‘Benji, come on, we’re going to be late,’ barked Monica as she waited for the GCab to arrive.
She’d managed to get them a flight from Philly to NYC that evening. As much as Joe’s family were lovely people, she couldn’t wait to get home, and to normality, if that was even possible in this crazy summer.
Your GCab will be here in four minutes, Monica,’ spoke the ever so polite HIM that controlled the old-fashioned farmhouse, and Monica moved quickly over to Benji to help him stuff the last of his clothes into the bag.
‘But mom, why the rush? Can’t we stay here a little longer? Daddy might come here to see us.’
‘Your daddy is busy, Benji. There’s stuff going on and he has a new job now. He has to make sure people are safe, sweetie. We’ll see him faster if we get home,’ lied Monica. Anything to placate him and soothe his angst.
In today’s ubersafe world it wasn’t easy to be a child of a broken home. With the rise in demand for mental health support, couples’ counselling and marriage support, the good old American notion of the family had surged in popularity in the thirties, divorce rates tumbling in complete juxtaposition of the suicide rates. It seemed that mental health coaching was always successful—just in one final way or the other. Relief, change and true help, or a spiral into a realisation that change wasn’t possible, and the ultimate way out. The Government tried to step in by introducing measures such as the three-day week to give more people jobs and a purpose and by heavily subsidising family activities and ‘fun stuff’. Even that couldn’t save some people. Controversy raged over what should be done.
Bright sunshine greeted them as they stepped out onto the veranda. Waving goodbye, they were greeted by their metallic chauffeur on the side of the vehicle, facial recognition opening the doors with a swoosh and even popping the boot open for the cases. Only it couldn’t yet lift them in for you!
‘No music,’ ordered Monica before the GCab started its monologue.
‘Destination is Philadelphia Airport, Terminal One, United Airlines. Journey time will be 28 minutes. Outside temperature is 98°. However, in accordance with your saved preferences, I have set the internal temperature to 72°.’
‘Yes, confirmed,’ interrupted Monica before the cab could ask permission.
‘Fasten your seat belts please, and our journey will begin.’
The bright sunlight was obvious but not uncomfortable thanks to the auto shields on the GCab removing the glare. Farmland rolled past as the smooth electric drive train shifted through imaginary gears and propelled them to their destination. A quick one-hour hop to NYC and then they’d be home. Sure the traffic would be rotten with the road closures and the curfews in place, but they’d be home.
What had Joe been thinking sending us away like that? she thought to herself. Monica was still unsettled, torn between her old love for her husband and wanting to stretch out for a new life, one where Benji could grow and develop and realise a great education. And one where she could be… loved.
‘Mom, can I ask the G to play my Minecraft Battle, please?’
‘Well, seeing as you’ve asked so nicely, go on then.’
‘G, please call up my last saved game on Minecraft Battle.’ His little voice sounded weird talking to a car, but he was indeed understood, and it was a few seconds while the cab recalled his account and asked for his mother’s authorisation and confirmation code.
What looked like an old-fashioned aeroplane seat table flipped down in front of Benji, with a gaming controller inside, which he retrieved. Then he clicked his fingers towards the left-hand side screen, which he would use for his entertainment.
‘Low volume please, G. I have a headache.’
‘As you wish, ma’am,’ replied the operating system as it flicked the number five onto the screen in front of Benji’s already loading game.
The crossroads looked like something out of a history book with a train track at one side. Four-way stop signs gave way to a short crawl towards the lights, which were in place to control the train traffic that wouldn’t come—not now that drones were faster and cheaper in moving goods from A to B and trains only now existed for really long-range high-capacity cargo drops. There was also the odd tourist train, but that was more for the purposes of nostalgia than anything else, being kind of like a cross between the Orient Express and the Cape Town Blue Train.
Ah, holidays… Maybe she would book one when they got back to NYC.
She remembered their last one as a family. A week in Fort Lauderdale in Florida was about all they could afford on the joint salary of a Level 3 cop and a school teacher. Never mind, in 2035 it had been an amazing time. Benji was walking and toilet training well, and he could be easily entertained with cheap Chinese plastic toys, so it was relatively easy for them to have a semblance of normality. Lazy evenings of walks along the beachfront promenade, some great chicken at Hooters, and days spent by the swimming pool at their hotel were a distant but very fond memory for Monica. They had started to find differing world views by this stage, but arguments were small and few and far between, and she remembered the feeling of hope they all had for Benji’s future prospects, and of the world finally settling down after what had seemed like two decades of constant turmoil.
She’d been lost for a while during that time, her parents’ car crash when she was 19 leaving her very alone and very rich, and while she wasn’t a career high-flyer by any means, she enjoyed being a teacher and longed to give back to the world and her community. She’d met Joe in the mid-twenties when he’d visited her school to give a talk on community policing, and she’d loved his cheeky attitude and sense of humour. He had an energy that was enticing, and it wasn’t long before one thing led to another and they were a couple. He had been the love of her life. Her comfort and security blanket of an only child without parents and all alone in the world. She wondered if they could get back what they had lost. Her colleague Josh was indeed a sympathetic ear, and she had built up so much angst in the years since the three-day week reduced everyone’s life to… well, less. He’d been there for her as her anxiety built over Joe’s quite obvious depression, over Benji’s future, over all of their health issues, and things just seemed to spiral.
