The Digital Dream

by Mike Cartlidge

  A couple of the younger cops walk in and stare at him with exaggerated amazement. “Fuck, sarge, we thought you reckoned that thing was only good as a boat anchor. Catching up with the twentieth century are we, sarge? Like the specs, man, very sexy. Makes you look like Woody Allen.” He scowls at them and turns his chair so that they can’t see what he’s doing.

  There are dozens of cases involving people called Ross. He starts to read through them. None of them concern his man. He curses again. Fuckin’ useless thing. Another feature catches his eye and he peers closely, reading the detail that describes the command. It seems he can put out something called an open search. The way it works, if he has it right, is that any case involving an Andrew Ross will be flagged by the NCIC system and brought to his attention the next time he logs on.

  Shrugging, he enters the name. Pushing his chair away from the table, he walks back to his desk and tries again to think. Nothing occurs to him. The paperwork beckons. Fuck it. Sighing, he picks up a blank arrest report and ticks a box in the heading. Something positive to write about at last. He’s sure the Commissioner will be delighted when he finds out.

  16

  Another night of love and lust. Our bodies conquer the quaking in our minds. We sleep the sleep of the exhausted.

  We call the railway station the next morning and are told that the next departures to the city are the ten a.m. slow train, which makes multiple stops along the way, and the midday express. I check the schedule. The express stops only twice and arrives before two p.m., only thirty minutes after the slower train. After a brief discussion, we decide to take the express. It gives us more time to get to the station and less time to actually travel.

  The later departure time also gives us some free hours. We find a way to put the terrors of the previous day behind us and lie in bed, making love again with leisure and slowly mounting urgency.

  After breakfast in our room, we shower and dress, reluctantly pulling yesterday’s clothes back on. The bored male clerk of the previous night has been replaced by a bored female clerk. When we ask her to call a cab for us, she sighs heavily, like we’re asking her to commit herself to a life of slavery, and picks up the phone, calling a local number.

  The cab ride to the railway depot is uneventful. We pay off the cab driver and walk inside to buy our tickets. We have a half-hour to wait and Kathleen agrees to my suggestion that we should buy coffees in the diner. As I hold the door for Kathleen to walk through, I half-see the ragged man in the shadows of the newsstand. But I’m preoccupied and it doesn’t register until much later that something’s incongruous as the shabby man casually reaches into a pocket and extracts a new-looking mobile phone that he presses to his ear.

  ***

  We hear the loudspeaker call for the train departure and stroll out of the diner and onto the platform. I feel safer now, sure that last night’s pursuers will have long since lost the scent. Nevertheless, I carefully scan the length of the platform for trouble. There are no obviously menacing shapes in sight and, my arm around Kathleen’s waist, I guide her towards one of the compartments. Some instinct makes me chose a door at the front of the train, as far away as possible from the entrance to the platform. The door’s already open and I help Kathleen in. She sits in the middle of the seat and I squeeze in by the window. There’s a sprinkling of other people around the compartment but no one close to us. Kathleen leans against me and I put my arm around her again, pulling her close.

  Doors are slammed and whistles blow. The train is about to leave. I look out of the window, scanning the platform.

  “Oh, God.”

  Kathleen looks up sharply, sees the expression on my face, follows my gaze. Along at the end of the platform, we see running figures. There is an awful familiarity to them. Tattered jackets, some razored off at the shoulder, filthy jeans, tattoos. One of them pushes a baggage cart out of the way, causing a departing passenger to jump back to avoid being hit, the man turning as if to shout angrily at them and thinking again as he gets a good look at them. As they reach the rear of the train, they start to jog alongside, half-turning and hopping so that they can look inside the windows.

  The train lurches. “Come on,” I breathe. Kathleen is stiff with tension beside me. The bikers are still three or four carriages back. Another lurch. The train moves forward, its momentum slow but irresistible, massive engine straining to get its load under way. It’s up to walking speed now, but the men are still gaining. Two compartments away. I wonder if they’ll be able to grab a door handle and swing themselves onto the train if they spot us. I’d have to fight them. Nothing to lose. If these people catch us...

  One compartment back. The train’s moving faster. Surely it’s too fast now for anyone to board.

  As I watch, I see one of them break clear at a sprint. I recognize Sammy, know that he’s seen me at the same time. For a moment, he speeds up, his eyes fixed on the door handle. But the train’s picking up speed and the jump would be too much. As I look back, I see Sammy standing, staring at me. His right arm is raised and he’s pointing at us. I can see the expression on his face. Where I expect frustration, what I see is triumph.

  ***

  The train’s well out of town and still picking up speed but we both know that the security it affords us is illusory. We sit, thinking. It’s Kathleen who speaks first.

  “They’ll be waiting for us, won’t they?”

  “I think we have to assume that they will,” I say. “Not that bunch, obviously, but someone. We’re going to have to leave the train somewhere along the way.”

  “How?” Despite the stress she’s feeling, the familiar sly humor is back in her eyes. “Can we push the emergency stop? I’ve always wanted to do that.”

