Man Behind the Wheel (The Next Half Century Book 1)

by Steve Rzasa

  MAN BEHIND THE WHEEL

  Steve Rzasa

  ¶

  Copyright © 2017 by Steve Rzasa

  Cover design by Kirk DouPonce

  ISBN: 9781508065432

  TABLE OF CONTENTS

  Acknowledgements

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Epilogue

  More Books by Steve Rzasa

  ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

  DRIVING IS FUN. WE IN America view it as a God-given right. Problem is, the Constitution is mum, unlike its statements on guns and speech.

  The idea of a future in which the law could take that ability away from most citizens is not one I like, because I would be one of the first people to protest. Would I miss long, boring drives? Not if my infallible robot chaffeur gave me more time to write and visit with family.

  This novel’s for my dad, John Rzasa, who’s been a car guy since before he was a father. I’d never have known about the importance of Steve McQueen as a driver both on screen and in the real world were it not for him, and my fascination with automotive technology is due entirely to his influence.

  Special thanks to proofer Howard Ohr, advance reader Mark Bentley, cover artist Kirk DouPonce, and editor Elizabeth Miller.

  As always, I could not have done this without my boys and my wife.

  A driverless future is approaching much faster than we realize. Until then, keep your hands on the wheel and your eyes on the road.

  CHAPTER ONE

  Roman Jasko’s car was driving when the illegal motorist alert came in.

  He sat sideways in the primary seat of his 2066 Cope Motors Halcyon and paid no attention to the traffic on either side of the highway. Why should he? The Halcyon had a next to zero chance of getting into an accident.

  “Hit me.”

  Rome flicked the holographic deck hovering between himself and his information technician. A card glowed bright blue, lining up with the one facedown card and its face-up companion. “Twelve.”

  Aldrich Burns made a face like he’d licked a tire. He rubbed at his beard. “Okay. Hit me.”

  “You sure, Aldo?”

  “Do it.”

  Another card. “Eight.”

  “Damn!” Aldo flipped the face down card.

  Rome grinned. That brought his total to twenty-seven. “Dealer wins.”

  “Dealer cheats.”

  “Not my fault you hit too often. Forty for me.”

  Aldo muttered dark curses under his breath, but swiped his palm across the center console. “Financial. Aldrich Burns.”

  [Confirmed.] The voice was female, with a lilting Irish accent.

  “Transfer forty dollars from Checking to Roman Jasko.”

  Spatters of liquid hit the windshield. Rome looked up. Dark clouds rolled in from the north, scudding over the South Dakota plains. A forest of wind turbines loomed to the northwest, beyond a set of hills topped with swaying brown grass. The tall, curved blades twisted like white whisks, a manic collection of kitchen implements brought to life.

  [Confirmation, sir?]

  “Roman Jasko, confirming.”

  [Standby… Transfer complete. Would either of you care to see your balances?]

  Aldo’s emphatic “No” simultaneously overran Rome’s “Yes.”

  [I did not understand that response.]

  “Transaction complete, Marcy,” Aldo said. “Thanks.”

  [You are welcome.] Whenever she paused, Rome expected the comp to hum. [Sir, Condor Three Three is transmitting data.]

  “Gabriela? Here’s hoping she’s got something. It’s dead out here,” Rome said.

  There were few vehicles on the Ninety with them. Six Class Two shipping freighters trundled along in the right lane, bumper to bumper, separated by mere feet, each one dragging a pair of huge containers. A flock of Family Travel Cars in the left lane, a hundred yards back, all identical bug-shaped domes with large windows darkened for privacy. Still, Rome could see the shadows of a family of three playing a holographic matching game on a center table in one Famtrac, and a pair of couples eating and laughing in another as the vehicles sped along.

  One—a sleek black and blue Mustang with oversized wheels—passed them. Its windows were tinted gold. All Rome saw was the reflection of his Halcyon—a sloped nose, seamless chassis of white and gray, no different than the six other Halcyons that appeared on his scanners. Each one was computer-crafted with the most efficient combination of aerodynamics and safety. “Got a Thumper.”

