Fiction: Old New York
Oct. 22nd, 2010 01:58 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
jackI ground my teeth as Susannah scrupulously flicked the hazard lights on, and began coasting slowly to a stop at the side of the highway, exactly abreast with the giant warning signs around the perimiter of Old New York. We'd not seen another car moving for hours before, but there were ones regularly abandoned on the road, carefully parked, or shoved to the side of the road by another vehicle later on.
She pulled obligingly into the right, and we studied the warning signs and fences. Twenty years ago the army had erected chain link fences all the way round the old city, and unsung heroines in the highway department had struggled to find simple glyphs in red circles which would accurately convey "Warning: unimaginable horrors from another dimension. Turn around now." I imagined the poor planners scrambling to have the signs ready, hoping they'd never be used anywhere else in the country-- but being ready for it.
In fact, the military, with a much more direct approach to "do not enter", had fenced off the road, slapped neon paint on it, and plasted great big ominous warning signs in twelve languages to them. A gruesome but helpful glyph at the top showed a little stick-figure human being menaced by a little stick-figure alien. The road signs, conscientiously erected by the side of the road, were mostly superfluous.
Originally there had been guards, and camera surveilance, and a general buzz of government activity. Turning New York into a hell-hole was a job for true Americans, not aliens. This had slowly subsided. At some point someone had -- judging from the state it was in -- run the fence down with a large truck.
As the van stopped I hopped out and strode round to the back to begin unloading. Susannah busily turned everything off and began locking the doors. We'd brought two heavy-duty bicycles, with strong frames but road wheels, and giant panniers, with two reinforced medium-sized rucksacks as well. They held a lot of Susannah's equipment, plus as much food and clothing and camping stuff as would fit.
"What if we find food in supermarkets?" Susannah had said. "The canned food should still be good."
"What if we dont'?" I'd countered, and she hadn't insisted. I wasn't worried about bacteria. I had visions of fairy stories where the heroine is told "and don't eat anything, or you'll never come back out".
It seemed logical to take the van in, but many of the satellite photos showed the roads inside completely blocked with abandoned vehicles. I kept expecting one of us to suggest motorbikes, or monster trucks, but the ideas were more entertaining than practical. And we'd had a feeling, nothing certain, that the simpler the mechanisms, the more likely they'd keep working.
Susannah had a folder full of different satellite photos, all different. Even the road layout changed. And not gradually, or even suddly, it's just that every picture taken, even two at the same time, showed a completely different picture. Some showed the city as you'd expect it if had been abandoned for twenty years. Others showed it still illuminated, bustling with activity, but stilll no visible people. Others showed the buildings glistening like evil chitin. A few showed a massive pit in the centre of the city, stairs cut into the edges, descending down to hell.
I glanced around. Even if there weren't guards, there should have been some surveillance. We'd discussed whether to cycle straight in and hope they didn't follow us, or hang around and hope to meet them. Susannah was still nattering about it as I set up the bikes. But before we'd finished it was obviated by a small caterpillar-tracked robot rolling along a side-street outside the fence.
About a foot tall, a flimsy box with treads, and a small swivleable camera on top, it rolled to a stop as it came onto the street, and the camera swivelled to point at us. I lent my bicycle back against the van and walked carefully ip to it. Behind me the bicycle wobbled and slid to the floor with an unfortunate crashing sound.
"Um, hi" I said. "I feel stupid talking to a robot. I wonder if you have a microphone."
I looked over my shoulder. Susannah had abandoned her bike and struggled to lay mine down gently. Once it had fallen already I couldn't see why picking it up sooner was going to be better. But now she walked up behind me.
"I don't think so. It would normally be useless. You can imagine someone watching several video screens at once, but not audio."
"But it would cost less than a cent-- I mean, very few cents. Surely it would be worth it. Even if it's only ever useful once. If not here, then surely somewhere? Surely anyone would put one in, just in case."
"The military? First generation military hardware isn't known for reliability--" we paused and looked down. "Uh, no offence little fella."
But Susannah had moved ahead of me. She squatted down and looked the camera in the lens. "Hi there, little guy. Or, um, whoever's listening. Sir. Is anyone there? Can you hear me?"
The camera swivelled to track her face. I coughed disceetly. "Try asking one at a time."
"Hello?" She paused, and then enunciated clearly. "Is anyone there?"
There was a pause, and the camera tracked jerkily up and down twice.
"Can you hear me?"
The camera swivelled to the side.
"OK. I'm glad we talked to it," I began. "Because now it's much much clearer whether we should go straight in, or wait."
She glared at me. "We could just go," she said.
"Just walk away from it?" We looked at it. "I somehow don't like the idea. We just walked up, waved hi to the guards and walked on in..."
"We could wait."
"And if no-one turns up?"
"We could just go. What could it do?"
We looked at it for a moment.
"Maybe we should smash it. Or throw a towel over it so it can't see."
"Surely," I began, "Surely the designer would have included some way to..." I stopped. "I hope it really can't hear us."
"I hope it's not been into the city, and infected, and is luring more people in."
We looked at it again doubtfully. I thought for a moment, and then fished my phone out of my pocket and typed in my own number, then squatted down and held the screen up to the camera.
I made myself hold it still, trying to visualise a frantic private, or maybe a laconic, bored sergeant, or a disgraced and disgruntled lieutenant rummaging for the phone, or leaisurely copying down the phone, or cursing under her breath. They'd copy the number down first -- or maybe they wouldn't, damn -- and look for a phone. Did military guard posts even have outside lines? Was there some sort of protocol about this?
I was sure the regulations had been written ten years ago and slowly gone out of date with the actual manpower, or there'd have been more guards, or else less signs. She'd be bringing the phone over the monitor and-- I grabbed the phone as the incoming call lit up.
"Hello?"
