Fizz!!!
Copyright (c) 2011 by Simon Haynes
Previously published in Verandah
* * *
Welcome to a future where long-distance travel involves nothing more than stepping into a booth. Unfortunately, for one man this tiny step is a giant barrier ...
"How much?" shouted Martin, raising his voice as a bus thundered past.
The taxi driver jerked his thumb at the meter. "Plus tip."
Martin extracted a note from his wallet and passed it over. "Keep the change," he said, grabbing his bag and retreating from the less-than-enthusiastic response.
The terminal was packed and it took Martin a minute or two to spot the check-in counter. He finally saw the logo and threaded his way through the crowds.
FIIIZZZ-zzzzzz-zzz!
Martin stared around, seeking the source of the noise, but all he could see was a dozen orderly queues at the far end of the concourse, queues which flowed behind a row of shops and out of his line of sight.
FIIIZZZ-zzzzzz-zzz!
Whatever the noise was, it was coming from round the corner. Martin forgot about checking in and hurried past counters and gaudy shop fronts until he could see what the people were queuing for. It was a spectacular sight - a row of tall, chrome arches, their legs reinforced with thick metal bands. Inside each was a perfect mirror, reflecting the waiting people.
FIIIZZZ-zzzzzz-zzz!
Martin watched the nearest arch closely, saw a neatly-dressed woman hand her bag to a uniformed guard, watched her step towards, into, through the mirror.
FIIIZZZ-zzzzzz-zzz!
She was gone.
Martin stared in wonder at the mirrored surface suspended between the chrome arches. They were the teleporters! He'd imagined something more robust, more ... sci-fi. He felt a weight lift from his shoulders, a tight knot unfurling in his stomach. After all his worries, it looked as safe as crossing the road.
Tell that to a hit and run victim, said a tiny voice inside his skull. But it sounded plaintive now, lacking the wisdom and authority which had plagued him every night for the past week.
Martin strode back to the check-in desk, collected his travel chip and returned to the departure area. Each queue looked much like the next, so he joined the nearest. Before long he was halfway to the arch, and more travellers had lined up behind him.
What if they never arrive?
Martin looked round before realising the tiny voice had come from within. "Shut up," he muttered. "You're nothing but a scaremonger."
The man ahead of him in the queue glanced back, his neck wrinkling above his tight collar. Martin reddened and looked away.
More shuffling, and the queue moved forward. The arch towered over the travellers now, and the fizzing sound was painfully intense. Another shuffle and there were only three people between himself and his destination.
FIIIZZZ-zzzzzz-zzz! Two.
He'd needed a holiday, and he'd chosen the remotest capital city on the planet. His workmates couldn't even get to the pub after work, and the idea of him travelling halfway round the planet for his annual break had tickled the lot of them. They'd teased him for weeks, regaling him with horror stories about defective teleporters which sent hapless travellers to the vacuum of space, fifty klicks underground or, worst of all, half to each.
FIIIZZZ-zzzzzz-zzz!
One left. The man in front glanced at his watch, as though he were eager to get on with it. Martin closed his eyes as his confidence leached away. His hands were slick, and he could feel his skin tingling. In minutes he'd be standing in Perth ... or would he?
His eyes opened, and he stared into the middle of the man's back, his gaze burning through the creased jacket and the off-white shirt. How could the other travellers be so casual, so composed? "Run," he whispered. "Go on, run!"
The man half-turned, eyebrows raised, and Martin realised his voice had carried above the hum of the equipment. He forced a weak smile, an apology on his lips, but the man turned away and handed a shiny briefcase to the customs officer, who fed it into the maw of a scanner. A green light came on, and the officer gestured towards the arch. Without the slightest hesitation, the man strode through.
FIIIZZZ-zzzzzz-zzz!
Martin's heart thumped in his chest, fighting to escape. His case slipped from his nerveless fingers, landed on the floor with a crash. There was an exclamation at the sudden noise, and a child's voice rang out.
"Is that man scared, mummy?"
"Of course he isn’t."
Oh yes he is!
As Martin reached for his case he turned to give the little girl a reassuring smile.
"He looks scared to me," she said loudly.
"Sir?" The guard waited, hand outstretched.
Martin took the transfer chip from his pocket and held it out to the officer, but it was waved away.
"Your case, sir."
Martin stuffed the tile back in his pocket and held out his case, which was pulled from his grasp and fed into the machine.
"Please pass through, sir. People are waiting."
So casual! He was three paces from a machine that was going to tear his body into atoms and beam it clear across the planet, and to the guard it seemed no more interesting than a revolving door. Martin took a deep breath and faced his nightmare - a perfect reflection of himself, shoulders hunched, a hounded look on his clean-shaven face.
Coward.
Martin gritted his teeth and squared his shoulders. His reflection straightened, grew in stature. He'd show them.
FIIIZZZ-zzzzzz-zzz!
His skin burned for a split second, and then he was through. He blinked, took stock. He'd made it! HE'D MADE IT! Martin grinned and pumped his fist, the overwhelming release of tension leaving him giddy and light-headed. The little voice in his head was quiet at last, banished by reality.
"Made it, made it, made it," he muttered to himself, revelling in his new found confidence. He looked around, getting his bearings, but the arrivals area was as sterile and featureless as the departure lounge. He frowned as he saw the queues at the exits - more people were pouring through the arches, and if he didn't move soon the place would be packed.
He turned for one last look at the arch, and realised with a shock that he could see the waiting queue through a thin, milky film. The woman and the little girl were about to come through, and Martin moved out of their way.
FIIIZZZ-zzzzzz-zzz!
Martin grinned at the girl as she skipped past. "Exciting, huh?"
She gave him a superior look and turned away.
