Teleportation. A long dream of modern humanity, it was there at last. Companies that once built self-driving cars were now making jump stations, household ones for the home-work distance, giant for inter-country travel. Most airports were closed, air operators turning into jump operators, or getting bankrupt in the new world.
Everything was great. Amazon purchases were delivered instantly. Empty streets got much safer for walking. The air was cleaner. Even the global warming wasn't quite as critical anymore. It was a new age, a better age.
A few people opposed teleportation. Some were against it because it was too new. Some were afraid of increased migration. Some were concerned about implication for human body. Some, like me, were just afraid.
The idea of being destroyed and then rebuilt scared me. I did understand why people liked jumps -- it was efficient, it seemed safe enough, and it was fun. But I couldn't make myself use a teleporter.
A new phobia for the new age.
My daughter, Ji, was always often annoyed at that reluctance. "Just try it once" she said "you'll see it's fun. Come on, don't be a luddite -- you aren't that old!" But I was stubborn and so we always ended up in self-driving car instead. Amazing technology -- all obsoleted by the jumps.
Later, when Ji moved overseas, she gave up on me ever reconsidering the jump. And yet she still tried to invite me -- to see the rebuilt Paris and the New Eiffel, to walk Stockholm-Jixi, to the floating new gardens of Saint Petersburg. I always promised to come visit, then checked flight costs and closed the browser -- I would have to get a mortgage to fly anywhere these days.
It was January when my wife died. We haven't lived together for many years -- in fact geographically she was closer to our daughter at this time -- and yet we respected each other, and were fond of our time together. Ji was going to be devastated. The funeral was to be held in a week, to give everyone enough time -- jump stations couldn't quite keep with demand recently.
I step into the teleporter. I step into a different one, and now I am in the cemetery, in the crematorium. And Ji cries, and I cry, and we remember all the best things, and other people say their words. But the lost is not restored, and all we have is a chance to accept it and make peace.
I feel better after, but I can't shake a weird feeling -- as if I left myself on the other side of the jump, and this me is just a ghost, a shadow, waiting to return. I look at Ji's work, and it's impressive -- interactive spaces to replace old car streets, 3D-printed garden structures. I look at some other things, I promise to visit a few other cities some later time, then I jump back.
In a few months, I have a routine medical check-up -- mostly a bunch of scans. This time something is wrong. They redo it several times, and then doctor talks to me, one-to-one.
Jump cancer precursor. A catastrophic failure of jump copying -- but one that isn't deadly by itself. The DNA damage that lurks in my body, ready for a random future jump -- and then in a few years my body will eat itself alive.
Fortunately the chance of ever activating it is slim -- I was more likely to get hit by a car, when we still had cars. And yet it is a Russian roulette -- each jump might be my last.
I jump to Europe. I visit the underwater cities. I walk with Ji in the copter garden, with multicolor nanocopters gliding around like butterflies. I examine the self-printing tree of Vienna. I eat curries, I meet new people, I have fun.
It is irrational. I should be stuck at home, scared by the shadow of jump cancer. And yet once I saw the face of my enemy, I was made free of it. Each time I jump might be the last -- but now I understand why, and I understand how.
And I'm not scared anymore.