Nandy looks up and meets my gaze, the reflections of the lights strung from the ball in the center of the room to the edges glittering in her eyes. “Remember Facebook? I’m gonna update my status, as soon as we go live.”
I laugh, because Nandy—the Master of Ceremonies for local New Earth celebrations—has been a social butterfly as long as I've known her. Ever since the Shattering, when reality divided in 2017 and 5% of the population ended up on a parallel, uninhabited Earth, things have been tough. Sure, 5% of the world’s architecture came with us, but Washington only got the Internet restored last week. It’s set to go live to the public at midnight.
We discover new and fantastic things every day. Like telekinesis, and the low-grade empathy some of us seem to be developing. Maybe by the time it’s 2050, we’ll have telepathy. You never know.
“What are you going to say?” I put down my wine and lean over her shoulder, looking at the laptop screen. The old vineyards are carefully tended. This year’s vintage tastes fine to me, but I’ve never been a connoisseur.
“Um. Three years strong. You think the others have come as far as we have?”
I shrug. “Dunno. You think the professors are right? That there are twenty new Earths, and each got an equal proportion of established resources? Because if so, they’ll probably be right on par.” Friends gather around us, curious to see the main event. Someone begins the countdown.
“I hope so.” She slides the mouse over the Chrome icon and her finger taps against her lips.
“5… 4… 3… 2… 1… HAPPY NEW YEAR!”
The clacking of the keyboard fills in the status line:
“Welcome, 2020. Miss you, Mom.”
The thumb clicks to +1.
Miss you too, sweetheart.
