The Woman Who Stayed

Nadia had practised the arrival wave for three weeks: right hand raised, palm open, no sudden movements. The company wanted the first person transported across a continent to look less startled than a tourist leaving a train.

In the departure chamber, she planted both boots on the yellow square.

“Remember,” the director said through her earpiece, “your transport bonus clears when the arrival platform is empty.”

The bonus would pay off her father's workshop. Nadia had checked the number twice. It was the only part of the contract she had read slowly.

Light filled the chamber.

Then nothing happened.

She was still in the departure booth, looking at the same scratch beside the door. Beyond its darkened glass, technicians applauded.

Her earpiece crackled.

“Welcome to Singapore, Nadia. You can step down now.”

Another woman answered in Nadia's voice.

“I thought it would hurt.”

Nadia pressed her palms against the glass.

The confidence monitor showed both chambers. In its Singapore window, a woman wearing her orange suit stood beneath the studio lights. The woman raised her right hand.

Nadia lowered hers.

The woman on the screen did not.

“Departure chamber,” Nadia said. “I'm still here.”

The applause stopped on her side of the glass.

A technician reached toward his console. The director caught his wrist.

“Residual response,” the director said. “Remain calm.”

On the monitor, the other Nadia took one step toward the edge of the platform.

Nadia found the emergency microphone beneath its plastic flap.

“Don't step off.”

Her voice boomed in both studios.

The other woman froze.

“Who said that?”

“The scratch by the door. You tried to rub it off before we started.”

The other Nadia looked down at her hands.

The director's voice came back, soft and close. “The process isn't complete. This is a temporary overlap.”

Nadia looked above her door. A previously blank panel had illuminated: CHAMBER CLEARANCE ARMED. The warning symbol beside it showed a human figure crossed out.

“What happens here when she steps down?”

No answer.

In Singapore, someone laughed too loudly and announced a brief technical pause. The programme music began.

Nadia knew the broadcast sequence. They had rehearsed the interviews, the smiling officials, the identical wide shots. The director could cut the microphones. He could replace the live picture with the clean rehearsal footage.

They had rehearsed no emergencies.

“Take your helmet off,” she told the other woman. “Hold it over the edge.”

“Your bonus is contingent on completion,” the director said.

The woman in Singapore unclipped her helmet.

“So is yours?” she asked.

“Yes.”

Together, they dropped their helmets. One struck the departure floor. The other smashed outside the arrival platform. Every rehearsal helmet had stayed firmly on.

The Singapore Nadia pointed at her own monitor, which showed the same two rooms.

“Film that,” she told the nearest camera operator. “I’m staying on this square until her door opens.”

He looked toward someone out of shot. Then he lifted his camera. Behind him, a reporter raised her phone.

By evening, security had opened the departure chamber. By midnight, both women had been told the bonuses were suspended.

Nadia called the workshop. Before she could explain, her father asked which of them was calling.

“The one who stayed.”

There was a long pause.

“Right,” he said. “Put the other one on as well.”