Soliloquy From Another World
SOLILOQUY FROM ANOTHER WORLD
G.E. SMITH
THE SUBLIMINAL BLEEPING of the alarm dissipated the last, lingering wisps of a dream as Jon stirred to consciousness. Mechanically, more by force of habit than by direct effort, he threw back the slider to his sleeping chamber and then grimaced as he planted his feet on the cold floor of the room. Finding it difficult to function with any efficiency that early in the morning, Jon forced his blurry eyes to focus on the doorway, and then coerced his body into moving in that general direction. He sat down in front of the menucomp and, still in a semi-fog, began to go through the motions of programming breakfast.
Then something hit him with the impact of an aerospace transport. It was the realization that brought him fully awake only three days ago he had acquired “the dream machine!” He bounded to the window and looked out to reassure himself it was still there. Ahh, it was the most beautiful thing he had ever seen, and he had difficulty believing that the Kondor gyrotron, in all its chromed splendor, was his. It certainly was a far cry from its twowheeled predecessors of the last century, Jon mused.
Thinking back, he could not remember the first time he had ever seen a Kondor, nor could he remember when he got the first impulse to buy one; he could only remember the years of saving, the hours of reading brochures, and finally the long wait for delivery. He could almost quote the brochures from memory! “This is the gyrotron of gyrotrons-the Kondor! Clearly the best in its field with dual Gapan combustion chambers, 5000 lb. of thrust, twin hemi-centric retros, and a 460-sq.-in. air cushion! The dream machine!”
What enchantment in all that chrome and titanium-plastic that beckoned as some great alluring beast. What nebulous force of attraction in a mere conveyance that challenged all other drives and desires within a man for dominance over his spirit. As he regarded the Kondor, its illumiplates seemed to be looking back at him. At times Jon thought he saw more than just a machine there. There was something there that . . . well, it was silly. Yet he couldn’t be sure, because he didn't really know.
While Jon got ready for work, he read the headlines on the newscan: “MORE RIOTS . . . ASSASSINATION ATTEMPT . . . DISCRIMINATION CLAIM AGAINST LOCAL GOVERNMENT OFFICIAL ...” Jon’s thoughts began to wander. Why was there always, everywhere, this cancerous prejudice and hatred that slowly grows and gradually consumes its victim? Not only did people direct their hatreds toward others of different races and nationalities, but they also got extremely upset over a vehicle as seemingly innocent as a gyrotron. Most people held the firm belief that any vehicle built for one which traveled on a single, oblong air cushion was “a nuisance, a hazard, and only appealed to degenerates.” At a loss for an explanation for any of it, Jon could only shake his head in bewilderment. He didn't have any answers. He just didn’t know. “Didn’t know what?” he questioned, reflectively.
Stepping outside, Jon glanced at his watch and realized he was late. As he hurriedly clamped his briefcase to the Kondor, he considered the probable reaction of his supervisor, a strict disciplinarian, to his tardiness. The old buzzard wouldn’t really be too pleased, he decided. In fact, he’d probably make it miserable for everybody all day. Adjusting his helmet, Jon climbed aboard the gyrotron and touched the button that set its fans and turbines in motion. The pitch of the whining engine gradually increased as the components warmed up. Maybe he could make up some lost time on the cross-town cybcon. As much as he hated the monotony of the cybernetically controlled conduit traffic, he had to admit itdid have a speed advantage over the open sectors. The gyro-mechanism suddenly took hold of the machine and yanked it out of its lean into a perfect 90-degree angle with the pavement. The big gyrotron left the ground and began to free float, its fans blasting dust and dirt for 20 ft. in all directions. This was the sign that all systems were functioning, and the Kondor was ready. His scalp tingled in anticipation as he cracked the throttle, and the machine eased out onto the open sector road. A look around and a quick check in his rear viewer did not disclose any prowltrons in the area, so he opened up the throttle and held on tight, waiting for the staggering response. Immediately the mighty engine began to roar, breathing fire, and Jon experienced the awesome G force of the explosive acceleration. In seconds he was doing 200 and the wind was trying to pummel him from his saddle. He knew it wasn’t legal, but it was exhilarating; he loved every second of it!
Luck was with him this morning; the traffic was pretty light. He could make fairly good time if he caught the control lights right. Inevitably, however, he did come upon a control light. Jon felt a jolt as he fired the retros, and heard a click as the gyros took over balance functions automatically when the Kondor came to a stop. A handful of pedestrians passed before him, and he surveyed them trying, with great effort, not to impart a supercilious air, although he definitely felt superior, astride his magnificent, chromed steed. The pedestrians seemed to take little notice of him, and those who did regarded him with disdain. “Damn gyrotron!’’ muttered one passerby. “Heathen!" said another, a little more audibly than the first. Jon tried to conceal his annoyance by avoiding their gaze; he riveted his eyes to the control light. How could people behave in such a manner, he wondered. Not only could they hate people of races other than their own, but they openly could condemn a person for his mode of transportation. How nice it would be to get away from all this madness, but where could he go and what guarantee was there that the situation would be better elsewhere?
The control light changed and the big gyrotron thundered away from the intersection. The gyros released, and Jon leaned the Kondor in the direction of an entrance tube to the cross-town cybcon. As he approached the mouth of the tube, a sign lit up and issued prophetically:
ALL VEHICLES DECELERATE BEFORE ENTERING APPROACH SPEED-100
After entering the tube, another sign instructed:
WAIT FOR INDICATOR LIGHT THEN SWITCH TO AUTOMATIC AND LOCK IN EXIT COORDINATES
Jon waited for the indicator on his punchpanel to flash on. When it did, he threw the switch that allowed central control complex to take over the gyrotron. Jon didn’t completely understand how the cybcon controller worked, but he could see and feel the results of its toils as he and his gyrotron were pulled along through the tube toward the central conduit. Jon locked in two coordinates close to his place of work, then settled back and waited for the monotony to set in. The early morning sunshine was beginning to come through the transparent walls of the conduit and its warmth seemed to lull Jon into a trance as it radiated through his faceplate. He wondered how people could stand to be shut inside those ubiquitous, coffin-like aerotrons. The best way to enjoy such a beautiful morning is from the saddle of a gyrotron.
