Terminus groaned. The trolleys had become his life’s work. Whenever something was wrong with one he felt it, like the metal was a part of him. In an odd sense, they were his giant pets. He was their caretaker, and fixing them so they could go back to work gave him great satisfaction.
“All right, Decima, let’s cut it. We can explain later that the wires were preventing the engine from getting enough Biomass to run efficiently. The mechanics who installed the damn thing can fix it, for all I care; this shipment of Biomass has to get to Lunia.”
Climbing back onto the running boards, Decima and Terminus stared back into the engine compartment. The tiny red wire peered back at them innocently.
Decima turned to look at his boss, who gave him the go ahead with a simple nod.
“Okay, you little son of a bitch. You’re someone else’s problem now,” Decima said, under his breath, reaching in with his wire cutter.
The small wire snapped easily between the sharp blades. Instantly, a spark erupted from the black box. Neither of the mechanics had time to react as they were enveloped in flames.
From the road several miles away, a patrol of CRK soldiers watched in shock as a mushroom cloud rose into the sky above.
“Shit, shit!” the lead Knight screamed, fumbling for his headset. “Headquarters! Come in. We have a situation. Over.” Static sounded for a few short seconds before anyone responded on the other line.
“Headquarters here. It’s almost 1:00 a.m.; what kind of situation do you guys have? Over,” a tired operator muttered.
“I don’t give a shit what time it is, get the Commanding Knight of District 1 on the line. We’ve lost a Biomass trolley. Over,” the Knight coughed into his headset.
“Roger. I’m sorry, sir. Right away,” the civilian responded, breaking proper radio procedure.
“Let’s move out, men. Check the area for any survivors, but be ready for any TDU, this could be a trap we’re walking into,” the lead Knight ordered.
He watched his patrol head through the dead forest, the inferno in the distance glowing in the reflection of his blue goggles. He shook his head and followed his men. “Damn rebels.”
Time: 7:41 a.m. January 30, 2071
Location: Trolley Station #14. Lunia, Tisaia
Paulo sat at Trolley Station #14, waiting for a passenger train to take him to work. He was already running late and didn’t need another write up to further ruin his already dreary life. As he waited he pulled out his small blue screen tablet and read The Lunia Post. The tablet and subscription was just another one of the “perks” given to State workers. He would have preferred to read a paper copy of the Post, but the State had done away with all paper documents that weren’t for official business years ago.
He thumbed through the news, or what the State deemed news. On the front page was a story about a skirmish with some stragglers outside the walls who tried to make their way into Lunia through old storm drains. There was another story about a new policy SGS had implemented, requiring all State employees to continue education in their respective work areas for at least 50 hours a year.
What’s that going to help accomplish?
He sighed and put the tablet back into the bowels of his coat. The news was predictable, the same stories appearing in every edition with the occasional inspirational piece tied in. Paulo was no longer part of the State’s targeted audience. He had slipped beyond, reading between the lines and becoming increasingly bitter every day.
The tunnel was dark, illuminated only by a few red lights. One flickered intermittently, reminding him of the red lights from the train stop in his hometown. Like a subliminal warning, the light blinked—the red radiance shedding an eerie glow on the other State workers lining up on the platform.
The trolley, which was already running five minutes late, was nowhere to be seen.
That’s odd, this trolley is always on time.
Paulo quickly lost interest in the absent train and returned to people-watching. To his right sat a middle-aged businessman. The dark black suit and bright red sunglasses hugging the rims of his eyes gave him away. Paulo had seen his type before, but rarely at a trolley station. Most businessmen did not work for the State, but rather for companies developing new technologies that the State did not have the infrastructure or resources to develop. These businessmen mostly lived in the Commons Area with the other State workers, but some of them had built enough wealth to live outside the Commons and in gated communities.
Paulo chuckled under his breath. He remembered a time he was actually envious of these men and their fancy cars that broke the energy laws State workers were forced to follow. And why wouldn’t they? It was all a game. The wealthy gave a share of their profits to the State by transferring funds to the Legislature and high level officials. In turn, they were not forced to follow the strict laws the State imposed on its workers and citizens. If a Knight stopped them, they would simply show their identification card and be allowed to proceed.
Businessmen rarely ventured out; many had been robbed or kidnapped in an upsurge of violence in the past few years. That’s what really surprised Paulo about this one. He had seen them in trolley stations before, but usually with armed guards and an entourage of staff. This one, however, was traveling solo.
Paulo shrugged it off, glancing back down at his watch. The train was 11 minutes late, but there was nothing he could do about it. He pulled his tablet out again to pass the time and opened an article that actually interested him.
“New Biomass Production.”
He scanned through it, reading that a new Biomass factory was producing enough Biomass in a month to fuel all of Tisaia for another 15 years.
The red flicker of the light snapped him back to reality, and he watched as the inconvenienced patrons began to get nervous, several of them shuffling back and forth on the platform. Paulo glanced over at the businessman again and noticed he was still staring at the train tracks, unmoved from his position. A wave of anxiety shot through Paulo’s old body.
He stiffened and stood patiently, his eyes desperately scanning the tunnel before stopping on a sign that read, “Report Suspicious Activity to the CRK, Your Friends and Your Protectors.”
Paulo grinned. Yeah right, like I’d tell those Tin Cans if I saw anything suspicious.
The train was now over 17 minutes late and Paulo began to make his way through the crowd. Unlike these other workers, he could not afford to be late to work. He was going to try and make it to the office on foot. It was only five blocks away, and with about 15 minutes to spare here, he could make it if he hustled. He knew the excuse of a late trolley would not be acceptable to his boss.
Paulo pushed his way through the crowded station, catching a glimpse of a fully armored CRK foot soldier standing at the bottom of the stairs leading to the street above. The soldier stood there frozen, like a statue; his rifle at his shoulders, resting perfectly on the skin of his gmetal armor. A shudder went down Paulo’s back as he saw the soldier, but he didn’t know why. For the most part contact with the CRK was an everyday occurrence, but today it frightened Paulo more than it normally would. The flickering red light, the late train, the out of place businessman, and now a soldier only reminded him he constantly lived in a state of fear.
The top step came into view just as he heard the whining of the trolley’s engine. He turned in time to see the crowd move forward, the lump of people pushing their way closer to the tracks to ensure a seat on the trolley.