Turbulence by Samit Basu Page A

the Tia behind Uzma, currently engaged in studying her burns.
    “I’m staying,” she says defiantly. “I want to listen.”
    “What’s wrong with Bob?” Uzma asks.
    “Bob’s got a slightly weird power,” Aman says. “His stomach controls the weather near him.”
    “So you guys keep his stomach cool and save on air-conditioning?”
    “Precisely. But just imagine what this power could mean on a grand scale.”
    “I was wondering why you knew so much about what he should be fed.”
    “Oh, I don’t, Tia takes care of all that,” Aman says. “I Googled it just now.”
    Sundar clears his throat portentously.
    “About what you and Aman were discussing earlier,” he says, “we — I — have deduced that the power given to each passenger on the plane is intrinsically linked to whatever he or she desired most in life. That is why Aman said your powers make everyone love you. For us, too, it is true. I was a successful physicist before, a string theorist at the Indian Institute of Science, but as the years passed I found myself moving further and further away from what had first fascinated me about science as a child in Madras — the sense of being an explorer, a voyager into the unknown, an inventor with the power to change the world.”
    “A mad scientist,” Tia says.
    “Classic mad scientist,” Aman says. “Complete with the need to infodump whenever he’s awake, until your sleep schedule is as messed up as his.”
    Sundar smiles. “I was certainly being driven insane. In fact, I was so tired of the endless routine of conferences around the world and bitter politicking to publish in journals that I was contemplating giving it all up and retiring to play the mandolin. Then, of course, I went to London to attend a conference — against my will,” he says.
    He stands, head bowed, in silence.
    “And?” Uzma asks after a few seconds.
    “He’s going under again,” Aman says. “You might want to get out of the way.”
    Sundar’s arms swing up, elbows moving like a puppet’s, and Uzma stifles a scream. Sundar heads, unseeing, towards his work in progress.
    “Should we take this outside? Which is worse, unbearable heat or zombie scientist?” Aman asks.
    Uzma drags her chair as far away from Sundar as possible and sits.
    “Keep talking,” she says.
    “My powers let me hook up to anything on a network — computers, phones, satellites, all sorts of stuff,” Aman says. “All our powers grow the more we use them, and I’m sure there are lots of applications I haven’t even thought up yet. I don’t really know how this connects to what I wanted most — I mean, it’s not like I didn’t have broadband, and more importantly I’ve never had the slightest clue what I wanted in life. But Sundar’s theory is pretty true for me as well.”
    “How?” Uzma asks. “I don’t think I became an actress because I wanted to be loved — but even if we let that go, why do you have powers if you didn’t want anything?”
    “Well, this is what I figured. Growing up in Delhi — and Delhi’s a city of networks, the social kind, and contacts andfamilies — I’ve always felt left out of things, like I didn’t know anything, the right people, the right places. It’s not like I lacked anything I ever needed to live a comfortable life, but I’ve never had the connections I needed to make a difference, to be relevant in any way. I don’t know how it was for you growing up in the UK, but here nearly all of us have this huge sense of irrelevance. We’ll never change anything. The world will never know us. We grow up thinking hard work and a certain amount of ability are all we need — and then we eventually have to accept that they can only take us so far. I’m not even talking about being famous here — I’ve never wanted to be famous. But we never feel like we’re a part of anything. Nothing to believe in or fight for. I don’t know if I’m making sense.”
    “You’re making as much sense as