  Aldo ran the registration code printed on the rear. “Let’s see who our lucky winner is.”

  “Definitely polarized windows.” They rounded a curve, and a flash of light made Rome squint. “Too polarized. Write ’em up.”

  “Roger that.”

  Polarized windshields weren’t a problem for people—after all, there wasn’t a single flesh and blood human driving any of these vehicles—but the intermittent flashes of light reflected off mirrored windshields could interfere with distance scanners.

  Rome pulled up the inter-car traffic. Yeah, already had two safety complaints from the Famtracs behind them.

  “Got it. Tony Riordan, twenty-five, Minneapolis,” Aldo said. “Two priors for illegal modification of an autonomous vehicle.”

  “Third’s a charm. Stamp him and send it up.”

  “Right.” Aldo frowned. “Why do you guys call it a Thumper?”

  “Thumper. Like the horny rabbit.”

  “The what?”

  “Classic cartoon. Thumper, the rabbit. Every time he saw a hot lady rabbit, he started thumping his foot on the ground.”

  “Thanks for spelling that out. What’s that got to do with our shiny pal?”

  “Why’d you suppose the windshields are tinted that way? Privacy.”

  Aldo sniggered. “At four in the afternoon?”

  “Nature waits for no man.”

  Their link flashed red. Data transmission complete. Rome tapped the panel. It lit up with the face of Gabriela Soares—skin like bronze, coal black hair tied tight in a ponytail. A headset looped over her right ear and down across her cheek was festooned with flickering lights.

  “Pursuit One Twelve, this is Condor Three Three.” Her voice was a pleasant alto.

  “Three Three, this is Pursuit. How’s the weather up there, Gabriela?”

  “Sunny, Rome. It’s 10,000 feet. Thermals are bumpy—nothing the stabilizers can’t handle. You’ve got a thunderstorm headed your way.”

  Sunny, like her personality. “I see it.” They crested a rise. In the distance, all traffic slowed going into and out of the storm. Forty-three vehicles, per the scanner’s count. “But you didn’t call to chat about the weather.”

  “Nope. Unregistered driver.”

  Rome straightened in his seat. “Got coordinates?”

  “Sending. It’s your quadrant, traveling east on the Ninety, speed eighty-eight miles per hour. No registration code. Car is not responding to pings for ID.”

  “Big surprise. Probably doesn’t have anything for your comp to ping. Aldo, catch up.”

  “I’m workin’ on it.” Aldo dragged the data from Gabriela’s transmission into his display. A holographic map of their patrol quadrant lit up. It wa
s a long rectangle of glowing green. Numbers trickled along the leading edge. Aldo reached into the holo, grasping for the ribbon of light bisecting the quadrant and bearing the tag “Interstate Ninety Free Travel Zone.” Tiny pips moved back and forth along its length. One of those white lights pulsed with red circles. “Got him. We’ll pass in three and a half minutes. There’s a turnaround coming up.”

  “Thanks.” Rome pressed his right hand against the dash. His heartbeat thumped against the plastic. This was the moment he waited for, day after day, following hours of monotonous patrol. “Marcy, confirm authorization to drive.”

  A ghostly copy of Rome’s U.S. Department of Transportation driver’s certification appeared under the surface of the dash as if it were an object trapped beneath an icy lake.

  [Certification confirmed. You are authorized to conduct pursuit.]

  “Log the time and heading. Prep occupants.”

  Rome’s seat closed tight around his body, holding on with the grip of a giant hand. An extra pair of restraint straps crisscrossed his chest. Aldo’s seat underwent the same transformation, sliding him back a foot.

  The dash in front of Rome split, reminding him of the shutter on the antique camera his dad owned. A steering column extruded, white as a pearl from an oyster shell, with twin black handles that popped out from either side. Rome settled his hands on them, feeling the foam conform to the contours of his fingers.

