Art Bébé says, 'Fade in:'
Flush them out, bring them in, let the profilers do the rest, he reminds himself of the primary flusher refrain. He has gone over the preliminary.
The gray had been reported by flusher agent assist class 2 Helmet Schmitz while on a random REP sweep. It had caught descending the Chelsea district switchback, parked at its base, stepped off, and then it was gone, cloaked, a technology that belonged only to the state. Schmitz reported in, and a flusher assist team (FAT) had been promptly dispatched to the locality. The make and model of the machine couldn’t be identified. Electromagnetic scans had followed as a matter of course, but no matter the scan, each had been bounced. He was called in.
He has his own refrain. If things didn’t add up, it has to be a wakeup call, or at least for those asleep. Never him, he prided himself. They had a gray unafraid of showing itself, that had access to state controlled cloaking technology, and in possession of an unidentifiable and unregistered machine. So a real headache for CPS. Better break out the Relax-o-aid.
He is en route now.
‘Aimee, ETA?'
‘Five minutes, agent, White.'
‘Thank you, Aimee. We’re making good time.'
He sits back and takes in the sight through the skycar windshield.
The island’s many colored lights glitter through the gray cloud and the rising yellow swamp affluent. In places, the island’s perimeter wall shows, along with the regular red pulse that make up the beacon lights. He waits out the time with some impatience till the low drone of the proximity alerts give out, and now the switchback can be been seen, a brutal zigzag of concrete and steel cutting through the molasses of pollutant chemical and swamp gas rising from the canal level as if scissoring up from a netherworld. Aimee begins the vertical decent. Almost immediately, the car is rocked as a sharp blast of air funnels through the stair gaps. Aimee corrects, averting a dangerous spin.
'Agent, White,’ he hears from Aimee. ‘You may want to strap yourself in.'
He has forgotten his seat harness, preoccupied by his thoughts. Aimee automatically activates the cross harness, releasing the ends from either side of his shoulders, and snaking the ends across his chest. He is forced back in the seat just as a second blast of wind shakes the car.
Agent, White,’ Aimee goes on, since when was this a good idea? We could have made an angled approach from a lower elevation at a far lesser risk.'
She is right. He’d insisted on a close decent down the length of the switchback. A dangerous proposition. Not only wind turbulence, but the risk of swamp gas, randomly combining in an explosive chemical mix through the nose air scoop, could result in cabin or engine fire. But he’d wanted to see the switchback up close. Why he wasn’t sure, only it could be important to the investigation. A flusher had to follow their instincts. ‘A good agent is a curious agent, Aimee,’ he answers the AI.
‘And a good agent manages risks, agent White,’ Aimee ripostes. ‘I’m sorry, but protocol dictates that I log your flight request with central command. You may have to explain to Operations Review (OR).'
‘Nothing I can’t handle, Aimee,’ he responds. ‘And besides, ‘They love me down there.'
‘Love you enough to revoke your pilot’s license twice over, agent White.' Descending further.
Aimee flanks to briefly to port, then dips the nose of the skycar sharply. Despite the harness restriction, White is forced to grip the wheel. He grits his teeth, and feels the floor suddenly drop away beneath him, the skycar going into a rapid, accelerated plummet. However, it soon corrects its trim. White lets go of the wheel.
'Aimee, what happened?’ he asks a little breathlessly.
‘We hit an air hole and fell through. I’ve corrected. The good news is, I believe we’re through the worst of it. I have eyes on the team below.'
He checks the dash. The forward camera has captured the team. The monitor shows a dimly lit area under the ghostly-green-phosphor of night vision. The flusher assist team (FA or FAT) of six personal stand, grouped around the machine by the triangular section of the wall making up the switchback exit. From the general awkwardness of their green-shadowed frames, they appear in some anxiety over what they are witnessing. A little further along the canal skirt, it is possible to make out the team’s transporter.
‘Aimee, give us some distance,’ White pauses to check the view from the starboard camera, watching as a section of fog clears, showing glimpses of dark water, and the dappled patina of concrete skirting. He continues, explaining, ‘North of the team, Aimee, directly by the canal.'
‘Complying, agent White.'
Aimee proceeds in a tight arc around the switchback. A section of pot-holed and cracked road comes into view, further proximity alerts give out; Aimee adjusts, beginning on the decent proper, and after a minute, touches down on the greasy canal skirt, the wheels lowering, as the jets flame out. They are twenty-five meters from the FA team. The seat harness releases from across agent White’s chest, he relaxes back in the seat, and from the inner pocket of the black overcoat allowed a flusher agent class 2, withdraws an antique cigarette case and lighter. The case is a black lacquer and gold-trimmed gentleman’s Dunhill, and the lighter, a silver Zippo etched with a portrait motif of the Hollywood movie icon and legend, Marilyn Monroe. A narcotic stick of the heavily addictive drug, substance X, removed from the case, he lights from the Zippo, and the articles returned to the pocket, begins to smoke, taking in the FA team through the windshield.
Little in the collective attitude of the team has changed. They continue to stand uncomfortably around the machine, not seeming to know where to look. If they’d noticed the decent of the skycar, it doesn’t show.
‘Agent White, are you going outside?’ he hears from Aimee.
White continues to work away on the narcotic. ‘How many of these switchbacks exist across the island, Aimee,’ he asks.
‘Twenty-six, agent White.’
‘And we keep them largely unsecured?'
‘Affirmative, agent White.'
White takes a further drag on the narcotic. ‘Ever wonder why?'
Aimee offers no response.
Smoking the narcotic, a small amount of sweat has come to stand out on White’s forehead. He rests the half-smoked stick on the edge of the trash incinerator built into the dash, takes a moment to dab at the sweat with a neatly folded handkerchief removed from his coat, places the cloth back, then lifts the black, wide-brimmed felt halt from the passenger seat. The hat neatly tugged down over his forehead, he takes the narcotic stick back between his fingers, finally saying, ‘Release the door, Aimee.'
The driver side birdwing door rises. White steps out, standing his slim, 187-centimeter frame beneath the arch of the wing. He is shadowed by backlight, raises the high collar of his coat, and works further on the line of his hat brim. Satisfied with the dip of the brim over his left eye, he draws heavily on the narcotic, looking to the FA team once more. One member, standing in the middle of the six-personal group, has turned to face hm. White smirks quietly to himself, turns away, and walks to the edge of the canal skirt to look out over the water.
The canal water is a brownish-black, overlaid with a thick yellow-green scum. Hardly a ripple is seen. Over on the opposite shore, densely packed worker shacks sit on narrow fenced plots, their colors muted by soot. A pall of gray biofuel smoke hangs over the roofs, mixing with the yellow miasma rising from the swampy ground. People happy to live like rats in a sewer, White reflects, but there is an easy fix. Raise the canal water enough to flood the entire level. No more canals. No more lower strata. No more headaches for CPS. Continuing to stare out over the water, he works away on the narcotic stick until it is smoked through, and then flicks the stub over the water. Ready now, he faces to his right, and towards the assembled FAT.
Art Bébé™ ©
No comments:
Post a Comment