Martin took his case from the conveyor and strolled towards the nearest queue. His fellow travellers were fanning their faces with newspapers or mopping their brows with the complimentary towels they'd been given in the departure lounge. The line moved past a recycling chute into which the travellers threw their used travel chips, and as they rounded the corner Martin saw a thickset customs officer guiding people between a pair of automatic doors. The doors were opaque, but each time they opened Martin craned his neck for his first view of Perth. Unfortunately he couldn't see much because it was dark outside, a darkness shot through with flickers of summer lightning.
Three more people passed through the doors, and then it was Martin's turn. He tossed his travel chip into the gaping mouth of the recycler and stepped forwards.
"Just a moment, sir," said the officer.
Martin stopped. "Yes? Is there a problem?"
The man held up Martin's tile, which had popped out of a hidden opening. "This is for Perth."
"Yes, that's right."
"You're in the Sydney queue," said the officer. "Perth's further along."
Martin looked at him, puzzled. "I don't understand."
"This is the Sydney queue," repeated the officer, speaking slow
ly as though talking to a small child. "You have a Perth tile. You have to use queue six."
Martin looked up. Above the exit there was an electronic sign - Queue three, Sydney. The next was Queue Four, Beijing. Strange. Still, these people were running the show, and if they wanted him to leave the terminal through exit number six, then that's what he'd have to do.
He took his tile and joined a smaller queue labelled 'Six - Perth.' There was an elderly couple in front of him, and every time the queue moved they shuffled forwards, leaning on each other for support. As he slipped into the line behind them, the woman looked at him with a nervous smile. "I hope we don't hold you up," she said.
Martin shook his head. "No rush, I'm just happy to be here."
"First time?"
"Yes. I was worried about it all week."
The man peered at him, his rheumy eyes bloodshot. "Been worrying us a damn site longer. Be glad when we're home again."
"We're going to our grand-daughter's birthday," explained the woman. "She's twenty-one today."
"You don't look old enough," said Martin gallantly, and was rewarded with a twinkle.
The queue had been moving steadily while they chatted, and with a start Martin realised they'd reached the exit. The old man fumbled with a pair of transit chips before disposing of them in the recycler, and then a customs officer waved them forward. The doors slid open, and Martin's smile froze. Instead of a night-time view of Perth he was looking at something his brain simply refused to accept. There was a short passageway which opened into a dimly lit, circular room. In the centre of the room a fat, silvery sphere at least five meters wide sat on a dais, like an oversized crystal ball. A flash of light revealed further details: Massed wires, banks of computers tended by white-coats, hissing heat exchangers.
Martin turned to the guard. "What's going on here?"
"What do you mean, sir?"
"That egg thing, the people. What's happening?"
"That's your ride, sir."
"My ride?" Martin's jaw dropped. "That's the teleporter?"
"It sure as hell ain't a washing machine," said the officer drily.
"B-but what about the arch? I thought --"
"Those things?" The guard laughed. "They're just bug zappers!"
Martin stared at him, hardly noticing the growing buzz as the queue behind him grew impatient at the delay. "Bug zappers?"
"Sure. A few years back we opened up a new line into some backwater, and within a week we had an ebola case come through. You should have seen the place - they stoppered up the portals but good, and they stayed that way until the arches were in place."
There was a vivid flash behind the sliding door, followed by a drawn-out rumble which shook the floor.
"Wh-what was that?"
"One of the heat exchangers going off." The guard shrugged. "They'll have the backup ready for you in a moment."
Martin stared, mesmerised, as the door slid open. An orange strobe blinked on top of the silver sphere, which was barely visible through the smoky haze. White-coated technicians were struggling with a dull grey cylinder, while a group of computer experts huddled around a screen pointing out error messages.
"In you go," said the guard. "You can strap in while they finish off."
Martin didn't hesitate - he turned and ran.
"Hey, where you going?" shouted the guard. "Sir! You'll miss your time slot!"
Martin pushed through the crowds, heading for the line of arches. He ran for the nearest and dived through headlong (zzz-zzzzzz-ZZZIIIFFF!), bowling over the queue waiting on the other side. Hands grabbed for him, but he dodged and ran full-tilt for the exit.
Coward, coward, coward! hissed the voice in his head.
Zzzing! The glass door ahead of him shattered into glittering fragments, and Martin stumbled as something plucked at his arm. Zzzing zzzing! The shots came from everywhere as the guards tried to bring him down. Instead of stopping, raising his hands, he ran through the shattered door, crunching glass underfoot. He slipped on the treacherous surface, fell forwards, ran harder. Still off-balance, he dived between two parked taxis and out into the road.
The bus slammed into him with the force of a rock fall, knocking him sideways and throwing him bodily along the rough tarmac. Too broken for pain, Martin lay in the road, barely conscious.
The last thing he heard was the bus driver releasing the air brake: FFFFIIIZZZ-zzzzzz-zzz!
About the Author
Simon Haynes was born in England and grew up in Spain, where he enjoyed an amazing childhood of camping, motorbikes, air rifles and paper planes. His family moved to Australia when he was 16.
Simon divides his time between writing fiction and computer software, with frequent bike rides to blow away the cobwebs.
His goal is to write fifteen Hal books (Spacejock OR Junior!) before someone takes his keyboard away.
Simon's website is www.spacejock.com.au
Don't miss the Hal Spacejock series!
1. Hal Spacejock
2. Hal Spacejock: Second Course
3. Hal Spacejock: Just Desserts
4. Hal Spacejock: No Free Lunch
5. Hal Spacejock: Baker's Dough
Hal Spacejock: Framed (Short Story)
Hal Spacejock: Visit (Short Story)
www.spacejock.com.au
Simon Haynes also writes the
Hal Junior series for children
1. Hal Junior: The Secret Signal
2. Hal Junior: The Missing Case
www.haljunior.com