‘Joe, are you there? Can you hear me? Why are you putting me to voice?’ shrieked a clearly startled Monica as she stood at the side of the road, clutching Benji’s hand tightly.
‘I’m helping with a case. Have to be quick. What’s up?’ hissed Joe back in that kind of half-whisper, half-irritated tone.
‘We’ve, we’ve been in an accident, Joe. I’m scared. Maybe you were right about something “going on”.’
‘Slow down, slow down. What’s happened? Is Benji OK?’
‘I’m fine, Daddy. Hello Daddy,’ chimed in Benji as he was glad of the connection to his dad.
‘Yes, yes, he’s fine. We were in a GCab on the way to the airport. It stopped at a red light for ages ‘cos of the train and then they said it was a problem, so they moved us on. And then the train wasn’t there. But, it was there, Joe. It nearly hit us. We are at the side of the road now. I hit the emergency button and GCabs are sending a new car. I don’t know what’s going on, Joe.’
‘You and me both, Monica. Listen, I’m in the middle of a big case here. Can’t say too much. I’ll check in later. Just get to NYC and lie low, you understand? Avoid crowds.’
‘OK, OK. Thanks for… understanding,’ said a clearly rattled Monica, who was thankful for Joe being there, for picking up, and for being someone she could go to.
The sun baked overhead now, and both Monica and Benji drew glances from just about every vehicle that passed, the automatons transporting them never once slowing or stopping to help as they waited. It was very unusual to see people actually on the streets in the burbs, and they must have cast a funny sight for the people travelling by as they waited for the new GCab to arrive.
‘Here is the route map, Monica. Your replacement vehicle will arrive in four minutes,’ she was told by her rig as it beamed a map into her field of vision.
It’s so hot. Hurry, she thought to herself as she held Benji’s hand and they patiently waited.
‘Sir, sir, I have something,’ chirped Ethan as he flounced towards Joe, who was flicking the corner of his brow and ending his call with Monica.
‘It’s a list of all vehicles leaving the area right after the EMP exploded. Unfortunately, I have to go two blocks out to pick up the working lights in three different exit routes: 129 in the three minutes following detonation.’
Joe’s eyes rolled. Visibly. Deliberately.
‘Don’t be like that, sir. Of course I have more. What do you take me for?’
‘Don’t let me answer th—’ smiled Joe as he stopped himself mid-sentence. He was the new guy here after all, but he figured Ethan was a good kid and could take him busting his balls just a little every now and again.
The buzz in the air was palpable. The clicking of keyboards meshed with the frantic movement of data on screens, coupled with a formality to proceedings, no doubt brought on by having the big chiefs around.
Ethan moved towards the largest panel in the centre of the run and flicked his head at a jaunty angle to access the facial recognition. Then he proceeded to chunter super-fast commands at the screen, all the while whirling his hands like an operatic conductor, the screens cycling through maps and data at his every command.
‘This could be a blind alley, but from my first list of 129, I’ve found three vehicles that are really interesting. Here they are.’
A trio of vehicles appeared on screen, their stock images spinning as if on their sales website, data appearing all around them.
‘All three of these cars changed hands recently with no known bank transaction accompanying them.’
‘Meaning cash?’
‘Exactly,’ purred Ethan, clearly proud of his discovery. Cash was almost non-existent now, and spending it in large amounts, although not illegal, was clearly discouraged in the everything digital age and beyond, which had started in the early twenties.
‘What’s even more interesting are the pictures of these cars at their last crossing points of a significant traffic routing system. Look.’
‘Car 1: Tesla C20. Windows set to clear. You can see a family in this car: two children in the back.’
‘Uh-huh, unlikely to be our MO,’ muttered Joe, clearly unimpressed.
‘Car 2: Nissan Forest 3. Two young girls, just as unlikely to be our targets, and besides, they stop just after the lights, turning into a McDonald’s and they get out. Not them.’
‘But Car 3, Joe, Car 3 is an F-150, double cab, rear windows set to opaque, only a single male driver in situ, hard to see as he’s wearing a baseball cap, but he just doesn’t stop, Joe. He doesn’t stop. I can’t get a good look at him, at any light.’
‘What do you mean? Track his progress. He must get stopped further up the highway,’ barked Joe back, clearly now very interested.
