ISSUE 01
E P I S O D ET IIM NE F IC NAI TPES U L E S A N D C L I M AT E D O O M
TIME CAPSULES AND CLIMATE DOOM LYDIA SCHOFIELD
LY D I A S C H O F I E L D
It’s my first proper day on campus in my first year of university. The sun is bright, my sunscreen has stuck to my face mask and I am bubbling with nerdy excitement for the era of my life that begins here and now. The future is mine for the taking, or it will be as soon as I finish my lunch and head up to the library to get working. Across the Bowen Street courtyard, a cluster of clubs and activity groups loiter in search of new members. On the small lawn, a group of cheerleaders stretch and hula-hoop as a DJ fills the space with music that is too loud. I watch them quietly as I eat, and scan the surrounding buildings, studying the patchwork of architecture that makes up the courtyard. My attention travels down from the gargoyles on the Francis Ormond Building to the small plaque at the foot of the stairs. It bears a message engraved on its smooth metallic surface: R OYA L M E L B O U R N E I N S T I T U T E O F T ECHN O LO G Y T IME C A P SUL E WA S P L A C E D H E R E O N T H E OCC A SION OF THE CENTENARY C L O S I N G C E R E M O N Y, 2 1 O C TO B E R 1 9 8 7. TO B E O P E N E D I N T H E Y E A R 2 0 8 7 2087. It’s a year out of a sci-fi movie, a time I can’t entirely grasp as real. If all goes well – if fire, flood, and plague haven’t claimed me in the meantime – I will be eighty-five in 2087. I could see them lift the time capsule from the ground. I could make a speech at the ceremony. No one who saw the capsule buried in 1987 will be alive to see it. Or, at least, I imagine they won’t. We could all be superhuman by the sci-fi year, with cyborg lung replacements and hearts which never stop beating. Or we could all be choking under a thick cloud of smog. Something
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