  I smile. “I think we can probably make a less dramatic departure. The train’s scheduled to stop a couple of times. I don’t see how they—whoever they are—will be able to cover every stop on the way in time. We’ll check the platform before we get off, but if it’s clear we’ll get away.”

  “And what then?”

  “I don’t know. Let’s try and think of something,” I say tiredly.

  ***

  The next stop’s in a small city. Scanboro, I think the ticket clerk said. We’re due to arrive at there at twelve-thirty-five. The time’s close. Outside, the fields give way to houses as we pass through the suburbs. I check my watch.

  “That’s weird. The train should be slowing down.”

  We sit and listen to the familiar clack-clack of the wheels on the tracks. There is no apparent decrease in the tempo: if anything, it seems to be increasing.

  I shift my position so that I can see ahead. We’re speeding round a slight bend and from our position at the front of the train I can clearly see the track in front of us.

  “Lots of houses. The station must be on the far side of the city.”

  “I don’t know,” says Kathleen. She leans forward, her expression worried. “Are you sure the train is meant to stop here?”

  “Positive,” I say. “I checked it when I called up and again when we bought the ticket. I wanted to make sure we had options.”

  “Well, it looks like someone forgot to tell the driver. There’s the station there and I can’t see us stopping in time unless this thing’s got a parachute brake!”

  We sit, stunned, as the train hurtles into the station and is as quickly through to the other side, the platform a blur of brick buildings and startled faces. Unsure what to do, I’m still wondering if I’ve made a mistake with the bookings when we see a female conductor hurry by with a worried expression on her face. The woman walks briskly to the front of the compartment, her arms raised in front of her, and opens a door. Through the gap between door and doorframe we can see a short connecting corridor and, beyond that, a control room that looks like an aircraft cockpit.

  “Come on.” I stand and pull at Kathleen’s arm, heading for the door.

  “What are you doing?” Kathleen is clearly perplexed but hurries along after
me.

  I pull the door open and step through the connecting passage into the train’s control room. The woman conductor we saw previously is locked in urgent conversation with a uniformed man I take to be the driver. Both crew members look round at us with irritated expressions.

  “I’m sorry, sir, the control room is off limits to passengers,” says the woman. Her hands flutter nervously.

  “I’m sure it is,” I say. “Look, we don’t want to intrude, but we had planned to get off at Scanboro. It’s imperative that we leave the train. Life or death stuff.”

  “Sir, lots of other people probably meant to get off there also,” says the engineer. “I’m sorry but we got a small problem with the control system. There’s nothing to worry about and if you’d just like to go back and take your seats we’ll have it under control in no time.”

  I remember Malcolm McAllister’s views on coincidence. Perhaps this is a routine problem but I want to make sure. I stand my ground.

  “I don’t want to make things more difficult for you, but my colleague and I,” I nod towards Kathleen, “have some experience with control systems. It’s our business. Maybe we can help.”

  The engineer’s expression still shows irritation but I can see that I have his attention.

  “I doubt if you can do much with this, buddy. The whole system is computerized. We’re in the hands of the control center. They’ll be working on it.”

  I look around myself. Ahead of us, streamlined windows reveal track disappearing under our wheels at a frightening pace. The cabin itself contains a series of small display screens and switches. In front of the windscreen is a small seat for the engineer, with a number of levers in front of it. One item attracts my attention: to one side of the cabin is a full-size computer screen, with a keyboard tucked away under it. I point to the screen.

  “What’s the system for?”

  “It’s used for diagnosing problems,” says the engineer. “To be honest, I wouldn’t have a clue how to use it. It’s only the techies from the service center who know what it does.”

  Kathleen walks over to the terminal and looks at the screen display. “It’s on-line,” she calls to me. “It must be connected through to a machine in the center, wherever it is.”

  I turn back to the engineer.

  “Do you have some emergency mechanism to stop the train?”

  “Of course,” says the man. “To be realistic, dealing with emergencies is about the only reason I’m here. I can’t do a whole lot else. This is a new engine, fully automated. Everything—stopping, departures, speed and so on—is controlled from the center. It’s not like the old days when the engineers actually ran the train. Nowadays, I’m only here in case of emergency.”

  “Is this an emergency now?” I ask innocently.

  “No, of course not,” says the engineer. “I’m sure we’ll have the problem under control in no time.”

  I can see that he’s lying. Moreover, the woman conductor is showing increasing signs of agitation. She keeps looking at a set of dials and finally grabs the engineer’s sleeve and points to one of them.

  “Christ.” The engineer speaks under his breath and reaches out to one of the levers, forgetting for a moment that Kathleen and I are there. He pulls the lever. There is no obvious response from the great locomotive, which continues to hurtle forward along the track.

  “Is it my imagination or are we going faster?” I ask.

  “No, of course not,” says the engineer. “The system has all sorts of fail-safe mechanisms built in...”

  “Don t be stupid,” interrupts the conductor. I can see that the woman is on the verge of panic. “Tell them the truth. Maybe they can help.”