Was she regretting her decisions?
Lurching forward, her arm instinctively reached out to her left to protect Benji as the sudden halt caused him to rock forward. ‘What’s going on, G?’ she barked to the cab as they stopped. Then she noticed the red light. Surely there couldn’t be a train?
‘Train incoming, ma’am. It’s 68 seconds away.’
‘Oh, OK,’ she responded, her surprise now dissipating, and she looked left and right for sight of the cargo. Or maybe it was that tourist train.
‘Mom, what’s happening? Why are we stopped?’ whinged Benji, his concentration on his game having been rudely interrupted by the sharp braking.
‘Train, sweetie. We have to let it pass. Won’t be long,’ she answered as she surveyed the brown and gold landscape baked by the sun.
Waiting.
Waiting.
No train.
‘G, you said “train incoming”. Nothing has passed. What is happening?’
‘I’m sorry, there appears to be an error. Contacting guest services for you now. One moment.’
A lady appeared on the screen where the road had been.
‘Apologies, Mrs Jones, it appears there was a faulty warning light of a train. We are rebooting the light sequence now and ordering your G to move on and ignore the light. One moment.’
The car silently pulled off as G remarked, ‘Continuing our journey. Arrival time 21 minutes.’ And a slight rumble seemed comforting as the car ran over the tracks.
Noise. A Horn. Louder.
Monica did an about-face to pivot her neck out of the back window and saw the cargo train miss them by inches as it hurtled past at what must have been 200 mph at least. She screamed for G, demanding to know what was going on as these things didn’t break, they didn’t malfunction. What was happening?
Ethan looked up from his desk and seemed rather pleased with himself, like he had finally got further than that kiss with Gemma down by the river. Living alone in a Manhattan apartment wasn’t easy for a young British guy these days, even one as publicly educated and privately travelled as Ethan. One of three children of a serving government minister and a public school headmistress, Ethan was a high achiever in life in academic terms. His time at Oxford had been fruitful, and then a scholarship to the Defence Academy in Shrivenham, the DCMCI building on his intellect and giving him specific skills, which he was already adept at mastering. An expert in data gathering and intelligence, he’d also studied cybersecurity and was top of his unit in graduation, landing a plumb job with the MOD and now a secondment to the FBI no less.
His private life was less secure as, coupled with his obvious lack of experience with the opposite sex, he also possessed an intelligence level that made it difficult for him to connect with ordinary people. He was polite and engaging, but it always seemed like his brain was one step ahead of other people, and even while you were speaking to him, he was three steps ahead in the conversation. His parents thought time in New York would toughen him up and give him a chance to stand on his own two feet and learn how to live a life. Yet, in practice, the solitary confinement of a strange city with people he just couldn’t understand enough to talk to, people who seemed to be on a different planet to him, well, he struggled, and although he loved his job, he was fast becoming almost a hermit outside of his work.
Beckoning to Joe, it seemed he had some news.
‘Well, sir, my final list is very, very interesting. We ran a list of all contractors at the event, people with access for a variety of reasons: catering staff, security, even the set-up crew for the equipment. We cross-referenced that with a list of people with criminal records—only two: a security guard and a roadie for the crew. Minor infractions it seems.’ Ethan wasn’t finished. ‘But then, sir, I don’t know why, but I did a different cross-check and it seems one contractor kind of checked in, well, twice.’
Joe’s whole body suddenly changed, demeanour morphing into the alert and interested, eyes wide and bulging. This could be something.
‘What do you mean “twice”?’
‘Well sir, the cameras record where a person is at all times, and just before the explosion, one guy was in the basement cellar and he was also scanned at the back entrance near the stage.’
‘Get me the details.’
Ethan gestured again with his wrist and enlarged the mug shot appearing on screen.
‘Renato William Sanchez, 38, married, lives in Brooklyn, air-con engineer. He got a call to come and fix the cooling in the cellar for the main bar, arrived at 20.40, checked in via the main entrance, and was still in the basement cellar at the time of the explosion: 21.00 hours, sir. Yet at the same time, he was at the back entrance at 19.50. So, unless the camera was faulty in the basement, he couldn’t be in two places at once, sir.’
‘Get me everything about him. What do we know, and where is he?’
‘Copy that,’ said Ethan as he went into full-on conductor mode again. Information was flying up on screens all around them, including Sanchez’s current location and live CCTV feed of him in his van moving away from the scene.
‘Get me his music list. He have any Suki on it?’
Screens whirred again like a fast-moving roulette wheel as Ethan brought up the info with a combination of rhythmic hand movements and spoken commands. At each stage, the NYPD access override moved seamlessly through every password protocol with ease.
‘One album, sir, barely played. Actually looks like it’s for his daughter, sir. It’s copied to her playlist where it is used—a lot.’
‘Get him in.’