Analog SFF, July-August 2008

by Dell Magazine Authors

  “Not much, any more.” I tapped Doll Box's console. “This here guide unit has data channels, proactive tracking, voice interface, all the fancy gear. Not to mention universal cell phone access.” As she replaced the mike I heaved a sigh. “Trucking's not what it used to be.”

  She looked disappointed.

  “Let's do our pretrip walkaround. Maybe Doug told you? We have a rush job today, a point-to-point run.”

  “Walkaround? I studied that in the manual.” She showed me her Class B commercial driver's license, which was only a couple of weeks old. “My cousin Lim showed me how to drive his bobtail truck, and I borrowed it to pass the DMV exam.”

  Usually Argus hires Class A drivers, who can handle full-size big rigs. If this lady proved serious, she could attend our company school in Tulsa. All you have to do is sign up for one solid year, in order to pay it off.

  “Since it's dark out we'll stick to the basics.” I grabbed a flashlight from beside my seat and climbed out. When she followed, swinging down from her side, I could see she had her hair pinned and tucked beneath her cap.

  “Smart idea with your hair.” I popped the hood. “Got to stick your head in places. Now what are we looking for?”

  “Fluid levels, clogged filters, loose wires and leaks, frayed belts. More, but I can't remember it all.”

  Good enough. “Ms. Lu, after the first couple of pretrips, you won't even need a checklist.” We took turns thumping the tires. “There are gauges and sensors, but you know what? The sensors themselves can be defective.” I pointed the light at a tire. “See here? The tread is working loose. Not a problem yet, but you don't want this crud flying off when you're highballing down some interstate.”

  “Got it.”

  “Then we're set to roll.”

  * * * *

  Back in the cab, she buckled in and straightened her cap. “Call me Alice. I want that to be my CB handle.”

  “Like in Alice's Restaurant, or maybe Alice Kramden? It'll work.” I prefer the classics. I wondered if she'd have a good opportunity to sling her handle around today.

  “Hello, Alice,” said the guide box. “Claude always calls me Doll Box.”

  Ai-Ling a.k.a. Alice was unfazed. “Is this a Keltora 3200 unit?” she asked. Most of the circuitry is out of sight, as she probably knew. “Good voice recognition protocols, and I'll bet it's got neurophasic interfacing.”

  Maybe it does, but before I could display my ignorance about the subject, the guide box affirmed that Alice was correct. Except, it announced, it's a 3200C unit, with better data stream integration. Told myself I owed the thing another module or two.

  We had a full tank, so fuel wasn't an issue. Went through the driver's startup routines, including the breathalyzer and wakefulness tests, then confirmed our routing.

  We pulled out of the yard at four-thirteen am, which wasn't bad.

  Silence seemed too awkward, but I didn't want to sound like a goof, either. I'm faithful to Laurie, and don't mind who knows it. On the other hand, truckers are required to have excellent eyesight. There would be a lot of envious guys on the blacktop today.

  The freeway was shrouded in predawn gloom. “Alice,” I asked, “do you know the roads around here? Can you read paper maps? I've had days when the GPS went kaput, so that's important.”

  She opened her pack and dug out an area map. “Looks like we're heading east to make the pickup.” She tapped the map with a penlight. “Exit here, turn left, easy. No commute jams in that direction, correct?”

  “You are. If there aren't any accidents or construction zones. Doll Box will alert us of any major jams.” We could listen to the morning traffic reports on the radio, but I prefer music to begin the day. NewsTalk later, depending on what kind of mood I'm in. “We should be there in less than an hour. Hope the load is ready.”

  No sooner had I said this than the autobrakes came on. Traffic was at a dead stop ahead. I kicked in the jake brake, which clamped the exhaust stream with its distinctive rattling roar. In the lane to our right, a car almost slammed into somebody. Likely some damn fool who'd disabled his situational autopilot.

  Doll Box had no comment.

  Alice turned on the am radio and punched up a news station. A couple of minutes later, their regular traffic report didn't even mention the freeway we were on. The local driver's infonet had a few questions posted, but no answers as yet.

