ART BÉBÉ 2099 – Pilot scenes temp 14

 Art Bébé says, 'Fade in:'

THE CLAYFORD EL-1

Little appears changed in the disposition of the FA team. They seem intent on the machine, huddling close. He steps off across the canal skirt, and down onto the road proper. He is half way to the grouped team when one member suddenly breaks free and begins on their approach. It is the FA team leader, John Phillips, flusher assist class 1. The FA walks quickly, with long-loped strides until they come together. Phillips is tall, handsomely built, and in keeping with his lower status within the flusher force, the sharp, clean lines of his red and black coolskin are a little over decorated with silver patches and other identifiers. He performs the protocol flusher greeting, clasping his hands behind him, and giving a curt nod, saying, ‘A pleasant wash family and friends, agent White.'

He responds likewise, clasping his hands behind him, nodding, and giving the protocol reply, ‘A pleasant wash, equally, family and friends, flusher agent Phillips.'

Phillips relaxes his stance, saying, ‘Sir, before you step over, I thought to have a word.'

'You thought?’

Phillips swallows, and looks down, before raising his head back up, and answering a little awkwardly. ‘The bike, sir … we believe it’s transmitting. We should set up a perimeter.'

White runs his gloved hands down either side of his coat, then brings them up, forming a steeple with his fingers beneath his chin, before going on to explain to the FA, occasionally motioning the triangulated hands towards Phillips for emphasis, saying, ‘It always amazes me Phillips, that a citizen, once charged and convicted with a crime against the state, sentencing almost always results in REP revaluation to a level barely above a gray. That’s an ordinary citizen. But a gray? A gray does not care about the law. A gray has no rights. A gray is not recognized by society. A gray is nothing. Follow that logic and you know that a gray will do anything and care about nothing because it has nothing to loose. So you want to set up a perimeter? To do what exactly? Capture it and shake your finger in its direction?'

Phillips looks down for the second time, then seeming to suddenly regain his composure, lifts his head, and asserts, ‘Sir, if you’d just care to step over.'

White considers. He knows Phillips type. Straight laced, everything by the book, the sort who lacked the wider imagination for the unwritten measures that might have to be taken to affect good citizen security. The way he considered it, an effective flusher learned to use all the resources available, in whatever form they might be found. He answers the agent, saying, ‘Alright, I guess that’s why I’m here isn’t it,’ and indicates the way forward with a hand. As they near, the team parts to show the machine. They step into the gap. White gazes down.

He reflects. The bike is certainly a very unusual looking machine, sharply angular in form, and colored with red and yellow markings. Indicative warning colors, he further considers Suddenly he is overtaken by a wave of light-headedness. Something from the machine. A palpable signal. Another warning? He takes a step back, in some shock.

‘Sir!'

He hears Phillips.

‘Sir .. are you alright?'

Phillips again. He begins to recover, feeling the light-headedness retreat. He looks to the FA.

‘Sir?' Phillips questions a second time, frowning.

‘Phillips,’ he stops, giving himself a moment. The light-headedness has now completely dissipated, and he considers, if this and the palpable signal had not in fact both been aberrations. He studies the machine, and sensing nothing now, steps back forward, reasserting his authority. ‘Phillips’ he repeats, ‘You said the machine is transmitting? What’s your evidence?

The FA averts his gaze. It is a moment before he speaks, pointing to the machine’s instrument dash. ‘There sir, the scrolling yellow column - '

‘The scrolling yellow column!’ White interrupts, exclaiming, and coming a further step forward. That’s it?'

Phillips visibly swallows, falling silent. The others of the team group closer. One steps around from the left, standing himself beside Phillips. ‘Flusher White, excuse me sir, we’ve had time to consider. The machine and the gray are a unit. We need to take further precautions. A perimeter as Phillips suggests'

White feels himself pale. He is being questioned. His authority challenged. He draws in his breath. ‘And you are?'

‘Flusher assist class 2. Henry Hu, sir.'

‘Agent Hu, you are asserting that we are being presented with a team? An AI and a gray? You better have more evidence than … what was it? A scrolling yellow column.

‘Agent White,’ Phillips comes forward a step, and for the second time points towards the machine’s instrument dash. ‘There, that column. We couldn’t run scans, but we’ve confirmed the readout through our systems. That’s an active data signal sir. The AI’s communicating. We believe to the gray. We are being monitored.'

‘By a gray?’ White shouts in complete disbelief, hardly looking to the dash.  ‘Aimee!!’ He spins around on his heels, now shouting across his internal comms. ‘Give me everything you’ve got.'

‘Agent, White. I have been compiling data. Analysis! Extreme danger. I suggest you draw back the team.'

‘What!’ He faces back to the machine.

Something is happening.

Art Bébé says, 'Fade out.'



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