Negative Energy

The Deep End

Matt savored the rush of schoolboy giddiness he got from Ina's parting message. So that was what it meant to path. It was like the telepathic version of instant messaging. You just projected a thought toward a person, and it instantly registered in their mind. It could also be used to tele-operate any neuro-compatible device; all it took was a little concentration.

Although the doors lining the hallway were all identical, Matt recognized his own apartment by the sense of warm familiarity it exuded. His excitement at pathing the door open on his first try turned to disappointment when he saw how small and plain it was on the inside.

From the entryway, there was a living room and two short hallways. The right hallway led to a bedroom and bathroom with the usual amenities; straight ahead was a kitchenette and a sunroom in lieu of a dining area. The living room was immediately on the left. With its wide couch and matching chair, it had the stiff, set piece feel of a waiting area. But that was just his first impression. On second glance, the couch looked comfortably broken in with faded armrests and sag-in-the-center seat cushions.

There were no light switches or doorknobs anywhere. Illumination emanated uniformly from the ceiling, and doors opened and closed soundlessly on their own. There were no physical windows, pictures, or TVs—nor any need for them; with a thought, any flat surface could be turned into a screen with the most breathtaking of vistas. He tried out a few exotic locales, but in spite of their realism, or maybe because of it, they only contributed to a sense of displacement. Left to itself, the ambience of the apartment became abstract and muted, even a bit dark. Woodwind music played in the background, breezy and barely discernible. Within moments, the apartment felt less like an external place than a physical manifestation of his aura.

Upon entering the sunroom next to the kitchenette, Matt became suddenly aware of his hunger. He literally could not remember when he had last eaten. He found a mug of coffee and a plate of hot breakfast waiting for him in an oven-sized enclosure set into the wall—a pickup box.

He sat down at the bistro table in the sunroom. Its sleek, central support was like a splash-jet of mercury droplets frozen in time. The breakfast was tasty, an omelet with provolone cheese and peppers and a side of hash browns cooked extra crispy, just the way he liked them. The curved outer wall opened onto a grassy field with a line of deciduous trees running along the far end, showing fall colors. Matt recognized it as the open area beyond the baseball diamond where he used to play little league. As an outfielder, he had spent many long innings watching families picnic or toss frisbees while he waited for a fly ball to come his way. Kites were out in numbers today, their bright colors sharp against the pale afternoon sky. A boy with skinny legs was running ahead of a red T-frame to get it airborne.

Seeing the happy young families, Matt felt a nostalgic pang for Miriam. He almost quested her, then checked himself. Did he really want to know how her life had turned out after he died? What if the cancer had come back? On the other hand, what if she had gone on to accomplish all the big, ambitious things she set out to do?

Life after the divorce had been bitter and solitary. He and Miriam communicated mostly by email and that infrequently; phone calls were too awkward. He kept tabs on her through social media, observing the non-stop updates and growing number of followers. Miriam wasn't just building up her social network; she was creating a whole new persona that bore little resemblance to her old self. There were photos of her zip-lining in Costa Rica and hiking up Mount Kilimanjaro. These were replaced by a well-dig site in sub-Sahara and a women's work collective in Bangladesh. She was hailed as an entrepreneur, risk taker, and philanthropist. She made Forbes's list of fifty under fifty women-trepreneurs. More than the divorce itself, that had been the hardest pill to swallow. Their social ineptitude, disguised as aloof disdain for mass culture, had been something they always had in common. If anyone had been more a social outsider than he was, it was Miriam. Then she had crossed over to mainstream success, leaving him truly alone.

Matt felt the first downward tug, a kind of negative buoyancy, that presaged descent into the Deep End. The Deep End was a place of soul-crushing heaviness that felt like lying at the bottom of the deepest part of the public pool where he and his friends used to go swimming during summer breaks. Matt had discovered that he could cause himself to sink by blowing out most of the air from his lungs. Once the lifeguard went home at five, he pretended to drown just to see who would come to save him, but after a few times of crying wolf, his would-be rescuers felt safe ignoring him. He was probably only on the bottom for ten to twenty seconds, but it felt like an eternity.

He remembered how silent and heavy it was under ten feet of water. With growing detachment, he watched his friends continue their splash-fighting overhead, all kicking legs and flailing arms. The slap of their hands against the water made a sound like distant depth charges. A part of him didn't want to resurface. The distance separating them seemed like an abyss.

Matt had never dreamed back then how much his everyday life would come to resemble those moments in the deep end. Fighting it was no use. He had learned from bitter experience the limits of willpower and the futility of hopeful thinking. It was only a matter of time before he sank back down to the bottom where he would stay.

But instead of continuing to sink, something unexpected happened. He couldn't pinpoint the exact moment his mood began to lift, but he was definitely feeling lighter now, as if something was counteracting the pull of emotional gravity. Maybe he was looking at this all backward. Why strain against the weight of the world when he could float effortlessly along the surface? Basking in this new outlook, he almost laughed out loud. So this was what it meant to quell: to suppress a negative feeling with a positive intention.

He sipped his coffee, which was still hot and bracingly bitter, and watched as a sudden gust of wind swept the boy's kite aloft to join the others.

Matt didn't notice the stranger heading his way until he was halfway across the field. Dressed in a formal white suit, he was clearly no picknicker. Erect and trim, he had a black, close-cut beard threaded with silver hairs. He moved with a loafing gait, his gaze fixed on the far distance. In one hand, he rotated three balls—one crimson, one black, and one emerald green—with the ease of an unconscious habit. They pulsed with energy, producing a low, whirring sound. When he reached the edge of the grass that marked the border to the sunroom, he paused and fixed Matt with dark, spiritless eyes. Without waiting for an invitation, he took a deliberate step forward onto the parquet floor. Matt knew it was an illusion, but he flinched all the same.

The man in the white suit clicked the balls together, producing a cascade of fizzing sparks. "Good morning, Matt Harmon," he said. "I am Logos, executive operator of the arcology's power grid. I hope you are enjoying your new body."