  “Let's figure out what's happening.” I had Doll Box tap into the traffic cameras, but as I'd suspected, the ones up ahead were off line. Probably full of bullets. Even the tiny inconspicuous ones get zapped by handheld lasers or something. I rarely say it out loud, but with the Feds cracking down so harshly everywhere, I didn't blame folks for hitting back.

  Doll Box learned that a police cruiser had all the lanes stopped, but nothing more.

  “Alice, it's time to use my secret weapon.”

  “Your what?”

  “See that compartment? The square door? Open it and hand me the bird.”

  Alice probably thought it was a test, or maybe some weird in-house initiation, as she didn't appear worried about my sanity. Yet. In any case, she opened the compartment.

  “It is a bird.” She lifted a gray dove out of the recess like it was made of fine china. When it blinked she flinched, but didn't drop it. “Here you go.”

  I booted up a program on my personal cell phone, and used wireless to instruct the bird. Didn't want to attract attention, so I handed it back to Alice. “Open your window and let it fly from your hands.”

  She let the bird go, and it fluttered up and away. I held my phone where both of us could see the screen, and its real-time transmission from my trusty scout.

  “Fascinating, Mr. Dremmel. Are those things legal?”

  I gave her a weak grin. “Gray bird, gray area. It's a civilian prototype. If they catch on big, somebody's going to regulate the hell out of them.”

  My robotic dove spotted the police cruiser, then flew onward. A quarter mile farther, the problem became obvious. A tall light pole had fallen, blocking all the lanes. Luckily, nobody had gotten smashed by the thing.

  “What happened?” Alice wondered.

  “A lot of valuable aluminum in that pole. Maybe it fell because some thieves messed up.” I shrugged. “Might be activists or el cheapo terrorists. If nobody posts a rant, I'd go with thieves.”

  “I've heard of that before, but not around here. Times are bad, huh?”

  “Us truckers see it all. Someday you can tell your grandkids.”

  She laughed again. That felt good.

  We watched a tow truck drive up from the opposite direction, and drag the pole onto the shoulder. The cruiser pulled up beside it, maybe to look for evidence, as cars surged forward.

  Alice caught the returning bird like an old pro.

  Everyone rubbernecked as we passed by. The pole was shredded at the base, wicked shards forming an ugly wound. I was never in the military, but I've happened upon enough domestic terrorism to know what explosives can do.

  We geared up smoothly. “My next tractor is going to have a continuous automatic transmission, or so the boss tells me. Big rigs are always last for that kind of technology.”

  “Cool!” Her grimace hinted she'd also recognized terrorism.

  The pickup was routine. I let Alice open our trailer, unlatching the bars, then swinging them up and around. An object lesson in how physical strength is sometimes required in this line of work. She handled it well.

  Our load was sealed inside three-dozen wooden crates, each set on plastic anti-vibration pads. The shipping crew wasn't totally silent, but they didn't volunteer any information either. The invoice only stated they were thirty-six production model something-or-others.

  “Looks like cybernetic gear.” Alice was examining the invoice by dawn's light as we pulled back onto the freeway. “Possibly new components for their robots. I've never seen these designations before.” She looked up. “I know a guy who works at Sylvantronics. Maybe we'll see
him.”

  So she knew about technology. I kept wondering what she saw in truck driving. Could be anything from a summertime lark to familial rebellion to a childhood dream. She might even have a criminal record, and be unwelcome at most jobs. I wasn't about to embarrass her by asking.

  “How are you set for chow?” I asked instead. “We've got plenty of time, and a straight shot ahead.”

  “Sometimes I pack a lunch, but there wasn't time.”

  “Same for me. How ‘bout we swing by that big truck stop at the crossroads? It's twenty more miles, and if you're choosey, the food won't clog your arteries within three bites.”

  “Sounds good. Always wanted to sit in the Drivers Only area.”

  Score one for Childhood Dream.

  Five miles on, we got flagged to pull through a truck scale. Usually I'm waved past by the remote system. My rig had passed inspection six weeks ago, so that wasn't an issue. I explained all this to my trainee as we cruised down the designated lane.

  Our weight or load did not trigger any sensors, so we rolled on through. “We get an hour for breakfast, since it was such an early start. Company policy.”

  I showed Alice how Doll Box updates the log. Back when I first started driving you had to write everything by hand, on a special chart.

