beginning of a short story -- eternity in alestrat
“Are you pure?” the ‘bit asked me with static green eyes.
“No,” I said. He ran his frigid, mechanical hand down my bare, skinny arm to scan for proper authentication chips. Of course, I had some fakes implanted. Got them made and implanted at Jerry’s ‘Tats, made from cheap silicon which Jerry insisted was perfectly safe. Fake chips are easy to detect with a purity-scanner sophisticated enough. But the ‘bits here in Alestrat aren’t too bright, so as the ‘bit inspected me his eyes stayed green, maybe faded yellow for a few seconds. Shortly after, in that fading monotone voice older ‘bits have, he told me to wait, and brashly crossed the acid moat to open the gate. He was stained with mud, his feet looked a bit corroded, and his pelvic wires dangled as he walked.
The screeching of that gate and unfurling of the tin bridge always killed my ears. The bars of the gate were coated with rust, much like Alestrat’s “suburban” homes. Delta Commune #009 was a dump in general. But it was a haven for ‘brats looking for cheap work and a place to get away from us Pures, who were pushing up the coast of the Pastaric Ocean with plenty of force. I was only there to get a few interviews, take a few photos, stalk back to my rendezvous point then catch a ride on the company helicopter back to Caranine. Our paper was suffocating, and we needed some new material to rip off those cold, oily hands that withered it each day.
I decided to take the beach-route, which my transmitter indicated would lead me to a train station that would take me into the city. The sand was filthy from the blackness of the Pastaric and the stench of some sort of chemical crept up my nostrils and clung with no mercy. It was safer there, though; ‘bits tended to avoid beaches on their routine patrol. I never really knew why. Either the ‘megas who programmed them didn’t take their time or the ‘seers who programmed the ‘megas didn’t. The hierarchy of faults can go on, but I suspected the ‘bits particular to Alestrat were neglected of repairs and maintenance. Which was why I was there investigating. If our paper got hold of that information, all of Carinine would reach for the weapons they still had left over and storm the creaky old city of Alestrat in a heart attack.
The smell got so potent my nose started to bleed. I felt trickles on my lip and licked the metallic goo which reminded me I hadn’t had real water for about five weeks. Or maybe four, even six. Either way, I’d been living off hydration powder and dehydrated noodles as far as my memory could unravel. I saw a few ‘brats digging for scrap metal in the distance and watched the fog part, placing a building in clear view.
It was the train station, as I expected, and would probably take me into the city. I’d have to look out for ‘megas on the train, maybe even ‘bits, for I could never be too sure of my safety. I’ve seen those things take on minds of their own sometimes.
A snide looking ‘brat was working the booth. “One, Alestrat,” I said. Somewhere, a machine was making an awful ticking noise. Was it the bleeping monolith protruding random wires behind the ‘brat? Or was it the ‘brat itself? The ‘brat fixed his eyes on me. I wavered from side to side, to test him, and his eyes followed. This place is a freak show already, I thought, and I wanted to get back to Caranine soon.
After a long, disturbing minute, a ticket slid out of the ‘brat’s rusty mouth. As I headed for the departure point I noticed the ‘brat was connected to that massive computer behind him through a series of wires. He wasn’t a ‘brat; he was a slave. And this scared the **** out of me, because slavery had been illegal in Delta Commune #009 for decades. Even Pure slavery was illegal. I wondered what could be going on in Alestrat.
I fiddled with my transmitter as I waited outside for the train. Away from home it was my only piece of luggage and the root that kept me psychologically hydrated; all the pertinent maps, routes, ID, and my schedule was on it (which only said “3 DAYS: RENDEVOUZ AT 10:00 AM”).
More importantly, I could use it to call. I saw Laura’s name under the speed-dial list and wanted to call her, because I wasn’t sure if I would be able to in Alestrat. I saw a purging station under the “COMMUNE TRAIN FACILITY” sign and went in to call. It was a tight squeeze. The typical ‘brat was maybe about five feet, and purging was a three second process. But calling in the open would be suicide. ‘Brats are dumb, but they know how to spot a Pure if it’s obvious enough. I watched the video in high school Relations class.
Head squished, dial tone. Body collapsing inwards. Dial tone. She’s not there, I thought. And I hear the screech of the train coming to a halt. ****. She’s not there.
I left the purging station and waited behind a snake of ‘brats who were slithering onto the train. These situations were nerve-racking, because I had to mimic their actions as best I could if I wanted to avoid demise. I chose a seat in the far corner, next to a ‘brat whose power was off. This train was a claustrophobic’s hell, but colder. I was overcame with a sense of fortune combined with scepticism when I realized there were no ‘megas, nor ‘bits on this train. I was too exhausted to ponder on it, though. I took a chill as I sat down in the titanium seat, my bones still sore from being in that damn purging station. And as the train began to chuff, my transmitter went blank.
