《Cargo》


 Introduction - The Sell Outs

    What if I were to tell you that a vast galactic civilisation exists, much older than ours, that this space-faring society was a great consumer of things?


    Art, food and resources¡­


    ¡­that we Earthlings are a newly discovered delicacy and that a vast market waits.


    Is this a bad eventuality for mankind or a good one? If a taste for humans takes off, if this becomes more than just a fad, to feed such a vast market, how many billions of people would need to be exported to meet such demand? Billions more would be required to be bred to sustain supply. Humanity will eventually be farmed on other planets across galaxies.


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    A shortcut for humanity to spread across the stars, yes?


    What if I were to tell you that the wretched and corrupt among us were to abandon resistance and flock to these new overlords, selling out their fellow humans in a mad scramble to secure their own individual survival, to carve out their own suzerainty over the helpless, clueless majority?


    You would say this is ridiculous paranoia.


    I would say that this process has already begun.

 Delivery Man

    As the sun climbs higher in the sky, casting its mellow rays upon the earth, the slumbering world around me stirs from its tranquil repose. Mere moments ago, it appeared as if time had frozen in the frigid darkness, holding its breath in suspended animation. But now, with the rich hues of sunlight, life reawakens, unfolding in a symphony of movement and vibrant energy.


    The world seems at peace.


    I start the day at the recharge station, its artificial cold lights a stark contrast to what the life-friendly sky outside offers. The sole customer, the only living thing, I order a medium vanilla cappuccino and cronut and wait for the tellerless POS to process my transaction. The dispenser opens and produces my cronut wrapped in alufoil. Another opening drops a can of coffee into the slot. I take both and walk to the exit.


    As I approach my Quasar Cyberstar, I spot my first humans, two cajeros loading up the station¡¯s dispenser delivery system. Like myself, they perform a type of labour that automation engineers haven¡¯t yet figured out how to synthesise and carry out cheaply. Wages have stagnated for a decade, so people like me still had jobs, for now.


    The Cyberstar¡¯s door opens, having detected me, and I climb into the driver¡¯s seat, a privilege that costs me just over ten thousand dollars a month. A twin battery pack powers this class eight semi-truck, pumping power to four electric motors and gearboxes. It gives me a range of just under a kilometre, and if I stick to my streamlined schedule, I can keep my costs down enough to show a profit at the end of each month.


    I sink back in the comforts of my Cyberstar, and open the can of hot coffee, expecting the familiar taste of black coffee, but am met with a strange, sickly-sweet taste. I take a sip again, hoping I was mistaken, but the taste was unmistakable; choc-orange flavoured coffee. Those cajeros stuffed up, adding to my melancholy about my income. The long day ahead of me, with multiple stops to make across the city, also compounds my depression.


    Manually entering my schedule into the truck¡¯s computer, I ponder my status as a modern human as I prepare to embark on my journey. Since I refuse to cybernetically augment my vision or any other part of my body, I must work harder than everybody else, and be extra cautious on the road and always stay alert.


    It¡¯s a precarious life.


    Horrific stories about people who haven¡¯t had their bodies somehow enhanced with cybernetic implants are abundant. Recently, a no-chromer found themselves unjustly imprisoned, a victim of a system that discriminates against those without ocular implants. Accused of a crime they vehemently denied, the lack of cybernetic evidence to support their innocence became a damning verdict. The justice system, heavily reliant on advanced technologies for investigation and evidence presentation, systematically fails to accommodate those who choose to remain naturalists. This no-chromer languishes in a cell still to this day. Cases like this are a stark reminder of a prejudiced environment that favours the augmented over the unaltered. These injustices echo a chilling reality ¡ª in this world, not only is justice blind, but it''s also systematically biased against those who resist the pervasive embrace of cybernetic upgrades.