Half an hour later we were cycling slowly into the city, a buzzing teleprescence robot scooting along between us completely against regulations, and wondering whether to stop and look for somewhere to surreptitiously loot an earpiece for my phone.
She pulled obligingly into the right, and we studied the warning signs and fences. Twenty years ago the army had erected chain link fences all the way round the old city, and unsung heroines in the highway department had struggled to find simple glyphs in red circles which would accurately convey "Warning: unimaginable horrors from another dimension. Turn around now." I imagined the poor planners scrambling to have the signs ready, hoping they'd never be used anywhere else in the country-- but being ready for it.
In fact, the military, with a much more direct approach to "do not enter", had fenced off the road, slapped neon paint on it, and plasted great big ominous warning signs in twelve languages to them. A gruesome but helpful glyph at the top showed a little stick-figure human being menaced by a little stick-figure alien. The road signs, conscientiously erected by the side of the road, were mostly superfluous.
Originally there had been guards, and camera surveilance, and a general buzz of government activity. Turning New York into a hell-hole was a job for true Americans, not aliens. This had slowly subsided. At some point someone had -- judging from the state it was in -- run the fence down with a large truck.
As the van stopped I hopped out and strode round to the back to begin unloading. Susannah busily turned everything off and began locking the doors. We'd brought two heavy-duty bicycles, with strong frames but road wheels, and giant panniers, with two reinforced medium-sized rucksacks as well. They held a lot of Susannah's equipment, plus as much food and clothing and camping stuff as would fit.
"What if we find food in supermarkets?" Susannah had said. "The canned food should still be good."
"What if we dont'?" I'd countered, and she hadn't insisted. I wasn't worried about bacteria. I had visions of fairy stories where the heroine is told "and don't eat anything, or you'll never come back out".
It seemed logical to take the van in, but many of the satellite photos showed the roads inside completely blocked with abandoned vehicles. I kept expecting one of us to suggest motorbikes, or monster trucks, but the ideas were more entertaining than practical. And we'd had a feeling, nothing certain, that the simpler the mechanisms, the more likely they'd keep working.
Susannah had a folder full of different satellite photos, all different. Even the road layout changed. And not gradually, or even suddly, it's just that every picture taken, even two at the same time, showed a completely different picture. Some showed the city as you'd expect it if had been abandoned for twenty years. Others showed it still illuminated, bustling with activity, but stilll no visible people. Others showed the buildings glistening like evil chitin. A few showed a massive pit in the centre of the city, stairs cut into the edges, descending down to hell.
I glanced around. Even if there weren't guards, there should have been some surveillance. We'd discussed whether to cycle straight in and hope they didn't follow us, or hang around and hope to meet them. Susannah was still nattering about it as I set up the bikes. But before we'd finished it was obviated by a small caterpillar-tracked robot rolling along a side-street outside the fence.
About a foot tall, a flimsy box with treads, and a small swivleable camera on top, it rolled to a stop as it came onto the street, and the camera swivelled to point at us. I lent my bicycle back against the van and walked carefully ip to it. Behind me the bicycle wobbled and slid to the floor with an unfortunate crashing sound.
"Um, hi" I said. "I feel stupid talking to a robot. I wonder if you have a microphone."
I looked over my shoulder. Susannah had abandoned her bike and struggled to lay mine down gently. Once it had fallen already I couldn't see why picking it up sooner was going to be better. But now she walked up behind me.
"I don't think so. It would normally be useless. You can imagine someone watching several video screens at once, but not audio."
"But it would cost less than a cent-- I mean, very few cents. Surely it would be worth it. Even if it's only ever useful once. If not here, then surely somewhere? Surely anyone would put one in, just in case."
"The military? First generation military hardware isn't known for reliability--" we paused and looked down. "Uh, no offence little fella."
But Susannah had moved ahead of me. She squatted down and looked the camera in the lens. "Hi there, little guy. Or, um, whoever's listening. Sir. Is anyone there? Can you hear me?"
The camera swivelled to track her face. I coughed disceetly. "Try asking one at a time."
"Hello?" She paused, and then enunciated clearly. "Is anyone there?"
There was a pause, and the camera tracked jerkily up and down twice.
"Can you hear me?"
The camera swivelled to the side.
"OK. I'm glad we talked to it," I began. "Because now it's much much clearer whether we should go straight in, or wait."
She glared at me. "We could just go," she said.
"Just walk away from it?" We looked at it. "I somehow don't like the idea. We just walked up, waved hi to the guards and walked on in..."
"We could wait."
"And if no-one turns up?"
"We could just go. What could it do?"
We looked at it for a moment.
"Maybe we should smash it. Or throw a towel over it so it can't see."
"Surely," I began, "Surely the designer would have included some way to..." I stopped. "I hope it really can't hear us."
"I hope it's not been into the city, and infected, and is luring more people in."
We looked at it again doubtfully. I thought for a moment, and then fished my phone out of my pocket and typed in my own number, then squatted down and held the screen up to the camera.
I made myself hold it still, trying to visualise a frantic private, or maybe a laconic, bored sergeant, or a disgraced and disgruntled lieutenant rummaging for the phone, or leaisurely copying down the phone, or cursing under her breath. They'd copy the number down first -- or maybe they wouldn't, damn -- and look for a phone. Did military guard posts even have outside lines? Was there some sort of protocol about this?
I was sure the regulations had been written ten years ago and slowly gone out of date with the actual manpower, or there'd have been more guards, or else less signs. She'd be bringing the phone over the monitor and-- I grabbed the phone as the incoming call lit up.
"Hello?"
Half an hour later we were cycling slowly into the city, a buzzing teleprescence robot scooting along between us completely against regulations, and wondering whether to stop and look for somewhere to surreptitiously loot an earpiece for my phone.