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 flying taxicab was almost identical to the one in Lonbridge. I could have been the very same one, if not for the differing stains and the foreign food smells.
It deposited them, Philoctetes climbing down first, at the ground entrance to a building so tall that the top disappeared into the clouds above. Granted, these were only lower ceiling clouds, standard altitude for oceanic crossings, but still.
With some horrid luck, it would seem, in the 30 meters between the, as far as Pool could tell, random landing location of the taxi, a public alarm rang out.
For one not used to life in the already cacophonous 23rd century, or perhaps used to the work in the belly of a mill of any sort in the grinding 19th, then it is difficult to express how utterly piercing and soul-violating the alarm-call was for Pool.
He clasped his hands to his ears trying to cancel the audiory agression.
He felt Philoctetes touch his shoulder. Only a second had passed.
“You must remove your mask. It is a State Command,” he said.
“What?” Pool asked with his hands still over his ears. He thought the alarm had paused.
“It is a public exposure command. You must comply. There are cameras recording everything. You may not see ‘constables’ in this location, but they are here none-the-less.”
Pool looked around. He saw no one that resembled an officer of the law, or an officer of anything. Still, the people on the street all stood, lowered what masks they had, shook off their hoods and lowered their umbrellas.
With one last anxious look, Pool did the same.
Seconds passed.
“Are we allowed to speak?”
“Yes”
“How long do we remain like this?”
Just as he finished the question there was a beep, quieter than the alarm, but still loud.
“How do people live like this?”
“That is a mystery even to me.”
Ion Fyr 