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    Struggling to perceive the metascape instantaneously, I, too, fall into this category, dependent on old-school, external technology to comprehend the digitally augmented world. This reliance is a daily ordeal, a haunting reminder of my intrinsic, biological limitation. The societal disdain towards us intensifies, manifesting as cyber-shaming and outright bullying. Each derogatory comment and act of disrespect is a scar on my resilience, yet I persist, choosing to endure the torment rather than succumb to the pressure of assimilation. For now, the conventional world remains somewhat accessible to those without cybernetic upgrades, but the looming uncertainty casts a chilling shadow over our existence. The horror lies not just in the technological disparity but in the persistent fear that the society we once knew is slipping away, leaving the no-chromers teetering on the edge of a moral and spiritual abyss.


    A handicap I¡¯m willing to endure.


    Even the insults, the cyber-shaming, the blatant bullying and disrespect, I happily ignore. Society is still accessible for most naturalists, for now.


    Just because they can see in the dark, can see through fog and rain, or even see around corners, doesn¡¯t give these sellouts an edge. It makes their brains lazier than they were before the implants. I may not have these abilities, but my brain is far better trained to deal with reality. I have to rely on my own eyes and ears, not the manipulative and suggestive reality the metascape offers.


    So, even though I don¡¯t have enhancement implants, I''m confident that I can make this journey safely and efficiently. I just have to be proficient and stay alert. Plus, I have my artificial sentient companion.


    ¡°Do you want me to avoid tollways?¡± asks AVOCADO, the truck¡¯s autoMIND. Unlike the modern metascape AI¡¯s, this entity is old tech, an early-generation model deployed on physical consumer hardware.


    ¡°Yes, please,¡± I command, hoping to save money.


    As soon as we pass the tollway entrance ramp, we hit heavy traffic, a gridlock as far as the eye can see. ¡°Why didn¡¯t you warn me, Avocado?¡±


    Avocado replies promptly, ¡°You always want me to avoid tolls. You have one hundred per cent consistency in this.¡±


    The delay threatens to last hours. I pledge to never again skimp on tolls.


    ¡°Is there any way out of this?¡±


    It takes a few seconds for the autoMIND to respond. ¡°I understand that you''re expressing deep concerns about our current stagnation. The collision between the FC334 MetroBus and a Phoenix prevents us from enacting such countermeasures until we reach the Rosefield Interchange.


    ¡°ETA?¡±


    ¡°Twenty-three minutes.¡±


    Despite the setback, I remain focused and determined to complete my deliveries on time, to earn my bonuses, which would compensate for my other losses.


    ¡°Would you be interested in the latest Waycaster updates?¡±


    ¡°Not at this time, Avo,¡± I say, deciding to spend the day with a clear head and avoid the typhoon in a teacup that is world current affairs.


    After a long day wrangling with traffic and my depression, my greed takes control, fuelled by unshakeable despair at the cost of living. I open the scheduler and scan for new jobs popping in. There is a long-range delivery, and it''s not the most effort-free job, but it''s premium. I resolve to take it on, even though I know it will make me even more tired than I already am.


    I¡¯m not sure if this extra job will change my life, but it''s either that or wallow in poor man¡¯s misery. I''m tired of being broke, and I¡¯m tired of feeling like I¡¯m barely making ends meet. I need at least to double my earnings ratio by month¡¯s end, otherwise, I¡¯m doing this for nothing.


    I snap up the job.


    It¡¯s going to be tough, but I¡¯m determined to do it. I¡¯m going to work hard, focussing on earning that premium bonus. I know this extra job doesn''t solve all my problems. It''s not going to make me rich, and it''s not going to make my life perfect. But it''s a step in the right direction. It''s a chance to tip the ratio in my favour and keep this gig worth the effort. Otherwise, there are not many other gigs I can do, not without implants.

 Road Pirates

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 Depot 13

    The Enkron depot is swarming with drones vying for spots on the landing pads. Robotic trains loaded with delivery items zigzag across the arena, passing the cajero''s scrambling to do the work the non-human gizmos can''t accomplish.