‘Well, that’s the thing, Joe, he never, ever gets stopped by a light. It’s like they are all letting him through, like they’ve been programmed to let him through…’ Ethan’s eyes widened at the possibilities and the myriad of conspiracies he was only just starting to imagine. You could tell he lived his life from the endorphin kicks from his brain, not unusual in the Alpha–Beta generation born in the 2010s and the 2020s as the slow removal of civil liberties and well, fun, from any aspect of life targeted people inwards, and the easy access to information meant that learning was just so easy. People became cleverer, but more introverted, and social skills were at an absolute premium. Those that had them or could develop those skills tended to rise in organisations as they learned to manage the ubernerds and make sense of the information they could provide. Ever since the Covid crisis of the early twenties that decimated the libertarian nature of governments, the ‘for your own protection’ and the ‘Build Back Better’ mantra meant people were controlled by authoritarian police states, especially in the West. This gave rise to the Alpha and Beta generations being the ubernerds—shy, clever, thoughtful—and the millennials and Gen Zs who ran the show were able to call the shots. Joe was certainly one of those who had the people skills, and he could sense that Ethan was on to something, so rather than constrict, examine his information or methodology, it was best to cut him loose, allow him to chase after his own endorphins, and basically, get out of his way.
‘Great stuff, buddy. You are some guy. Keep going. Go hunt down who the man in the cap is and let me know, OK? And another thing, Ethan, but since you haven’t yet told me, I think I know the answer: what happened to the Renato Sanchez lead?’
‘Dead end, sir. We’ve had him in. He had been exactly where he said he was. His ID was cloned. We’re still talking to him though, so I’ll let you know if anything comes of it. So sorry I didn’t inform you earlier, sir, it’s just, I had new leads.’
‘Of course you did, buddy. Keep going, pal.’
The signs kept coming. Progress was smooth and after a while she went back to sleep, no doubt groggy still from the initial shot.
Meriden 91. Only 11.5 hours more to go, but Dylan was alert. He’d methodically planned out his sleep habits and his nutrient intake perfectly, so he was in perfect shape, at the perfect moment.
Suki was silent.
At this moment she was kind of awake, barely conscious, but aware of being alive, glad to be alive, but so, so scared. Sleep was indeed enticing, not only from the calm embrace of the pharmaceuticals, but the low gentle hum of the ridged asphalt was relentless, and the soft warm coverings of whatever type of box she was in was so, so soft. Who was doing this? What did they want with her? That comment about being ‘loved’? What was all that about? She had to be ready for when the vehicle stopped. What was she being driven in? Too small to be a car. Didn’t feel overly big like a bus. Certainly no air brakes, but then again, they hadn’t stopped. Not once. She was prepped to make a big noise at any traffic lights in case they were in the city and people happened to be walking by. But they hadn’t stopped. And the car speed seemed fairly constant. So, no big accelerations and hardly any braking… maybe it was a bus and she just hadn’t heard the air brake hiss? And there wasn’t much noise other than the road, though she swore she could hear her own music, the chorus of ‘Blinded by the Light’ was going through her head, and she swore she could hear it somewhere around.
Dylan spoke to the car.
‘ETA, please.’
‘At current average velocity, 11 hours and 28 minutes. Variable route factors include traffic density around Boston, the Canadian border crossing and some toll routes which may cause delays.’
‘OK then. Now please play my personal concert with Suki: London, October 2036.’
‘Here it is…’
Dylan’s face appeared in the centre console screen as what appeared to be a homemade video started. With a quick flick of his brow down and to the left, a tap to the GGlasses, a flick upwards and another tap, the screen image shifted to centre right of the car’s HUD, which was more or less the full right-hand side of the windscreen, with the occasional road sign or pulled-over car in the verge ghosting through the image. This was another recent innovation to improve road safety even further with the eventual goal of zero incidents still not yet being achieved, but close, as cars generally drove you, and their constant interaction meant that fender benders just didn’t happen. The handful of accidents occurring every year were usually pilots putting the car in manual at the wrong time, and well, human error.
The video continued, with Dylan moving through the crowd excited, and the camera then panning to the stage, immediately focusing on the pneumatic blonde goddess appearing on the left-hand side of the screen, her shiny metallic dress looking like the hottest medieval knight that ever did roam! The camera continued to move through the crowd, getting closer, closer, and as the music started up, the unmistakable face came into view as she roared:
‘Well, hello London! Are you OK?’
It was Suki, the bass kicking in and her head and whole body rocking right back as she belted out the first line. ‘Dreamerrrrrrr…’
The concert seemed to be so real, so personal, shot uniquely from one person’s perspective. Except it was unlike any ‘real’ home movie because of the smooth camera movement, how it panned, how it zoomed right in on the star in the exact gap between two taller people. Then there were the effortless cuts to the above-sky cameras, the perfect audio, the perfect visuals. This was for sure one of those My Concerts, a composite mash-up of self-shot material, coupled with all other available crowd-funded material and paid-for professional drone and boom shots from cameras all over the venue. These things were not cheap, but as a memento of a special time, they were priceless, and gave a unique first-person perspective. Mesmerising.
Dylan arched his neck and rounded out his shoulders, settling himself in for a good couple of hours when he knew he wouldn’t hit a single problem.