  The diner was crowded at seven am, mostly with drivers who'd spent their off-duty time parked overnight. That place was an institutional dinosaur, straight out of the 1950s. Did my darndest to look casual, even bored, as we headed to our table. Alice was, to coin a phrase, young enough to be my granddaughter.

  We both had good appetites. I considered splurging on Corn Chip Pie, and a lot of coffee to counteract its brain-clogging grease. Then I remembered our seven-million-dollar load, and decided to remain as sharp as possible. Had oatmeal and some halfway decent Earl Grey tea. Alice devoured a Truckers Special, with eggs, pancakes, vat-grown bacon, and more.

  On our way outside, I decided to introduce my trainee to Laurie. They could share lifestyle tips. Heavy-duty chow wasn't leaving a mark on Ms. Lu.

  “Mr. Dremmel, that was a ton of food. Is it okay if I jog it off? We've got ten minutes left on our break.”

  She must've read my mind. “Ms. Lu, I've been a trucker almost forty years, and nobody's asked me that before.” To her chary look I added, “Sure, go right ahead. But...” She froze. My gesture encompassed the vast parking lot. “Where did we park?”

  She lifted her wristwatch.

  “Uh-uh,” I cut in. “You might not always have a tracking gadget handy.” I'd popped that quiz before, and wasn't about to give Alice any macho freebies.

  She looked around at the hundreds of trucks, and her arm traced the course of her thoughts. “That way, two rows in, left and not quite halfway up.” Next she described my rig, better than I probably could. “I'll find it.”

  “You passed. Off you go.” And off she ran.

  Eight minutes later, hardly breaking a sweat, Alice met me at the truck. Together we checked the locks and seals. No one had bothered the load.

  “This place is cool,” she enthused. “I saw one of those new boron-hydrogen cycle rigs, and a lot of biodiesel electrics, and that pallet yard next door has capacitor-powered forklifts.”

  I grinned. “Saw a piece on Truckers Road about some physicist, claims he found a way to pack hydrogen into metal form.”

  “Metal hydrogen? Like a super-compressed fuel?”

  “Guess so. Said they'd prepack it, and rigs would swap out the whole fuel container. Be years until it's available. Maybe Argus will buy some.”

  If Alice signed on with Argus Trucking, my recruitment bonus would buy something really nice for Laurie. Better than the plain little anniversary gift I'd gotten her the day before.

  I cranked up the engine, and we rolled in low third gear.

  Alice pointed to the CB mike. “Can I give it a try?”

  CB had fallen out of favor, but in that busy gathering place, who knew? “Sure. It adjusts itself, signal-wise, and you can scan for any chatter.”

  The radio speaker came to life. “Hey Jimmy,” said an unknown trucker, “check out the seat cover in the Argus rig. Heading out the north exit.”

  Several voices crowded the channel. Hoots of acclamation followed, and not a few verbal leers. I didn't quite blush, and neither did she, though I wasn't sure the message had sunk in. Gawd, it was like a flashback to high school. Laurie always knocked ‘em dead. Made me feel old and young at the same time.

  “Seat cover?” Alice asked me. “Lot lizard?”

  “You want it straight?” She did, so I gave it to her. “You're a sight for sore eyes. A lot of those guys are wildly jealous, and half are misinterpreting our situation.”

  “Guess so!” She got a beat-up old booklet from her pack, looked up something, and thumbed the mike. “Alice from Argus here. That's a big ten-four, guys. Thanks for being real sunbeams this morning.” Flashed me a grin and kept flipping pages. “No fox jaws in this fleet. Maybe see you around, but we've got a load to haul. Threes and eights.” With that she signed off.

  * * * *

  By then we were on the freeway, headed into barren country on the next leg of our route. We'd be on the interstate two hundred miles yet, with plenty of company on the blacktop.

  Alice read an e-book for a while, then tried the CB again. This time I recognized the first voice on the channel.

  “Got a copy, Trucker Claude?” came a familiar query. “And who's not a fox jaws on board?”

  She handed me the mike.

  “Got you five-by-five, Pedro. My trainee is doing a fine job, I'll have you know. She's got brains, and beauty to match the foxy voice.”