    All packages have no information printed on them, just the familiar spiral barcode stamped on each face. Enkron employees receive data and logistics information via their optical implants. No implants mean less efficient ways of doing things. Booking to pick up packages had to be scanned manually with handsets. Implants weren''t mandatory, but Enkron makes it difficult for those who refuse them. I just have to work harder, using a handheld scanner. Not too difficult a task, but a huge burden to those who''ve opted to insert cyberware surgically and neuroject it with their brains.


    I spot one of the delivery guys I know, his jet-black hair and subtle tattoos peeking out from under his sleeves, and his preference for wearing the company safety vest over a comfortable jumpsuit with various pockets to hold his delivery gadgets and tools, making him unmissable amongst the other uniformed cajeros.


    Jonsa Coffey walks up to me, his abnormal height making it difficult to notice his cybernetic eyes gleaming with a soft neon-blue hue. His mood seems darker than mine.


    "What''s with you?" I ask. "I thought you were going to hold out."


    The shame on his face betrays him. "Shit, man. My wife pressured me into it. She refuses to communicate with me using the old touchy pads."


    I raise my hands to show him I''m not upset. "All good. You''re entitled to a choice. I can''t say I''m not disappointed, but..."


    "It is what it is," he adds, ending the topic in the way he ends any other awkward conversation.


    I understand, so I let it go. "What else is bothering you?"


    "Things are not good," he replies. "My efficiency is down the toilet. Got lost on all drop-offs. Every single one."


    I find this strange. His implants should help him receive bookings and navigate through the city. "You have implants now," I say, trying not to sound sanctimonious over his decision to cave to the current fads.


    "Today was different," he says. "My eyes seem to be playing up as if I couldn''t get a clear signal. I received a booking to pick up a package from an unknown location, the details were just fuzzy."


    "Did you try rebooting the implant?"


    Jonsa shook his head. "It doesn''t work like that," he says, shrugging my ignorance off. "I decided to take the job anyway after the geotracker confirmed the location. I set out on my bike. It paid well and I thought I could do it old-style. As I rode through the city, I realized that I had no idea where I was going. The streets looked unfamiliar, and the address didn''t make any sense." He pauses, deep in thought.


    "Geotracker glitched, that''s all. It happens, doesn''t matter what technology you use."


    He looks at me gravely, "I resorted to using my touchy pad. The place doesn''t exist. No map on the entire internet can verify its existence. Suddenly, the implants turned off and when they came back online, I received a message warning me not to deliver the package."


    "Maybe someone hacked them? It''s been known to happen."


    Jonsa looks at me, confused. "Why would anybody hack into my eyes?"


    "Illegal substances?"


    "I don''t think so."


    "What did you end up doing?"


    "I just quickly turned around and headed back here. I''m grateful that my implants have finally started working again. I need another score before I finish up today."


    "Are you serious? Your implants are playing up. You can''t go out there like that."


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    Jonsa walks away, "Gotta make the money."


    "What was the location''s name?" I call out.


    He turns, walking backwards, and says, "Cedarwood. Doesn''t exist." He turns back and joins the other hurrying Enkron cajeros.


    I proceed to the next dock, the cache of new knowledge swirling inside my head. Between Jonsa''s surrendering his body autonomy to cybernetic implants and the mysterious ghost suburb, I conclude that I have reached my quota of enlightenment. From now going forward am to spend the rest of the afternoon focused on earning an income.


    Picking up the parcels at Loading Dock B proves to be quite the task, especially with the eleven largish wooden crates that await their retrieval. The Enkron dock buzzes with activity as unmanned forklifts manoeuvre in and out of the bustling warehouse, stacking crates high with uncanny precision.


    They stacked pallets of cargo in rows between yellow lines.


    I approach the lone cajero wearing a bulky headgear.


    "You can''t be in here," grunts the unfamiliar short tubby cajero. In my mind, I christen him ''Tubs''.


    "I''m collecting a dispatch."


    "You don''t have implants," responds Tubs, a hint of disgust in his voice. "It''s not safe for you in here."


    I don''t allow his tone to affect me. "Just give me my allocation."


    "Get out of here," insists Tubs. "I''m serious, asshole. You can''t be in here, not without implants."


    I don''t back down.


