Talking Heads

“Mind the gap. Doors closing…”

It had been a gruelling week and James Frobisher felt the weight of the world upon his shoulders. War had arrived at his doorstep and there was nothing he could do to stop it. Diplomacy had failed, common sense had lost out to sabre rattling, threats became insults, and finally, ambassadors were recalled – all leading to the decision of no return.

With only thirty minutes left to seek shelter, James had rushed headlong into the underground tube station at Westminster and hopped onto the Circle Line – a looping underground monorail journey around some of the most better-known areas of central London.

“Doors opening…”

The first sign of an impending attack was the loss of all mobile communications, so James had no way of contacting his wife and two young children. His only hope was that the eight-minute journey to King’s Cross – St. Pancras, would give him enough time to get his family down into the protection of the teleportation transportation system – the TTS. Most train underground train stations were awash with posters advertising the slogan, Teleport to destinations dreamed of. It was a pre-planned weekend getaway, and James’ wife and kids eagerly awaited his impending arrival, before they group teleported to one of their bucket list destinations: Tasmania.

“Mind the gap. Doors closing…”

More calculating than by random choice, James was acutely aware that in the case of nuclear conflict, Tasmania was one of the safest places to be. Of no strategic value to anyone but its residents, the Australian state with its fabled Tasmanian Devil marsupial held no military base or missile platforms whatsoever. So, to the enemies of James’ country and its allies, Tasmania was considered unimportantly neutral and the perfect place to survive any fallout from the aftermath of the approaching nuclear Armageddon.

“Doors opening…”

The repetitive announcement wore on James’ nerves – enough to pull his bowed head away from his cradling hands.

“Temple Station?” he blurted out loudly. “I’m going in the wrong direction!”

“Mind the gap. Doors closing…”

In James’ concerned haste, he had mistakenly accessed the anti-clockwise line. Had he paid more attention to direction, he would have changed trains at Victoria Station and been in his wife’s arms within seven minutes. What would have taken four stops, now presented a journey of eleven stressful commuter stop-and-go’s, doubling the journey time. But before he could decide to hop off and reverse his journey, the train accelerated into the tunnel toward Blackfriars.

Beads of perspiration formed on his back and travelled annoyingly down his spine, saturating his neatly pressed shirt. It had been a warm summer in London, accompanied by a sticky humidity level. However, the carriage’s cool air conditioning wasn’t designed to comfort phobia conditions that impending doom stressed on the human mind and body.

“Doors opening…”

As James wiped his brow with a paper tissue he always carried for allergy outbreaks, he was startled into an upright seating position as he read the platform station name.

“Aldgate?” His perplexed demeanour spat out to his curious fellow travellers. “What happened to Mansion House, Cannon Street, Monument, and Tower Hill?”

“No longer there,” an accented voice answered from below his seated position.

Looking downward between him and the seat opposite, James was startled to see what he could only describe as a representative of the now-extinct species of Tasmanian Devil speaking to him. Convinced he was hallucinating; he rapidly blinked his eyes trying to rid himself of the apparition. Convinced it was a stress-related spectre, James recoiled in terror when his opened eyes determined the animal was real.

“Doors closing,” the small furry animated object announced, before addressing James. “G’Day, mate!” The marsupial greeted him. “Welcome to Tassie, the new free state of Straya!”

“Am I dreaming?” James quickly interjected the question.

“Maate!” The cocky sounding marsupial replied, before nipping at James’s left ankle.

“OW! Stop that!” James commanded in stinging repulse.

“Ain’t no dream, mate. That little pain will make you realise that. What’s your name, cobber?”

“…James,” the delayed response replied with an air of incredulity.  

“Call me, Barry!”

“Isn’t that a tad cliché?” James’ doubting mental resolve tried to make sense of things. “Barry, Sheila, Skippy…”

“And James from Old England, isn’t?” Barry countered.

James looked around the carriage hoping he wasn’t alone in his acknowledgment of a talking Tasmanian Devil in the London Underground. However, not one of the dozen or so passengers paid any attention to his situation.

“What did you mean by those stations are all gone?”

“Where you been, you Galah?” Barry rebuked. “They were destroyed by one giant inter-continental ballistic missile.”

“It’s already begun?”