  The engineer sighs. “The fact is, the emergency over-ride systems seem to be on the fritz. We can’t stop. And we are going faster.”

  “And the truth is, we’ve lost contact with the control center,” says the woman. The train starts round another gradual bend in the track. I can feel it sway alarmingly.

  I steady myself on a metal desktop. “There’s no way of stopping the train?”

  “Not until the control center gets over the problem.”

  “What’ll happen if we get to the next stop and we still can’t slow down?” asks Kathleen. Her voice is steady but I can hear the fear.

  “We’ll fix it before then...” starts the engineer.

  “It won’t be a problem by then,” says the conductor. Her voice is shrill, panic levels increasing with every word. “By not stopping at Scanboro we’ve gone ahead of schedule and we’re running faster and faster all the time. There’s a slower train ahead of us. If we get to Trenton—that’s the next stop—at this speed, the track won’t be clear. We’ll pile into the other train!”

  “How long have we got before we get to Trenton?” asked Kathleen.

  The engineer checks his watch. “Normally, twenty minutes. Less today, at the speed we’re going. But we’ll have to be reducing speed well before we get to the station or we’ll never stop in time.”

  “How long?” I repeat.

  “Ten minutes at most,” says the engineer miserably.

  “Then we might as well try this thing,” says Kathleen, pointing towards the computer terminal. She pulls a foldaway stool from a wall panel and slides the keyboard out from under the screen. “I just hope that whatever’s on the end of the line is connected to a network, and that I’m right about what’s causing this,” she breathes.

  Her fingers fly over the keyboard. I see the original screen display blank out, to be replaced with columns of numbers. Kathleen peers closely and tries more keys. For a time, nothing happens, then the display refreshes and some sentences of English appears. Kathleen continues to work at the system for what seems like an age, shaking her head in frustration, punching away at keys as if they’ll respond better to force.

  I glance up to see the engineer looking anxiously at his watch. Then there’s a rap and the door at the back of the cabin opens again. An elderly male passenger sticks a worried face around the doorframe.

  “What’s going on?” he demands. “there are passengers back here who are concerned about...”

  I pull the conductor towards me. “Get rid of him.”

  The conductor shudders, her hands clenched into fists. I can see her fight the panic, then, with a visible effort, regain her professional composure. She hurries towards the elderly man and ushers him out, muttering reassuring words.

  “Four minutes,” says the engineer.

  I’m relieved to see that he, too, is retaining his self-control. “Kathleen?”

  “Damn,” she says. She turns to look at me. The screen is back to displaying numbers. “No luck. The central system is stand-alone. It’s not connected to any other machine. I can’t get through it.”

  “What does that mean?” asks the engineer.

  Neither I nor Kathleen answer him.

  “What does that mean?” he repeats. He looks at our faces with growing terror before answering his own question.

  “It means we’re dead, doesn’t it?”

  17

  In his lonely ninety-ninth-floor office, David Sligo sits, communes with his computer system and thinks his private thoughts. Another conference has just been held. He has had to tell the members of the Dream Committee that the troublesome Ross and his woman friend have escaped yet again. It has taken all his powers of persuasion to keep the group under control. On one extreme, Senator Phillip Wright and the East-European industrialist, Peter Dennis, seem to have been afflicted with an extreme case of anxiety. They have sensed themselves moving further and further from the cultured world they know, where characters are assassinated at the stroke of a pen and victims may never meet those who injure them. In this newer, more primal territory, lawbreaking means burnt houses and smashed bodies. Sligo had watched with secret contempt as the realization—and the fear—crept into their consciousness.

  Sayer and Armstrong, on the other hand, are now increasingly pushing for mor
e severe measures to capture the fugitives. Neither man has any hesitation in revealing a side of himself which he has become accustomed to hiding since the early days of his climb to prominence.

  Sligo has argued strongly for the group to hold to its course. Although the activities of Ross and Hennessey have shaken them, no lasting damage has been done. The irritating pair are still wanted by the police and are regarded as fugitives and criminals. Their credibility is zero. Talk of political conspiracies would be dismissed as the desperate rantings of lunatic lawbreakers, particularly as this group has such influence on what appears in both the press and electronic media news reports. Moreover, Sligo has told them, he still has people in the field searching for them. As soon as they are found, he has told them, they’ll be handed over to the FBI.

  This latter statement had, of course, been less than truthful but he knows that, sometimes, people would rather not know what is being done in their names. The likes of Dennis and Wright would certainly prefer to know nothing about the action currently under way.

  It is, he reasons, a minor irritation in the greater scheme of things. Other matters are more important. After all, the committee is still on course with its overall plan and its immediate objective comes closer to reality every day.

  Sligo muses again on the significance of an elected government with direct ties—and obligations—into the sort of business combines controlled by the committee. He has studied history and the lessons of the great benevolent dictators have not been lost on him. Irrespective of the ambitions of men like Armstrong and Sayer, he has his own agenda for the use of the power that will shortly be in his grasp. He believes firmly in the principle of control, for the good of those who cannot think for themselves, and is convinced that his influence can make the country a better place in which to live.