    "If I don''t make pick up, you''re going to have ten fairly large crates sitting on your floor. I''d say that''ll fuck your logistical workflow right up. Your day could turn into a complete nightmare. Where''s my dispatch?"


    This changes the cajero''s attitude.


    Flustered, he asks, "What code?"


    "I don''t know. The customer is Snake Island something.


    "Serpent Island Foundation. Lot twenty." He points to a tower of timber crates. "And go get implants, like everyone else."


    I move on and approach a stack of eleven large wooden crates, each adorned with labels displaying the sender''s name.


    Serpent Island Foundation.


    The logo depicts a colossal stone structure, featuring a serpentine head within a circular coil of the snake''s body. The wood smells fresh, a rarity, the whole packaging embodying a striking and enigmatic image.


    I stand next to a yellow-coloured robot stacker and ask, "Location?"


    The Depot 13 AI replies via the robot stacker, "Villa 1, Raven Mountain."


    "Where''s that?"


    "Fifty-eight kilometres west on the F1 Motorway."


    "The desert?" I ask.


    Through the settlements? That''s an arduous journey.


    Dock 1 seems to have accurately interpreted the tone of my voice.


    "This is a premium class docket," it says. "Would you like to pass on this allocation?"


    "I''ll take it. Relax." I began scanning each barcode with my touchy. The Cyberstar pulls in and backs up to the crates.


    The yellow machine crawls closer. "This is a drive west of the city districts and deep into the desert wilderness. We recommend this delivery for implant-enhanced drivers.


    "I''m good."


    "You cannot rely on your antiquated touchy and its connection to the geotracker mapping system. Many of these platforms are facing service shutdown."


    "I''ll manage. Hand over the docket."


    The yellow robot stacker remains idle.


    "Dock 1, hand over the docket." A tense moment skewers my thinking process, my paranoia leaking into my thoughts. "Don''t do this to me. I need the allocation."


    The robot stacker springs to life and gently loads the timber packages carefully onto a waiting Cyberstar.


    Once loaded, the yellow machines move on to the next job.


    Upon inspecting the delivery sheet, I see an address, Villa 1, Raven Mountain and one contact detail, David Sanforth. I check the location, noting the distance. A cool fifty-kilometre drive, straight west and deep into the desert wilderness. Without implants, I would need to rely on my antiquated touchy logged onto the geotracker mapping system, and many of these platforms are facing service shutdown.


    Is it a real address? With fake drop-offs common in smuggling operations, I consider crosschecking it with my touchy pad. The location appears legitimate, so I settle in for a long drive and a late finish.


    Once loaded, the yellow machines scroll away to the next job. A group of cajeros catches my eye, loitering near the loading dock entrance. I notice that they are wearing sneakers and jeans under their Enkron Service jackets, a normal habit, but something seems off.


    As I climb into the cabin and power up the truck, I can''t shake off the feeling that something isn''t right. I take a closer look at the manifest before heading out.


    "Avocado, plot a course for Raven Mountain."


    "To travel from Fontana City to Raven Mountain, there are a few possible routes depending on your preferred tollway?"


    "No tolls, please."


    "Start by heading north on Salamander Highway. Follow the signs until you get onto the F1 Motorway. I will guide you from there toward Raven Mountain."


    The three cajeros at the entrance grab my attention again. My suspicions grow stronger the more I study them and wonder if this is some kind of illegal activity. I wait a few seconds to evaluate my paranoia, deciding to ignore the cajeros, who are most likely truck repair techs gathering out the rear for a break. My depression may be playing up, stirring up my paranoia, but my instincts feel still sharp enough to recognize when something innocent is afoot.


    I gently press down on the accelerator, urging the truck forward as it smoothly glides out of the Enkron dock and onto the bustling street. The outback delivery location is a long way from civilization, with lots of wealthy estates sprinkled along a known shady strip of state-owned parkland where it isn''t uncommon for suspicious characters to lurk.


    I shake off any anxious feelings and focus on the delivery and what playlist I am going to listen to.