  Below the dash, a panel drew back, letting his feet alight on three pedals—acceleration, brake, and clutch. Finally, the gearshift popped up from the center console.

  “Happy now?” Aldo chewed on a grain bar. The smell of oats, sugar, and something Rome took to be figs filled the car.

  “That obvious?”

  “You’re grinning like an idiot.”

  “Marcy, keep traffic clear of us.” He pressed down on the accelerator. The Halcyon’s engine rose in volume, the vibration subtly increased throughout the cabin. “Watch your crumbs, Aldo. Didn’t you just eat?”

  “Yeah. That was a half hour ago.”

  Rome shook his head and switched lanes. A second hologram appeared above the dash—the Halcyon, in four-inch miniature. The rear left segment of its bumper glowed red, both a visual warning and a signal sent out to all other cars within safety radius.

  Immediately, the two Famtracs ahead of them accelerated and moved in front of the freighter caravan. The two Famtracs behind them slowed, increasing the safety distance to its maximum.

  Speed and tach dials appeared on the dash. Rome nursed the engine until they travelled at ninety miles per hour.

  “Your pull-off’s coming up.”

  “Where’s the target?”

  A gold bracket flashed in the windshield. Rome watched the speck race over another hill, heading their direction in the eastbound lanes. The target vehicle swerved. A freighter comp’s quick thinking got the other traveler out of the way in time to avoid a collision. Two rows of eight cars were forced to deviate from their perfectly paced intervals as the target car raced toward them. They parted like a pulled zipper. The target roared down the middle.

  “Can you hear that?”

  Aldo nodded. He swiped through a series of displays. “Scans confirm it. He’s running combustion.”

  “Somebody’s got money to burn.” Rome slowed prudently for the turn-off. “Hang on.”

  The target rushed by. Rome got one good look before it vanished in a blur—black and red, dark windshields, and, yes, exhaust pipes. Its engine was a throaty growl he heard even through the sound-dampened walls of the cabin. The rest of traffic was so quiet they were no more than a steady background rush of air. The target might as well be a howitzer.

  Rome spun the car, drifting across the paved curve of the turn-off. The back wheels caught on the dirt—and for a moment—they slipped. Rome grit his teeth. If the adaptor was one second off…

  But it wasn’t. The tiny Halcyon’s image showed the change. The normally even treads of the car’s street wheels thickened, became knobby, and took the appearance of an off-road military transport’s tires. They churned dirt. The Halcyon leapt forward.

  Aldo yelped. The remainder of his bar hit the floor, scattering crumbs across the thick black mat.

  “Your turn to clean when we get back.” Rome shifted into third gear and punched the accelerator.

  “That’s what the bots are for!”

  “Quit whining. Get me whatever specs on this ride you can find.”

  The Halcyon’s front left and right rear bumpers flashed red while the opposite corners lit up blue, turning the car into a mobile emergency beacon. They were superfluous, Rome knew. All important warnings were transmitted from Marcy’s CPU to the computers that operated all cars within a five-mile radius. But, he supposed it was comforting to the passengers in those same cars to have a sign that someone would deal with the hazardous driver.

  He tried not to think of the target car smashed into a gaggle of Famtracs, or wrapped around the center of a freighter. Bodies bloodied and mangled inside twisted frames—the memory sickened him. Only someone who was completely selfish would risk the well-being of fellow travelers for the chance behind the wheel.

  The irony of the situation didn’t escape him.

  Rome passed a freighter, earning a warning from the truck’s on-board comp that he exceeded safe driving speeds. Fortunately, the obnoxious flashing red alert disappeared from his displays once Marcy relayed the USDOT certification and his pursuit status.

  The modified car was a mile ahead.

  Aldo brought up an image among his holos. “Camaro. That’s the base chassis, anyway. No transponder, no registration number. If there’s a comp aboard it’s a bonehead… don’t even think it has a distance warning sensor array.”

  “He drives like he doesn’t need one.” Rome swept between a pair of Famtracs and a black BMW. All three scattered like mice, shifting lanes and reducing speed to get out of the way.

