J. Rector
Commute
Chapter 2: Commute
Simon struggled to keep his briefcase shut as he adjusted the tint on his glasses which had over compensated for the artificially augmented sunset. His lenses took on a dark rose hue as he and Mark sidestepped cautiously around the Fet-Head seated outside the great glass doors of the S.U.N. Building.
’One tried to take a bite out of me last week, you know?’ Mark said cautiously, keeping an eye on the Fet-Head as the pair made their way towards the smart-taxi stand. ’He walked right into the building, like he didn’t need clearance or nothin’ Mark continued producing a snuff box from his upper vest pocket. ’Want a pinch?’
Simon waved off the offer, not interested in lowering his overall point value--even though it might not even matter anymore. A lottery! Simon thought to himself, he had always been sure it was a valued system of ranked and weighed individuals that were chosen for the settlement missions. If that wasn’t the case then maybe he did have a chance, maybe his children could taste fresh air for once in their lives.
Simon’s heart started to race with excitement. He ignored his friend who was now blathering on about the Fet-Head who had tried to bite him. When he had first told the story to Simon the deranged lunatic had been trying to remove his arm from its place in it’s socket; now the marauder was merely trying to nibble on him, but that’s how most things went in Simon’s opinion, a lot of embellishment to hide a simple truth, like the lottery.
Again his mind wouldn’t stay clear of the subject, had he lived a stolid life in hopes of winning a game no one else was playing? Just random chance keeping his toes on the line and his lifestyle clean? Simon looked back at the Fet-Head and wondered if he had the same chance of going into space as he himself did.
’Don’t pay ’em no mind pal! I shouldn’t-a mentioned that story. Just call us a cab, will ya?’ Mark said as he clicked open the snuff box and took a stiff pinch, sending it speeding up his left nostril. ’Sure you don’t want a tug? I know you stress-heads need a little now and then.’ Mark extended the box to Simon, who now took it cautiously. ’Hang on to that, don’t go losin’ it. I’m not technically allowed to have it on me while I’m on the job, so good on ya. Go ahead, take a rip. I’ll be right back’. With that Mark turned on his heel and pulled down his little official cap and walked commandingly towards the Fet-Head, who had already begun to collect his belongings and scramble for the access-hatch to the lower tunnel maintenance shafts; a place equally as unpleasant as outside the immense domes that covered the city.
Simon swiped his transportation pass across the smart-taxi stand, doing his best to disregard the anthropomorphic Moon that was gleefully wishing him a good evening on the screen. The moon was impossible to see from within the confining, yet protective, structure over head--even from his high rise apartment which he was now anxious to leave for.
Mark finished his dealing with the leather faced Fet-Head and hurried to catch up to Simon at the taxi stand, he shook his hard-light baton over head in victory as he waved his pass over the taxi stand. ’You see that thing slither back into it’s hole’ he said gleefully as he shut off the electric baton and stuffed it away, ’The mug on that beast! Can you believe it was human probably less than a month ago’?
’It--he’s, still human, Mark.’ Simon said, his skin crawled as the electromagnetic hum of the expressway signaled an incoming taxi--something a seasoned rider knew, something Simon wished he had not known.
The smart taxi, an odd oval shaped vehicle with a now dingy yellow paint job spritzed and sizzled along the pick up line towards the curb as it hovered off of the general expressway. The driver, an unnecessary hunk of metal and silicone sat in what would be the drivers seat; motionless, it’s systems ran their regular routine and the rear door of the cab opened automatically.
Mark and Simon slid inside. The pair had grown quiet in their debate on the loss of humanity when the heap of metal in the front seat spoke out in a tinny-humanoid voice. ’What’ll it be?’ said the glorified GPS unit, its tones still attempting to mimic a living driver.
’Start routine, first stop: 75th and Grant. Continue routine, second stop: 111th and Addison. Full stop, end routine’ Simon labored to remember the correct registry order for the old taxi and did his best to relax once he had gone over it once or twice in his head. The silence between the cab’s living occupants hadn’t time to set in before the driver began again.
’That’ll be 26.25 credit; charging to your account’ the robotic voice piped in from all around the cab, followed by the "caching" of a cash register.
’Thank you for hovering with Smart-Taxi, the only hover taxi that is approved by the World Council and the S.U.N.. Have a brighter today!’ a woman’s soft robotic voice chimed in as if to distract the passengers from the knowledge that "Smart-Taxi’s" were the only approved form of on-world transportation. They had no choice. A five second ride, a five hour ride? Twenty credits flat, plus distance.