 The Enigmatic Traveler

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 Hotel Esperada

    As the late afternoon sun casts a golden glow over the landscape, I find myself nearing the end of the F1 motorway, Raven Mountain beckoning in the distance. However, a nagging sense of unease tugs at my thoughts. The encounter with those unknown individuals earlier still lingers in my mind, their aggression on the road leaving an unsettling impression. I can''t shake the feeling that if I continue on this path, they will inevitably catch up to me, thrusting me back into the harrowing process of evasion and confrontation. With a heavy sigh, I contemplate the decision before me, weighing the allure of reaching my destination against the potential risks that lie ahead.


    I decide to take a detour into the local settlements that occupy the desert. Every turn-off leads to remote villages, each interlinked with back roads. Such a route will add hours to my journey, cutting into my profit margin.


    ¡°What¡¯s the next junction?¡±


    Avacvado replies, ¡°In two kilometres, you will arrive at the Esperada exit.¡±


    ¡°How much time will that cost me?¡±


    ¡°That will add forty-eight minutes to our journey. The estimated time of arrival is a quarter past seven. You will miss your bonus.¡±


    The F1 is notorious for cargo theft, a common ground for brazen bands of thieves who hijack trucks for the freight they carry. ¡°Any crime reports in the vicinity, truck heists in particular?¡±


    It takes Avocado a second to respond. ¡°There have been nine incidents in the last four weeks.¡±


    ¡°Where?¡±


    ¡°All but two have occurred along the F1 Motorway, five at different rest stops, and two were conducted on the open road.¡±


    ¡°The others?¡±


    ¡°The other robberies occurred in the Diamond Valley and Cerise settlements located ten kilometres back.¡±


    ¡°When is our next recharge?¡±


    ¡°We have two hours left before we required a lay-by.¡±


    The choice is clear. I will need to relinquish the bonus in the interest of safety and make a stopover at some local motel. The Esperada exit arrives and I swerve into it, slowing down to meet the local speed limit.


    ¡°Pick me a motel, taking the most convoluted route possible.¡±


    ¡°Motels and rest stops are common attack vectors for cargo pirates,¡± suggests the truck¡¯s AI, calculating the risk on my behalf. Its master objective is to help bring in profits, protect against anything that threatens profits, and to assist in keeping my insurance premium low.


    ¡°Those guys back there were stalking us, probably had another team ahead, preparing an ambush. They rely on routine practices, and most likely hacked into Enkron¡¯s dispatch system and pull the data from our schedule. If we deviate, behave erratically, it¡¯ll throw them off.¡±


    Casting long shadows across the vast arid landscape, the sun begins its descent as we arrive at the outskirts of Esperada. The air hangs heavy with a sense of quiet isolation, broken only by the occasional motorist in their petrol-guzzling automobile. The narrow streets meander between humble homes with dilapidated portable housing scattered amidst the settlement¡¯s rugged suburbs, revealing a community steeped in resilience and resourcefulness. The warm hues of the sunset bathe the rustic homesteads, crafted from weathered timber and sun-bleached tin roofing.


    ¡°Motel Esperada, coming up,¡± announces Avocado as darkness ultimately descends.


    Upon arriving at the motel, I park the Cyberstar at the end of the lot, under an aged Jacaranda tree that has finished blooming, the ground around it covered in dry lilac flowers. The truck is still visible from the highway, but the jacaranda casts a shadow over it, blocking the light from the nearest lamppost.


    ¡°Sleep tight,¡± I tell the autoMIND, knowing full well that slumber is an alien concept to these things. ¡°Let me know if anyone approaches the truck. Security of full spectrum.¡±


    I step out of my truck and approach the reception area, the flickering neon sign casting an eerie glow. A distorted doorbell buzzes as I pushed the heavy entrance steel framed door, revealing a dimly lit lobby. The scent of aged carpet and stale air lingered in the air. Behind the front desk is a tired-looking clerk, their tired eyes matching the worn-out atmosphere. I exchanged pleasantries and handed over my identification and credit card, the clerk manually going through the check-in process, without any fuss and raising an eyebrow.


