. Ruby appears alarmed and moves back. It’s not enough, so I start to sob and thrash my head violently. I want to shake the horrifying thought out of my brain, but it’s stuck in there. I will never be free.
This is a chapter of my book “Futures”, which investigates different versions of life in 2050. You can read the next chapter here.


