Think, think, think. That’s your job, Joel. Do your fucking job and think. Your first task is: get to Costa Rica. The sooner you get there, the sooner you find Sylvia.
“Can you go any faster?” I said to the car. “I’ll pay for any extra charges.”
“Sorry, sir,” the console said cheerfully. “My rate has been given a strict cap.”
I spent the next twenty minutes getting more and more freaked out as I scanned the news feeds. International Transport issued a statement confirming what I already knew: all human teleportation was suspended until they could figure out if any other TCs were in danger. Did that include the TC at IT’s headquarters? If Taraval couldn’t port me to Costa Rica, I supposed I could hire a drone to fly me there. A quick check told me that surge pricing was in effect, and any future children Sylvia and I had probably wouldn’t go to college because of the debt I would incur. But there wouldn’t be any kids if I couldn’t get to my wife.
When we drew within sight of the IT HQ, I decided to run the rest of the way. Panicked people were crowding the street, the various public security company officers doing their best to disperse them. My black car was doing a fine job navigating around them, but I couldn’t sit still. I had to move, to run, to do something to find Sylvia. I got out despite the vehicle’s protests, and began sprinting the last three blocks to IT’s headquarters. It was easy to spot, the towering, blackish-gray reinforced-cement citadel that loomed over everything nearby like a squatting giant.
As I sped toward it, droplets of mosquito piss hit my face like glass beads. I wiped away the moisture, startled when my 1980s music playlist somehow kicked off, blaring at full blast on my comms. An upbeat melody of synth drums and electronic harmonica accompanied the rhythm of my footsteps, an eerie contrast to my desperation. Usually I loved Culture Club, but now was not the time.
At this point I feel like I should mention my verboten love for 1980s music. Especially New Wave. Here might feel like a strange place to discuss this topic, but bear with me. In 2147, 1980s New Wave was a genre more obscure than Tuvan throat singing. Sylvia didn’t share my penchant for the stuff. She, like most of our friends, was into mainstream music, which in my time was something called redistro. It worked by sampling ambient sounds from around the listener in real time—footsteps, voices, alert tones, that kind of stuff—then rearranging those sounds into a unique musical composition. I know—I didn’t get it, either. It certainly wasn’t as fun as New Wave, which you really should go check out.
Anyway, that’s what started playing as I was running down the rainy streets of New York. Culture Club’s “Karma Chameleon.” The lyrics kicked in as I frantically dodged pedestrians and cars, fruitlessly wiping skeeter piss off my face:
Desert loving in your eyes all the way
If I listen to your lies, would you say
My mind was a zoetrope of panicked, looping thoughts: She’s alive. She’s okay. Fuck, why are the comms still down? Why is she not responding? Stay positive. She’s alive. She’s okay. I can’t think with this fucking music in my head.
But before I could do anything about it, the music cut out and my comms display vanished.
What the fuck?
I tried Sylvia again.
UNAUTHORIZED ACCESS. INVALID USER.
Huh. That’s new.
I gave it another shot.
UNAUTHORIZED ACCESS. INVALID USER.
I tried to pull up anything. The news, the weather. Nada.
What the fuck, now my comms aren’t working?
I figured maybe everyone’s comms were down.
How could the Gehinnomite attack cause this much damage? Forget about that; focus on the goal. Costa Rica, then Sylvia. Run.
Several fruitless repetitions of this mantra and a few minutes later, I reached the five-story-tall entrance of International Transport headquarters. There were no signs or logos; there didn’t need to be. Everyone in New York City knew who owned the joint. The entryway design borrowed notes from government buildings created right before the Last War: sharp, forty-foot barricade doors designed to withstand violent protests, though these were more for show than function. The structure was so massive, all of IT occupied only the lower third. The rest they rented, at the most exorbitant rates in Manhattan, to other companies who hoped to bask in the reflected glow of one of the world’s most powerful corporations.
Oh, a word about corporations in my time: in 2147 governments still existed, but they were mostly for show, like the royal family in Great Britain had been for several centuries. This began in the twenty-first century, when the US Supreme Court ruled that corporations had the same rights as people. Then a handful of countries tanked their economies, and multinational companies swooped in to save the day—with a few conditions, of course. Finally the Last War brought down most of the remaining government superpowers. What was left after the dust cleared were companies: nonpartisan, multinational, and clinically efficient. It was easy for them to take over most governmental operations. Elections, infrastructure, legislative services, and law enforcement were all privatized. Most people who remembered the old days said things ran much smoother now that there was a real bottom line. And since IT was among the world’s most powerful corporations, the piece of land on which their headquarters stood had more influence than the White House, the Kremlin, and the Zhongnanhai combined.
I ran down the moving walkway that led to the building’s lobby, angrily contemplating how absurd it was that all of Costa Rica had only one commercial TC, and here, just in Manhattan, we had eleven.
Reaching the front door, it was obvious security was on high alert. A small army of imposing, muscular uniformed fellows blocked the doorway. Like most corporations of its scale, IT had its own police force, but generally it was less overtly placed. IT preferred to convey a welcoming presence. That was certainly not the case today, as the entire building was surrounded by heavily armed guards.
“May I help you?” the one standing closest to me asked. Water droplets had just begun to collect on his golden IT SECURITY cap.
“Yes. Joel Byram, here to see William Taraval.”
The guard’s unflinching face towered a head’s length over me. Still, I noticed an eyebrow rise on his perfectly chiseled face. “Why are your comms disabled?”
“They’re not. They’re acting up or something. Are yours working?”
“Sir, I must inform you that disabling or modifying your comms to prevent authentication is against the law. Please stay here.”
Not content to leave it a suggestion, he put a heavy hand around my upper arm. It felt like a steel manacle. “Look,” I said. “I’m sure if you just ping William Taraval and tell him I’m here … It’s an emergency.”
“I would be happy to do so, sir. But I can’t take your word that you are who you say you are. I assume you’ve heard about the incident in Costa Rica. We can’t take any chances.”