Flash Fiction

You step down from the Continent Cruiser. The busy city is stretched out before you like a wonderland. On the arrival platform there are a multitude of traders, ready, willing, and able to serve most travellers, almost anything. But not you. Not today. The Sun has just risen behind you and is glinting off the mass of the city’s recently constructed buildings. Hefting the weight of your travelling bag against your shoulder, you make your way to the nearest exit. You are here to work.

Having come down several floors on the exit travelators you can no longer see the city, but the leaving Continent Cruiser is making its departure felt. It's klaxons and announcements making up for the modern silent running. At the main exit doors, two simian like security goons scan the moving crowd. You feel a drip of sweat at the nape of your neck and pull your pack strap tighter. The goons look right through you. Heading through the exit doors you don't stop moving until you are away in toward the vast city. City transport is either walking, travelator, or cycling, two or three wheeled. The authorities use hover units which can be seen regularly sweeping down close to street level. You choose the travelator. As the sun rises, the temperature rises steadily above freezing. Your bag seems lighter in the sharp sun, and you decide to stop to break your fast. The smell of baking coming from a khleb shop tempts your tastebuds. Jumping to the walk level you notice a small figure some two hundred metres behind do exactly the same. The drip of sweat reappears. You slip into the bakery and take an empty seat by the window. The automated ordering service responds to your request, promptly a large thick bread and spread as well as a rich chocolate breakfast drink arrive. By now you have noticed the figure that also left the walkway has taken a table outside with his back toward you. A slight bulge beneath his armpit reveals his authority. You are convinced that your arrival has been noted. You slowly, casually finish your breakfast, pick up your bag, exit the little khleb shop taking an effort to deafly nudge the shoulder of the suspected tracker. No reaction, it is as you suspected.

Instead of making your way back to the travelator you drop into a hire lot and pick up a three wheeler. The power pack is fully charged and within minutes you are dashing at full speed along the newly surface narrowways between tall city scrapers. Occasionally you glance up, no hover units can be seen but you remain cautious and double back regularly. After about thirty minutes you reach the edge of the massive, central city square known as Popov Platz. The far side of the square is dominated by the Ivanov building, The administrative capital of all land east of the Urals. The small drip of sweat reappears. You park the three wheeler and set its homing option. It'll be traceable. If all goes well, it'll be no problem.

Walking across the square in the growing sunshine towards the Ivanov building is the most exposed you've been since you stepped down from the Continent Cruiser. As you approach the building you slip the pack from your shoulder and head towards a small almost hidden door. The last furtive look around, no trackers, no hover units. From the pack you pull a transkey. You shake the device quickly and the door springs open. You duck inside, the door closes behind you.  Sunshine disappears, silence creeps. You pause, adjusting your vision. On the wristwrap you pull up a blueprint of the building. Heading for the nerve hub you retrieve a box of bots from your pack. It is a simple exercise to drop the bots at key system junctions. After half a dozen junctions the box is empty and you are heading for the nearest exit. As you leave the building, failure sirens are sounding. You start walking west. Very soon walking will be the only option. You notice a hover unit falter and fall. The chaos cascades east. The downfall begins.