Disclaimer: this is a work of fiction. It is a draft; there are mistakes, many misspellings and sometimes long periods of no updates. copyright: ion fyr 2025
The ride to the port was uneventful. Philoctetes had referred to it as a terminal, so Pool pictured a train station terminal.
He did what the anthromorph instructed and held his hand to the scanner within 10 centimeters, and felt nothing when the driverless, hovering car issued a beep and opened it’s gull-wing door for them to enter.
It was cleaner than the earlier vehicle, but still smelled of the ubiquitous, noxious plastic. Perhaps the smell was the breather he had put on as soon as they had left the Nila’s building.
Philoctetes had instructed him to be circumspect with his words and questions while they traveled, suggesting that even if you humans were present, many devices passively listened in.
Pool became paranoid about the threat of constant surveillance in the panoptogon future and the threat of being revealed as a fraud, having his freedom stripped from him like a criminal made his stomach twist into knots.
Never before having been at a 23rd century port of any kind, Pool was a bit trepidatious. The car disgorged them, he and lanky Philoctetes, by the common entryway. Though the script of the marquee was warped and aged, distorted in form, he could still make out the letters to “Departures”, and planned to follow the herd of fellow humans.
With what only can be described as an anthromorphic whisper, Philoctetes held him back. Mr Tagore, as I shall call you from now on, I need to inform you that we will not be traveling together, in the same compartment or side by side. As I am an anthromorph, I am expected to travel like luggage.”
“Oh dear…Phi…You might have told me sooner so I could better prepare myself!”
“I apologize, Mr Tagore.” Pool heard the voice with utmost sincerity. “The current regulations on D-class public transport, the kind you are billeted on, require that I am baggage.”
“But, Philoctetes, what shall I do in transit? Who will I talk too?” It seemed a petty and selfish thing for Pool to be worried about, and even he regretted saying, hoping to not offend the kind sentient automaton.
“I suggest not speaking with anyone. Avoid security officers at all cost; there will be several onboard. Sleep if you can. Food can be purchased at exaggerated prices once underway. It will not be long.”
They had been walking, Pool following the herd, with Philoctetes speaking at low volume with him. He found himself now in a very long, shambling line. Women and men, some scattered smaller, whining children, scuffling forward. The stink of the travellers washed overhim. It was always the same, everywhere. The airfields of N’Aurelia, the elevated trains of Londbridge–his Londbridge–they always reeked of cheap coffee and even cheaper morning smokes. Here, the people smelled of plastic, slightly singed.
He had expected a grand experience, as airship flight in the 1880s and 90s was expensive. He had only experienced it on the payroll of others, often as the Constable on Special Mission (gods! His memory still hadn’t fully returned. What was his official title?)
Instead of a broad gallery, with sculptures and, of course, maps (which he loved), Pool only found cordoned lines of brutes, being pushed forward by the press of stinking humanity at each one of their backs, trodding like the zombies of the jungle-dread cinematographs. Some child of perhaps eleven, with lice clearly frolicking in her hair stood in front of him, smelling of the pervasive burning plastic and tropical fruit with exagerated syrup.
He held off on vomitting. Philoctetes was curling up into a verticle ball on a conveyor belt–itself a novel invention, Pool thought. He imagined the conveyor plopping Philoctetes and countless other anthromorphs into neat rows in some cargo hold.
Pool watched the people in line ahead of him…there behavior involving the scanning. He hoped Philoctetes had put him in the correct line. He wanted to puke.
A metallic voice was speaking lines over and over. “Direct to Archeopadepol.” That’s what it sounded like anyway. The passengers ahead raised their hands over the scanner, each receiving an affirmative beep and the minuscule green light, signaling correct access.
When it came time for him to scan his hand, with the tiny capsule, Pool looked around nervously. The masked and armed security thugs were suddenly everywhere. He couldn’t tell from behind their dark encircling spectacles, where they were looking, but was sure they were looking at him specifically.
Miraculously, no one stopped him. The beep went according to plan. He walked through the enclosed gangway. There were no endless spiral stairs or elevators, such as when boarding proper airships; this one just parked itself next to the terminal and people trudged from thier cabs to the beast of a craft.
With the help of an anthromorph, severed in half and protruding from a bulkhead, Pool found his assigned seat. It was too small for his legs; he was forced to sit very upright–fortunately his dear mother had always hated Church-run schools and he had never developed the bad spine associated with them.
The man on his left was obese and smelled like rancid butter. The indeterminate person on his right might have been 15 or 50, but suffered from a festering rash. Pool kept his arms tight about him for the journey
Ion Fyr 