A Journey to Africa

Song Ya's day during the holidays went like this.

After getting up in the morning, he warmed up his voice to prepare for his future singing career. As Daniel had said, singers were the ones who always made the big money. Two songs from the future had made three people famous. Watching Old Joe, Little Lowry, and even Mira grow more successful by the day, it would have been dishonest to claim he hadn't felt even the slightest stir of ambition. This body had a good voice, and not using it would be a waste.

After practicing his vocals, he would spend an hour or so playing the guitar or practicing the trumpet after breakfast, keeping his musical instincts sharp.

Then he would read technical books about tuning and audio processing. The more he learned, the more he felt that the industry was all about minor details. The only things holding back all electronic products at the moment were hardware and software performance. Without those two, nothing else was possible. The picture quality of the music videos for his two songs from the future was far superior to that of every music video of the era. Even a hundred Song Yas transported back in time couldn't recreate them; the entire technology sector, hardware and software alike, would have to advance. From this, Song Ya also realized something: since the songs from the future hinted at the direction of future progress, perhaps he could ride that wave and invest in it. Of course, he wasn't capable of that just yet.

After lunch, he would do a little exercise. His build was well-proportioned, and he was still growing taller. He absolutely couldn't end up broadening sideways like Aunt Susie, Tony, or Connie. He had even made sure to remove junk food from the meal plan he'd given Aunt Susie.

Then he would head out and wander around Chicago's North Side, hoping to get lucky and trigger a third song from the future. If he saw something he liked, he would buy it on the spot.

For instance, there was the brand-new Nissan Bluebird, which had cost a little over ten thousand dollars and now sat in the apartment building's underground parking lot. Aunt Susie would drive it to the South Side to visit Connie or go to the church she usually attended. Once school started, it would also be used to drive Song Ya and Emily to and from school. The secondhand Ford pickup that was always breaking down had been left to Connie.

There was also the Compaq 386 computer that the company had released the previous year, now sitting on his desk. Song Ya had happened upon a sale while browsing an electronics store, and in a moment of impulse, he'd bought it. After Compaq's engineers came over to install it, he stared blankly at the black DOS screen for a few minutes, then shut it down and never turned it on again. But having it in his bedroom made the inexplicable emptiness he'd felt after moving in disappear. It was as if the thing were an essential prop in the room, and having it there put his mind at ease. Whether he actually used it seemed beside the point.

If he stayed out too late, he would eat his new favorite, spaghetti and meatballs, at a nearby Italian restaurant. Chinese food in the USA didn't suit his palate; he actually preferred Italian food, even though he'd heard it had been "adapted" too.

In the evening, he would go home, sit in front of the TV and watch the news, or flip through magazines to keep up with political affairs and the music industry at home and abroad. The biggest news at the moment was that Iraqi troops had entered Kuwait and the President of America had announced Operation Desert Shield. "To de Klerk" was still bouncing around the upper reaches of the Billboard chart, while the studio version of "Thrift Shop" hadn't found an audience. After a slight recovery, it had fallen again, and now it had been pushed out of the top fifty.

Mira would usually call around this time and tell him about all sorts of troubles: how much she missed him, how exhausting it was to promote herself every day, how some fans were too enthusiastic, and how her mother kept a close eye on her and wouldn't let her do this or that. The worries of a fifteen-year-old girl were always much the same, and once Mira got going on the phone, she never seemed to stop. Song Ya found himself rather listless, thinking it was a terribly wasteful way to spend time, nowhere near as enjoyable as the time they spent together. They would always take care of their physical needs first, then casually find something to do to pass the time. He found that much more pleasant.

After that came the perfect time to study hard.

All in all, Song Ya had followed the "small goals" he'd set for himself after traveling back in time. He'd moved his whole family out of the South Side, leaving behind its terrible crime and schools. He'd made a lot of money with his cheat-like gift from the future and improved life for himself and his family. He'd won over the girl he'd wanted and bought the things he'd wanted. And then...

He realized that once his "low desires" had been satisfied, all that remained was the emptiness of having lost his drive.

After drifting through life in a daze for over half a month, he finally received Dr. Michelle's reward.

"To de Klerk" had originally been an essay written for an exam. Now that the song had become a huge hit across the USA, Michelle naturally honored her long-standing promise about the South African youth project.

As he boarded a plane and left the country for the first time, Song Ya's destination was South Africa.

"I heard that song has sold over a million copies?" Dr. Michelle began once the plane had leveled off.

Song Ya nodded. "I told you, didn't I? You have to change your approach to stand out."

Michelle smiled knowingly. "You certainly did. I was shocked when I heard you singing those swear words, but I have to admit, it was a breath of fresh air."

"Do they—the South African government, I mean—know I wrote the lyrics and music for that song?" Song Ya asked.

"Don't worry. Even if they do, they'll show how magnanimous they are. It's almost the twenty-first century, and they're still playing at apartheid. No one in the world will support them." Michelle knew he was worried about his safety and reassured him. Then she turned around to look at the rowdy teenagers in the seats behind them. "Could you help me keep them in line?" she asked.

There were quite a few participants in this youth program, all kids in their teens from all over the USA. They all seemed to come from well-connected families, and Michelle, who was leading the group, had her hands full.

"Sure." Song Ya knew this was because he looked older than he was. He stood up and barked, "Quiet!" His voice immediately brought the group to order. Then he walked down the aisle, putting a few troublemakers back in their seats.

"Task accomplished perfectly..." He sat back down and looked to Michelle for praise. But now that their cabin had quieted down, the noise from the first-class section up ahead seemed even louder. Men's laughter was occasionally punctuated by the coquettish giggles of a flight attendant. "I can't do anything about them, though," Song Ya joked.

Michelle sighed as she watched the smiling flight attendants continually carry drinks to first class. "Wall Street people never forget to enjoy themselves."

"What are they doing in South Africa?" Song Ya asked.

"De Klerk's reforms have begun. If all goes well, South Africa will be transformed in a few years. Political upheaval in an economy this large is bound to bring countless opportunities. Those vultures..." Michelle nodded toward first class. She had little respect for Wall Street. "They won't let this opportunity pass them by."

As they were talking, a white woman in her thirties with short, light-blond hair and a striking presence came out of first class. "Hi... Michelle, would you come over and talk?" She found Michelle and invited her over.

"Thanks, but no, Mrs. Underwood. I'm not fond of that sort of scene," Michelle declined.

"Just call me Claire." The two exchanged a few pleasantries, but Claire couldn't persuade Michelle, so she returned to first class.

Song Ya could tell that Michelle was quite cool toward her. "Mrs. Underwood?" he asked. "Is she an Underwood, like the congressman we saw at the school last time?"

"Yes. Ms. Claire runs a charity." Michelle paused, then lowered her voice. "She's a fixer. Try to stay away from people like her in the future."

"A fixer?"

"Yes, a fixer. Money and power, power and money—it's all just dirty business."