    If I tried this in the city, it would be either impossible due to the relentless automation that requires cybernetic implants, or the metropolitanite behind the counter would have a mental breakdown at the sight of physical evidence of identity or payment medium.


    The clerk hands me an actual key with a faded room number, directing me to the worn-out staircase that led to my temporary abode. As I climbed the stairs, I couldn''t help but feel a mix of anticipation and uncertainty about my decision to spend the night here. The highway pirates could still feasibly spot my truck, this area is still part of their domain. Any of the locals who see my truck could betray my location.


    I arrive at the room, and after a long day of drama, I seek the shower to relieve my exhaustion. I strip and get under the hot stream of water, pondering what to get for dinner. Considering my lack of appetite I decide to skip it and go to bed. I plan on an early morning start, preferably before dawn, so my hunger can wait for that.


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    ¡°Avocado,¡± I call out as I step out of the shower and hit the bed with only a towel. ¡°Any news?¡±


    ¡°I have nothing to report on our status,¡± replies the autoMIND via my personal touchy pad.


    ¡°Can you access the room¡¯s AV?¡±


    ¡°This motel has no intelligent networking support. All functions are manual.¡±


    Old school, I muse, considering the option of living out here.


    I get up and grab the remote off the bedside table, using it to turn on the television. The volume is loud, so I press the button to drag it down to a more tolerable and discrete level.


    ¡°Are you ready to unlock the limitless potential of the future?¡± a narrator states over the images of a sleek, futuristic room with a backdrop of technological enhancements and a display of cybernetic implants ¡°Introducing CyberLife, the pioneers of cybernetic implants that will revolutionize the way you live.¡±


    I am too tired to start channel surfing, I just want background noise to help me sleep, the politics and social stigma of implants reduced to a minor issue amongst my current concerns.


    The images cut to a montage of individuals engaged in various activities, their lives enhanced by cybernetic implants. The narrator continues, ¡°Imagine a world where your capabilities are amplified beyond imagination. With CyberLife, you can enhance your vision, upgrade your strength, and connect your mind to a world of endless possibilities.¡±


    I close my eyes, shaking away negative thoughts.


    ¡°Our state-of-the-art implants are precision-engineered, seamlessly integrating with your body and mind. Experience enhanced senses, increased cognitive abilities, and the power to overcome any challenge.¡±


    I am tempted to turn this corporate propaganda off, but I can feel my consciousness drifting away.


    ¡°Whether you''re an athlete striving for greatness, a professional seeking an edge, or someone looking to experience life in a whole new way, CyberLife is here to empower you.¡±


    My imagination takes over, bullying its way to the centre of my thoughts, showing me excelling in athleticism, and achieving feats previously thought impossible. Eventually, I doze off, too tired to turn off the television, the bedlight or the useless air conditioner.


    In and out of sleep I drift. My imagination conjures up wild dreams, about the two thugs hunting me down, playing deadly road games, the events reenacted over and over. Sometimes ending in violence, another ending with them being innocent commuters, just trying to overtake me. My guilt is intense as they may simply have been just random strangers in a rush to get somewhere, pissed at me for being a lumbering slow coach.


    Just as I feel a deeper sleep come over me, I hear a commotion outside. Multiple vehicles pull up. Voices chatter. I¡¯m not curious enough to get up and check. As my paranoia fades, I conclude it is a busload of travellers arriving.


    Blue lights flicker behind the curtain.


    Startled by the commotion outside, my instincts kick in, and I swiftly rise to my feet. Curiosity drives me to the window, where I carefully part the curtains and peer outside. What unfolds before my eyes is a worrisome scene¡ªa group of people, their figures silhouetted against the neon backdrop. They huddle together around a mysterious object on the ground. Intrigue fills the air as they lean in, their voices etched with curiosity, concern, or perhaps even awe. A flickering lamppost casts a greenish glow upon them, highlighting the intensity of the moment. My heart quickens with anticipation, yearning to uncover the secrets hidden within their gathering.