Simon wondered how much government kickback was involved as the Smart taxi jolted to life underneath him. With acceleration likely to cause whiplash if not for the moulded seats of incredible rigidity, the taxi was off the curb and hurdling down the expressway alongside other commuters.
For blocks Mark and Simon went without discussion, each staring out the auto-tinted windows at the city passing by. The automated cars slowed and Simon could see that Mrs. Mallory’s Meat shop was still open, Simon noticed--usually this early she had already closed for the day, but it seemed in light of the Selection many families were in a haste to make a roast they hadn’t intended on making this morning.
Years ago Mrs. Mallory had gotten lucky. An old butcher’s shop in town had been closing it’s doors, the previous owners having been selected for the foundational moon-settlement mission, and a young Miss. Mallory had walked in hoping for a sliver of something, last customer of the day and they just offered it to her--the whole business for a credit! One credit!
Simon had always liked Miss Mallory, never one for looking a gift horse, she would always make a little too much and leave it outside the back door after locking up--just odds and ends but by morning, every morning, they were gone; news she had shared with him one Saturday while he was in picking up a bird for the holiday.
’You know she raises all her animals underground? "Free Range"’ Mark said as he pointed to the butcher shop and brought Simon from his revelry. ’Sure, I heard someone say the butcher that used to own the place only stayed open under the dome cuz he had an old missile silo under the place packed with farm animals from before the dome went up.’
’That can’t be true, half the city is underground now and there’s no abandoned silos under the city. I’ve seen the planning maps! One of the expressway tunnels runs right under there’ Simon said, defendant of the little shop ’though I will admit, I’ve never given much thought to where she gets her supply from’.
’Fine, if she doesn’t have a silo full of chickens, which she does, she’s gotta be getting it from somewhere’ Mark said, his thoughts drifting off somewhere dark and malicious. Simon disregarded his companions opinions, finding they left a bad taste in his mouth and continued on languidly looking out the window of his mobile smart-jail.
The shops and eateries had flew by, along with the inner city residences and the fine arts museums which had been miraculously preserved through both the war and the following plight. Simon watched carefully as the expressway dipped beneath the horizon into the spiderweb of tubes that created the inter-complex expressway; a network of tunnels that spanned half the remaining west coast.
Once inside the tunnels the sights diminished and became a redundant stream of holographic billboards that entreated passengers to try every new product from Space Fighter Elite, a video game who’s billboard was a holographic simulation of intergalactic war, to Personal Fetish Accessories a multitude of which appeared on screen in bright neon lights. Occasionally when the advertiser had an exorbitant amount of funding the internal smart-taxi sound system would play the accompanying radio ad making the entire pitch completely unavoidable. Often Simon found himself buying half a dozen products on his touchpad before getting home, but not today.
’Gotta, Gotta, Have it--Ooh, oh don’t you want it? Citrongin!’ Played in cheery tones inside the cab while outside the accompanying neon woman appeared to be sipping on an orange in a purple hard-light martini glass outside the window on a billboard.
This caused Simon no undue need today, Citrogin would make one less daily sale. His mind was rife with questions, but mostly anxiety.
’75th and Grant, comin up!’ The machine in the drivers seat chattered away as the taxi switched across several electro-magnetic lanes in preparation to reemerge onto street level.
’Thanks, Trip.’ Mark tapped the glass behind the mechanical driver as if it would acknowledge his presence, grinning widely ’you know, I like these things. Built to make us feel safer, that’s fresh. Damn sure makes me feel superior, don’t you?’
Simon didn’t reply.
The taxi sizzled and sparked as it hovered towards the curb in front of the nearly dome-high apartment that resided at 75th and Grant. The door, as was custom, opened automatically. Mark stepped out.
’Good luck you old goat, I hope I see you out there. If not I’m giving you a demerit for that coat tomorrow’! Mark said with a laugh as he stepped away from the smart-taxi and hustled as up to his building as fast as his little legs would take him.
Finally, a moment of peace--Simon thought to himself, as the taxi sizzled and maneuvered back on track towards his apartment. The taxi again dove underground into the network of tunnels and Simon found himself thinking about the billboards--who maintained them? Who maintained anything under or even outside the domes? The exo-suits in the lab were only half-hour limits. He stared long and hard into the winding tunnels, shifting the tint on his glasses to compensate for glare and ambient lighting and in the darkness he swore he could see something, people! People were crowded into the darkness around and under the billboards, people sleeping and people living! Living people down here in the unfiltered wastes.
Simon removed his glasses and rubbed his eyes before replacing the frames and trying to take another look. The hover taxi switched lanes and prepared for emersion into the last of the augmented sunset. His glasses adjusted automatically.