  I told Alice, “That's Pedro Owen. Thinks he's a one man CB revival. Go ahead and chat it up.”

  This they did. Pedro was ten miles behind us, with another rush load for Sylvantronics. He'd picked up farther away, but skipped breakfast. We slacked off a little, allowing him to close the gap without getting busted for speeding.

  Soon a third voice came on the CB. “You savages got a cartel going? How ‘bout letting an old-timer get a word in edgewise?”

  It was a retired trucker and his wife, driving a solar-boosted RV. He'd been in our rearview mirror for a while. Pedro came up behind us both, placing the old guy in the “hammock” position.

  “Got us a convoy?” Alice asked me, with the CB mike lowered.

  She was paying attention. Good. “Heh.” I wagged my head. “It is possible to overdo the jargon.”

  Nonetheless, they chattered happily. Turned out Pedro and Alice liked the same novel, something about hackers in a cyber world, and artificial intelligence and androids and more. I'd heard of this, but really, a lot of it went right over my head. Made the time go faster for her, while I was happy with my favorite talk show. Their audience knew Trucker Claude from several calls I'd made over the years.

  Around noon, I spotted a speed demon in the mirrors. Car was dodging around like everybody was standing still. He came past my rig in a flash, then swerved into our lane. Alice gave a little shout as I eased off on the pedal.

  The speeder passed a rig on the right side, lost speed, then cut him off. The poor trucker braked hard and shimmied; darn near jackknifed.

  “That's it!” I had Doll Box call up a twenty-second video clip from the forward wide camera. There went the speeder, license plate clearly visible. “Gotcha.” I told Alice, “We'll shoot this clip over to the state police.”

  “He'll claim, ‘It wasn't me driving.’ Lots of cheaters do that.”

  “Not to Claude Dremmel they don't.” I checked the rear camera footage, and sure enough, there was a clear view of the driver's face. Desert sun makes fine lighting.

  Doll Box titled both clips and emailed ‘em. That guy probably had other complaints on file by then. If so, Smokey would seize the car, and the jerk deserved it. Almost as bad as a red light runner.

  “Are we going to have lunch?” Alice asked.

  Ah, to have suc
h a youthful metabolism. “Look around. Nothing but empty desert. We'll catch something at the junction.”

  At two o'clock Beryl emailed me from the office, to ask what the holdup was. “Holdup?” I responded, with Doll Box transcribing my voice.

  I told Beryl we had an hour until the deadline, and thirty-five miles of road left to cover, so what was the problem?

  “Deliver the load, and don't say anything about being late,” was her directive. Familiar advice from a thousand previous screw-ups. Did not like the sound of it, but so far as I could see, everything was going right.

  “Copy that,” I emailed back. “We'll skip lunch, just for you.”

  “Something's up,” I informed my trainee. “The customer is asking where we are.”

  “But we've got an hour.”

  “So says the paperwork. You know the old line about ‘the customer is always right?’ In this hurry-up business, that applies triple.” I threw up both hands, leaving the wheel untended for a moment. “Time to hustle.”

  “Might've asked me.” Alice looked rueful. “Don't you carry food and supplies? Some of these rigs are equipped like that RV behind us.”

  “Sorry. If I was doing regional or cross-country runs, I'd stock up for sure. But with city routes, I learned the hard way. With my luck, if I spent the money, I'd end up switching trucks for a day or two. Some ravenous temp driver would devour everything.”

  “I see.” She got a snack bar from her pack, and devoured that.

  Truth was, the oatmeal breakfast had left me hungrier than ever, but some male ego thing wouldn't let me admit it.

  Pedro and Alice compared notes. He was catching grief from his own dispatcher, so somebody was really bent out of shape.

  We reached the junction and exited, bidding farewell to the old timer. Made a quick pit stop but, with regrets, passed up on the lonely diner. Alice seemed to like Pedro in person, during the few stationary moments we allowed ourselves. He's a likeable fellow, and in much better shape than me, considering he's thirty years younger.

  I squinted at the horizon. A two-lane highway went away north, diminishing to a thread, then vanishing amid hues of brown. The kind of desert, desolate at first glance, that John McPhee and George R. Stewart brought to life in their books.