    ¡°Avocado?¡±


    I get no response.


    A sense of urgency grips me as I hastily dress myself, aware that something out of the ordinary is unfolding outside, and that it may involve my truck. Without wasting a moment, I step outside, the cool air embracing me as I emerge out of the shadows. The atmosphere crackles with anticipation, curiosity mingling with a touch of apprehension. As my eyes scan the surroundings, I am met with a scene that both intrigues and unsettles me. With each breath I take, I brace myself for what lies in front of the crown, hoping whatever it is doesn¡¯t affect me or my cargo.


    As I approached the crowd of police and motel patrons, I spot a large spillage of fluid on the ground. Talking to an officer, a woman is covered with a hotel blanket, crying. I study the puddle, the combination of police lights and the neon sign making the dark liquid¡¯s colour difficult to ascertain.


    By now police officers and paramedics start ordering the crowd away. The headlights from another police car entering the lot illuminate the true colour of the fluid.


    Bright red.


    Blood red.


    My head spins, as my paranoia claws its way back and my brain is unable to believe what I am seeing - it was like something out of a horror movie. The scene turns chaotic, with people shouting and crying all around me. It isn¡¯t clear whether this is just an accident or a random act of violence, but someone had definitely died here; the amount of blood spilt is too egregious for someone to have survived this.


    I hear more commotion further away.


    Multiple beams of torchlight centre between two parked vehicles situated at the other end of the motel¡¯s parking lot. As police rush over, my mind returns to my Cyberstar, sitting only a few metres away. I walk towards it, avoiding the congregation of police, getting a glimpse of more wet patches and a white Chromeo station wagon splattered with blood and viscera.


    Parked in the shadows, my Cyberstar appears unmolested, just as I had left it, causing relief to overwhelm me.


    ¡°Avocado?¡± I say into my touchypad.


    I arrive and immediately inspect the back of the truck, and see nothing out of the ordinary, but in the darkness, it is hard to tell. Moving on to the front cabin, I open the door and activate the power sequence, waiting for all the lights to come online.


    ¡°Avocado?¡± I plead. ¡°For fuck''s sake, answer me!¡±


    Nothing.


    I realise someone has tampered with the security framework, resetting all the Cyberstar¡¯s systems. Before I can even panic, a shadow crosses my windscreen. My horror is enhanced when a policewoman approaches my door, her torch dazzling my eyes.


    ¡°Are you a patron of the motel,¡± she asks.


    ¡°Yes,¡± I answer, realising I¡¯ve been snagged into the investigation.


    ¡°Are you planning on leaving the scene?¡±


    ¡°No,¡± I respond. ¡°I¡¯m just checking if my truck is okay.¡±


    The cop points her torch down. ¡°This is not a robbery,¡± she says with a glum voice. ¡°I¡¯m asking you to go back to your room and stay there until one of us comes by to take your statement.¡±


    ¡°No problem, officer.¡±


    As the cop moves on to check the other vehicle, I power down the truck, jump out and lock it.


    This has nothing to do with me, I deduce as I head back to my room. I spot another police officer interviewing a couple at the doorstep, using a scanner to probe their implants. It¡¯s not only a statement they¡¯re after, but all the meta and geo data collected by the implants. The last thing I need is some cop discovering I possess no cybernetics. I would be automatically considered a suspect in whatever has gone down here, arrested and taken in for questioning.


    I step inside my room, turn off the lights, the television, and the air conditioner, and sit on the bed, motionless, waiting for a knock at the door. Contemplation swirls within me as I weigh my options. The idea of leaving with the truck will attract the ire of the local cops.


    If I stay put, I risk an awkward interrogation.


    Caution tugs at my instincts, reminding me of the inherent risks that lie in both ventures. With a sigh, I acknowledge that staying put seems the wiser less exhaustive choice. The relative shelter of the motel provides me and my truck a sense of security amidst the uncertainty. No road pirate would risk stealing the Cyberstar with this much police presence around. So, I sit idle until morning, assessing the situation, formulating an escape plan out of Esperada.

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