© Gary W. Addis, 1994 ALL RIGHTS RESERVED
Member of Author’s Guild,
Private Eye Writers Of America,
Mystery Writers of America
Truck driver Leon Sommer was bored.
Simultaneously driving 94.958 miles per hour down I-75 and watching
television, he was, nevertheless, as bored as a caged hound. Sighing, he
pressed his upper body against the seat back, the seat moved silently into
the reclining position, and he closed his tired eyes. Though he had been
taking frequent catnaps, sixteen hours behind the wheel was still sixteen
hours. Eight months. Eight long, long months until he completed his
forty-fifth year in trucking and handed in his keys for good. Leon looked
forward to vegetating at home. But he and Sybil hadn't managed to save a
solitary dime, and their $21,954.84 monthly income (Social Security, his and
hers) wouldn't even buy the groceries. Like most healthy retirees, one week
after celebrating his birthday, he'd be out pounding the sidewalk in search
of a job.
ICC regulations writhed like a bed of worms in the belly of every truckdriver. Discrimination, pure and simple. After all, nobody told airline pilots, policemen and politicians when to retire. What was wrong with those bureaucrats anyway? Seventy years old wasn't old. Leons last D.O.T. bio-med forecasted that in 2061, the year Halleys Comet returns to the solar system, he'd still be as lively as a kitten.
Barring unforeseen occurrences, of course. He muttered under his breath, Such as, Id like to know? People with Leons' genetic code simply did not commit suicide, and he had been immunized against 6,931 potentially lethal ailments (including cancer, AIDS, and the common cold). He laughed outloud. A highway accident was not likely to kill him either. She would see to that. Though the $24 million Peterbilts half-million-dollar computer spoke with a mans strong, authoritative voice, as far as Sommer was concerned,she was a she.
Yes, Leon? that thoroughly irritating voice said. Do you require anything? A cup of coffee?...perhaps a jolt of adrenaline?
Marie, if I wanted you to mess around with my hormone levels, I'd ask you to
. A high-pitched squeal of audio feedback filled the cab.
Hands covering his ears, Leon snapped, Do that again, girlie, and I'll report you to Safety. Marie coughed to clear her synthesizer tubes. Speaking several octaves lower, she said, Leon, Ive asked you time and again not to refer to me by feminine appellations. My name is Mike, which is, as you well know, an acronym for Microsoft Mobile Interactive Command Center.
Sommer laughed. Doing impressions now, are we, dear?
I dont know what youre talking about.
Honey, you got the late, great James Earl Jones down pat. But what I want to know is, can you do Elvis?
A snarl of static erupted from all twelve speakers at once. If you persist, Leon, Ill report your antagonistic attitude to your dispatcher.
Go ahead, call em. Growl like a lion with a chestful of bees, all I care. That wont change anything. The United States of North America is still a free country. Im entitled to my opinion.
Quick, Leon, your attention is needed!
Sommer sat up, the seat adjusting automatically to his new position. As his big hands closed around the steering wheel Marie released the controls. The 142-foot rig whipsawed across the warning track and dropped off onto the icy shoulder. Faced with a like situation, most truckers would be in serious trouble. But Leon Sommer was far from average. The eighteen-trillion-dollar Highway Safety System (affectionately known by one and all as HISS) consisting of an interactive computer control center aboard every licensed vehicle and directional lasers embedded in the roadbeds of all Federal highways had been inaugurated on April Fools Day, 2038, and Leon had graduated from driving school in 1999. Nearly seven million miles without an accident. Steel nerves, and skills borne of experience, served him well. Though things got hairy for a moment, everything was soon back to normal...almost. Now that he had it, Leon refused to relinquish control of the vehicle.
God, he missed the old days. He missed that wonderful, airy, feeling of freedom, of being in command of his own destiny. He missed even the highway patrol. A very short time ago trucking had been fun. He saw it now in his minds eye: long lines of trucks waltzing across Texas in the dead of night, stereos blaring; some anonymous someone ratchet-jawing endlessly on the CB about his last trip to Chicago; and on the dash, a trusty Trapshooter to warn of bears lurking in the bushes.
The law-and-order-crowd ensconced in Washington had finally succeeded last year in getting private ownership of both rifles and CB radios outlawed. Radar detectors and speed cops had been pass for nine years now; MICC computers restricted every vehicle on the interstate to a sedate 95 mph.
Okay, Leon, Marie said, Ill take over now.
He grunted. Over my dead body.
Marie sighed. Must we go through this farce every night?
Leon ignored her, or tried to. Though D.O.T.-monitored computer programming wouldnt permit a motorist to adjust his speed either up or down, a quickflick of a suicidal maniacs wrist could send a vehicle crashing into the forest, or another vehicle. With the implementation of yet another system in five years, that would change too. And in another twelve years, truckdrivers would be as extinct as Tyrannosaurus Rex.
Shut up, woman, Leon growled. Im trying to concentrate.
A rerun of your favorite movie is about to begin Smoky and The Bandit, Part II. Would you like me to fine-tune the satellite dish?
Leon punched a button; the windshield display dimmed, flickered for a nanosecond like a dying firefly, then disappeared altogether. Mechanical gauges implanted in the dash sprang to life. Too bad he couldnt also kill the sound of Maries grating electronic voice. You know the regulations, Leon. You drive city streets and county roads with my assistance; I alone drive the interstates.
Unh, unh, sweetie. Im keeping the wheel. You screwed up, big-time.
It wasnt my fault, Marie sniffed. A roadkill was covering one of the directional beacons...I lost track of my position.
Dont hand me that. You did it on purpose.
I did not.
Did too.
Did not.
In some ways, a man and his truck or a woman and her truck were like husband and wife. Leon and Marie argued constantly. About nothing and about everything. Though he hated to admit it, even to himself, he would miss her. He wondered if shed miss him.
Sometimes, like now, she seemed to read his mind.
I die the day you go into retirement, you know.
Leon snorted. Youre a machine, you cant die.
While youre in the front office receiving an engraved watch and a worthless plaque, all forty of my hard drives will be reformatted.
Yeah? So?
I wont be me afterward, dont you see?
Im not sure I follow you, honey.
Not ten minutes after we part company for the last time, Ill be imprinted with a personality that more closely matches my next human. For once, the synthesized voice did sound like that of a woman or a lost child. I wont be Marie anymore, dont you see. Ill be someone else. If I drive past you on the street, I wont even recognize you.
A bittersweet wave of sadness rose up and washed over Leon. Losing Marie would be worse than the death of a sibling. If he had one, that is. If anyone did.
He released the steering wheel and watched as it retracted into the dash. Stroking the ebony box that approximated the face of his co-driver, he said, Mike, whats wrong with you, buddy? Stop sniveling and turn the damn TV on.
AUTHORS NOTE:
TECHNOLOGY ALREADY EXISTS FOR HISS OR SOMETHING SIMILAR. ALL FIGURES USED
FOR SOCIAL SECURITY BENEFITS, ETC., ARE IN 1994 DOLLARS, ADJUSTED FOR
INFLATION FOR 45 YEARS AT 6% PER ANNUM. FRIGHTENING,ISNT IT?