  Rain spattered the windshield. Air-pushers on either side of the car activated. They blew across the windshield before raindrops could cloud his view of the road, making sure nothing obstructed the glass.

  Lightning struck the plains to the south with a great crooked finger of gleaming white that left an afterimage streaked across Rome’s vision. The accompanying boom shook the windows. With it, came the smell of dry grass suddenly turned wet.

  “He’s not slowing,” Aldo said. “And there’s a traffic buildup two miles ahead. Thirty vehicles. Looks like they’re all slowed for the storm.”

  “That isn’t going to do us any good.”

  The Camaro braked hard, slewing side to side. Rome tightened his grip on the steering handles.

  “C’mon, get out of the way,” Aldo muttered.

  The herd of cars split apart, letting the Camaro through. Rome accelerated as fast as he dared. With this much water streaming across the road, hydroplaning was a very real danger.

  Spray shot up from the Halcyon’s sides.

  “Got in,” Aldo announced. “The entertainment system.”

  “Nice work. Marcy, open a call.”

  [Signal connected.]

  “Illegal driver,” Rome said. “This is Pursuit One Twelve, operating by authority of the U.S. Department of Transportation on contract to the Ninety Free Travel Zone. You are operating an unregistered motor vehicle on a public roadway. Pull over to the side and relinquish control of your car.”

  He glanced at Aldo, who gave him a thumbs-up. The driver of the Camaro received Rome’s call as a disembodied voice from the speakers of his entertainment system. Nine times out of ten, the drivers pulled over and submitted to the fines, the records stamp, and inevitable court summons.

  The Camaro drove on and sideswiped a Famtrac.

  “Get into that car!” Rome shouted.

  “I’m on it, I’m on it!” Aldo pulled the Famtrac’s registration number and overrode the security protocols. One benefit to being an authorized pursuit unit was having legal access to any car�
��s onboard control systems, which was handy in emergencies. Unless the driver had erected blocks—which was where Aldo’s skill as an information technician came in.

  The Famtrac skidding sideways across two lanes of traffic was a perfect example. The vehicle’s comp couldn’t compensate properly as it steered diagonally toward a freighter in the right lane.

  “That thing’s hauling furniture,” Aldo said. “Nobody aboard.”

  Rome scowled. “Block it!”

  Aldo routed a new set of commands to the Famtrac, veering it sharply away from the freighter. Rome drove the Halcyon within two car lengths of the Famtrac. They rounded a sharp curve, complete with guardrails on one side and a steep drop-off on the other.

  Then, Rome understood what the Famtrac’s comp was doing—it would smash the vehicle into the freighter to avoid all the other passenger cars around it, thus minimizing casualties to the three occupants of the single Famtrac. No one cared much if a truckload of furniture was lost. No one, save the manufacturer, that is.

  Rome wasn’t about to sacrifice three people’s lives to cut down potential casualties. He didn’t do that math. Instead, he sped to the left side of the Famtrac and nudged the skidding vehicle’s left front bumper. The Halcyon shuddered, its tires squealing. Rome steered into the other car, opposing its turn, and hoped it gave the Famtrac’s comp enough time to figure out an alternative.

  Aldo yelped as the carbon-fiber chassis collided again. “It’s accepted the new command! Lay off on the slamming us around!”

  “Not until it’s actually corrected.”

  Finally, the Famtrac regained its footing, straightening out in its lane. A warning flitted across Rome’s displays. He shook his head. Add that to the other two.

  “Every one of those cuts a few hundred bucks off the bounty, you know.” Aldo ducked down and grabbed for his grain bar.

  “You’d rather we had a pile-up?”

  “No, of course not. I’m just saying, the comps know what they’re doing. When was the last time there was even a major wreck along the Ninety?”

  Rome didn’t argue. He returned his attention to the Camaro, which zipped around a pair of freighters hugging the right delineator. “Marcy, what’s it look like up ahead?”