Jon returned to his reflections at the intersection. Only the asinine could pass judgement on something they had never tried, he said to himself, thinking of the pedestrians. He’d been told that at the moon colony prejudices and hatreds were not so intense. He'd thought several times of going there to live, but the moon had no beautiful mornings to be enjoyed. What would an existence be without wind or rain or beautiful sunrises? It was rumored that there was no open traffic on the moon; everything was controlled by cybernetic conduits. Jon knew he could not endure cybcon traffic for the rest of his life. There was an animal instinct deep within him that screamed to be turned loose and experience the carefree abandon that urged him to jump on his gyrotron and get as far away as possible from the automated traffic and ignorance. All he really wanted was to enjoy life away from mechanization and disdainful pedestrians. He felt a compulsion to pilot his Kondor over dips, around bumps, and through turns of long, open, winding road. This was the freedom he longed for. Aw, what is the use of contemplating something that probably doesn’t really exist, thought Jon despairingly. He wanted to believe there was freedom such as the type of which he dreamed, but what chance did it have in a world so strangled by controls and regulations and ignorance? He just didn’t know. He didn’t really know. There were so many question marks in the . . . BLEEP! BLEEP! It was the alarm telling him he was approaching his exit. The controller took him down the exit tube and brought him to a full stop at the edge of the business open sector. The gyrotron’s indicator light flickered off and Jon switched back to manual control and surveyed the traffic. >
It was fairly busy, with aerotrons and aerotractors roaring by, doing over a hundred. Carefully, he ventured out onto the open sector road before him, and began accelerating smoothly until he was holding his own at a hundred. When he was reasonably sure there were no prowltrons around, he rammed the throttle wide open in answer to his wild thirst for open road. The blast of his exhaust chambers behind him was music to his ears, and the rush of the wind was a panacea for his restless soul. The cybcon complex disappeared in his rear viewer in seconds. Well, Jon grinned to himself, it looked like he might make it to work on time after all.
Scrutinizing his rear viewer for prowltrons, he thought he saw another gyrotron behind him. Yes, there it was again. It looked like one of those new . . . something drew his attention up ahead . . . HOLY . . . AN AEROTRACTOR PULLING OUT! TOO LATE FOR RETR . . .
Blackness.
The blackness began to lift. He became conscious of great pain with only a dim awareness of where he was. It was a seething universe of pain in the midst of a nightmarish world of twisted metal. Why couldn’t he move? As the blackness lifted more, the pain rushed in on him. He vomited. Recollection came to him in bits and pieces. An accident . . . aerotractor . . . pulling out.
“ . . . serious. Probably internal injuries and . . .”
Did he hear a voice or was it delirium setting in? Were those people standing around him? Confusion engulfed him. He opened his mouth in an attempt to speak to one of the faces bending over him, but he only vomited again. He could hear voices again, stronger now'.
“. . . didn’t see him coming, honest!
He just came outa nowhere!”
“Well, serves him right, gyro punk! He was probably going too fast anyway! They’re all . . .”
The voices faded. He tried to see where his Kondor was, but when he tried to move, the pain became overpowering. The voices were coming back.
“. . . is everybody just standing around? Call MEDEM! This man is dying!”
“Aw, those things are deathtraps, and anybody who rides one is asking for it anyway.”
“Foolhardy ones always tr . . .”
He began to loose them again as the pain washed over him anew. Fighting back the agony, he managed to move his head enough to see his Kondor laying about 100 ft. away, smashed and twisted. Jon wondered if it was in agony too. Its life-giving polymers draining slowly from the holes and gashes in its titanium-plastic frame gave it the appearance that it was vomiting. As he viewed it, it seemed to be looking back at him in anguish through its twisted illumiplates. Was it delirium or was it actually reaching out to him in its death throes? Yes, he could hear its tortured screaming in his mind, now quite clearly .. . or was that someone’s voice he heard?
“. . . doesn’t deserve help anyway. These gyro hoodlums have been responsible for all the vandalism and rioting down here in this district. Why, one of them even raped Zotor’s daughter!”
“No!”
“Yes, it was in yesterday’s newscan!”
From what Jon could see of his own injuries, it was apparent that at least two of his feet were broken, possibly in many places. One of his primary tentacles was missing, and probably more of his secondaries. By the slimy feel of his fur, he could tell his life fluids were draining from him . . . through his orifices. He had better remember to write his mother an emgrem. He owed her one and, besides, she would worry if she didn’t hear from him ... if he could just get to the end of this conduit . . . this long, long conduit . . . but it didn’t matter anymore, anyway . . . there was just too much aerotractor . to wade through . . . the hatreds could be felt in the walls of the buildings, and that’s why he was so thirsty . . . perhaps he would move away to ... to where? Well, it didn’t matter. There had to be some place better than Klandu. THERE HAD TO BE! Maybe it was in another world . . . another galaxy . . . another universe . . . or . . . perhaps . . . such a world did not really exist at all. Perhaps he would stay here in Klandu, on the planet Voton, and die. It was getting darker now ... he couldn’t see the people any more . . . or . . . maybe . . . they just went away. Perhaps he would just stay right here and die . . . instead of moving . . . perhaps it would be just as well he did die . . . perhaps . . . but then again he didn’t know ... he just didn’t really know ...