James’ agitated state caused him to panic and speak incoherently – forcing him to jump to his feet and rush to the nearest carriage door.

“I get-cha, Jimbo. My species can relate to not being understood when we complained. Thinking we were all mad with some form of rabies, we were hunted to extinction. Now, we’re just a mythical creature that once freely roamed the forests of a land time almost forgot. You’re upset, I hear ya, mate. But hear me out. There’s no getting off this train. Believe me, I’ve tried. It ain’t called the Circle Line for nothing.”

“You said we’re in Tasmania,” James calmed himself enough for logical thought processing.”

“Yeah, sort of,” Barry replied.

“What do you mean, sort of? What happened to the other stations?”

“All gone. Liverpool Street, Moorgate, Barbican, Farringdon…”

Stopping short of what he knew James would not immediately comprehend, Barry hesitated.”

“King’s Cross – St. Pancras?” James timidly enquired.

“…Direct hit, mate. So sorry.”

“My family!”

“Everyone’s families, mate. No stone unturned.”

“So, when can we get off this thing?”

“That’s just it, Jimbo. You’d just pulled into King’s Cross when the missile struck in the middle of a teleportation on the adjacent platform. Somehow, you got caught up in it and ended up in some form of commuter limbo.”

“So,” James formulated. “Where did you come from – if you’re extinct?”

“Artificial Intelligent Hologram. A.I.H. I’m what you might call, a holographic ambassador welcoming all visitors to Tassie. It seems that the impact in London managed to disrupt all electronic signals along the teleporter’s beam, causing a glitch on Tassie Central’s end. So, until the issue is resolved, this journey is never-ending. Like the old classic Talking Heads, song, We’re on a road to nowhere, mate. Some of those oldies from one hundred and fifty years ago are timeless – don’t-cha think?”

James was thinking. It was of a quote he was familiar with.

“The road to anywhere is the road to nowhere, and the road to nowhere leads to dreams sacrificed, opportunities squandered, and a life unfulfilled.”

“What was that, Jimbo?”

“Thomas Monson. Once head of the defunct religion, Church of the latter-day saints. He saw himself as a prophet of sorts, a seer, and a revelator. All self-administered, of course.”

“Yeah, religion, hey Jimbo? What was that all about?”

“He also said, The past is behind, learn from it.” James added “The future is ahead, prepare for it. The present is here, live it.”

“Now, that’s a great example of a cliché, Jimbo. If there’s one thing we can thank religion for, it’s introspective gobbledygook.”

The irony of an artificial intelligent ambassador to Tasmania defuncting religion was not entirely lost on James, as he scanned the other people in the carriage.

“Do you know?” he pointed out. “The road to nowhere is an idiom for someone who considers themselves a victim of circumstance or bad luck.”

“I reckon I do, Jimbo.”

“What about them?” James pointed at the other passengers.

“Oh, they’re not really here, mate. What you see is a kind of phantom image left from the teleportation.”

“Then, how am I still existing?”

“Your biochip must have connected with the teleportation system. My records show you were the only one in the carriage booked for transportation, so the failsafe system must have grabbed you right at the moment of digital irregularity.”

Once again calculating outcomes, James alluded to his family.

“Then, if my wife and kids were waiting on the platform, would their biochips have been grabbed, as well?”

“There’s a very high probability of that happening, Jimbo. In fact, my sensors say their journey has successfully concluded, and that they are safely in New Hobart.”

“Oh, thank goodness!” James relievedly exclaimed. “All that remains then, is for this carriage to find its destination.”

“Like the Circle Line, Jimbo. It will continue to loop until your station appears. But I don’t calculate me announcing the doors opening for quite some time – if ever.”

“What do we do in the meantime, Barry?”

“My advice, Jimbo? Just ride it out. In all probability, this road will end as everything animate or inanimate is destined to.”

Accepting that fate was not necessarily in his own hands, James sat back and began to sing the lyrics to the earlier mentioned Talking Heads song.

“Well, we know where we're goin'

But we don't know where we've been

And we know what we're knowin'

But we can't say what we've seen

And we're not little children

And we know what we want

And the future is certain

Give us time to work it out.”

“The Classics, hey Jimbo?”

“Yeah, Barry. Hindsight is insight when foresight is blind…”