by Jeff Noon
7.04 a.m.
Boda takes another fare, easy fodder, and on the way back towards Manchester she tunes in the pirate wave…
‘Massive jump to the hippy-nostrils, unprecedented. Gumbo YaYa is sneezing already. I raise my flowers to the wind to smell the future…the future is a nose explosion. Grab your Good Gumbo fever masks, my children; this is going to be a harsh ride through the clouds of pollen. Not since the days of Fecundity 10 has such fieriness been felt, when the drifting seeds brought home a pollen count of 862, the highest ever for Manchester. Gumbo YaYa reckons this is going to beat that record. May John Barleycorn find you desireless. And remember, don’t believe the authorities; only the Gumbo has the true reckoning. Pollen count, 125 and rising…’
Now Boda’s waiting on a new job. 7.29 a.m., St Ann’s rank, tenth in the column, some fifteen minutes or so from the next ride. She gets out of the cab and walks up to the third in line.
Boda—the way you walk, long and loose-limbed, like an angel with wings of smoke. And the way you look: hair shorn to the skull, skull laser-tattooed with twisting streets in black and white. A walking A–Z of bliss you are, all dressed in denim and felt, lace and polyvinyl chloride. Vazboot trainers on your feet and a cummerbund of velvet around your waist. A corduroy bag slung easy over one shoulder, holding all of your world; your antique Manchester map and your woollen hat, and your money, your cab-licence and your smokes.
The third-in-line driver’s name is Roberman. Roberman is a sleek and shiny robodog, a Doberman Pinscher by birth, but all the guys in the rank call him Roberman, because that is what he is. Not a trace of human in him, just a mess of dog-flesh and info, all mixed up in a tight bundle of muscle and plastic. This mixture was called hardwere by the gene-mechanics. There was no human trace in Roberman, but sometimes dogs can be more human than humans. Xcab employs him because of his dog-knowledge of the dark streets. Most of the guys in the rank don’t talk to Boda, because they think her too much of a loner, too distant, too twisted to bother with. Roberman is different. He makes a long series of low growls, none of which Boda understands, but the tears in his eyes tell a tale. She places her left hand on the door of his cab; this is all it takes for you to be inside of the cab system. Each Xcab comes complete with an in-car sound system. Roberman’s voice comes over the speakers, his keening yowls changed by the translator into English, all for the benefit of nervous passengers. This option is necessary if the driver and the passenger are of different races. ‘You heard the bad news, Boda?’ the voice-box announces.
‘I just got back. What’s happening?’
‘They killed a driver.’
‘Oh shit. Which one?’
There is a real street-cool value in taking the life of an Xcab driver, just because they are so protected. And because possession of an Xcab is a prize worth killing for.
‘Not one of ours, Boda,’ Roberman says, choking on it.
‘Not an Xcabber?’
‘Runner-dog.’
‘A dog driver?’
‘The black-and-whiter.’
‘Coyote?’
‘Made a bad Alexandra Park drop.’
‘Coyote…oh Jesus…’ Now Boda is looking up and down the street, looking for comfort. Can’t find anything. Nothing good.
Only the wind and the rain…
‘You okay, Boda?’ Roberman asks.
‘Yeah…yeah, sure…I’m…who did it, Rober?’
‘Cops smell neg-shit.’ Which means that the cops don’t know shit, but she’s not listening any more. Sure, one hand kept tight to the cab, but the other hand is rubbing at her face for some reason.
‘You sure you’re okay, Boda?’ Roberman is asking.
‘Boda’s fine,’ she replies, making her voice work somehow. But inside, all she can think about is that blackcabber dogman. Just the last of his kind. Just the beauty of his life gone to nothing. Just the next best thing to a good lover that she’s met in a long while. And she hadn’t even…
‘The dogs are gonna fight against this. Gonna be trouble.’ Roberman’s voice speaking to her, and the rain falling down in lines of dull pain. Boda, you have no answer to give. Just the glistening bulk of St Ann’s Church in your eyes, and the vision of Coyote’s last wave, all the way from the window of that sweet black cab.
The sound of the Roberman sneezing violently, like he has the world plugged up his nostrils. The love song of a taxi dying in Boda’s heart, and the rain falling on her Manchester City Vurtball Official Supporters’ Club blouson jacket. Coyote had invited her to a game, presented her with a ticket for the semi-final, four days’ time.
She will miss that game now.
‘Roberman, we gave Coyote that fare.’
‘Don’t tell me about it.’
‘Roberman, we’re to blame. He picked up a girl called Persephone from Limbo. Delivered her to Alex Park. Maybe the fare killed him.’
‘Please, Boda. I really don’t want to know.’ Roberman looks scared as he says this.
At that precise moment, 7.34 a.m., Columbus the Xcab King was listening in to the cab-wave. He hears driver-Boda mentioning the name Persephone to driver-Roberman.
CAB-SHIT!
Columbus was scared suddenly. His one per cent of humanity comes into play, overriding the Vurt-logic. Driver-Boda must have spoken to the blackcabber Coyote about the ride. Boda knows about the visitor. She knows that Coyote delivered Persephone to the drop-off at Alexandra Park.
What could he do about this new situation? He needed to take Boda out of the equation. Columbus considered his options for less than a moment and then made a secret call. He then returned to the cab-wave…
Columbus comes onto the cab-line, interrupting the flow between Boda and Roberman. DRIVER-BODA, A WORD PLEASE, he says.
‘Switch?’ Boda can hardly even manage the boss’s call-sign through the tears.
GOT A FARE FOR YOU.
‘Switch, I’m feeling…’
ASKED FOR YOU BY NAME. I THINK YOU’VE GOT AN ADMIRER OUT THERE, A MR DEVILLE. YOU KNOW HIM?
‘No, I…’
PICK-UP AT HYDE ROAD, ARDWICK. DROP-OFF AT DUKINFIELD. BE CAREFUL DOWN ARDWICK. IT’S KIND OF BLEAK, THIS TIME OF THE DAY.
‘I don’t think I can make it…’
YOU’RE AN XCABBER.
‘I just got some bad news, Switch.’ Boda’s voice is parched. She can’t get her head around the loss.
MAY I REFER YOU TO CLAUSE 7.2 IN THE DRIVER’S CONTRACT? WHICH STATES QUITE FIRMLY THAT ALL DRIVERS MUST—
‘I know what it states, okay?’
WHAT’S WRONG WITH YOU, BOADICEA? YOU LOSING THE EDGE?
‘I’m going. Okay? I’m there already.’ Boda climbs back into Charrie and starts him up, her hands slipping on the controls.
GLAD TO HAVE YOU ON LINE, DRIVER.
Columbus disengages himself, and Charrie’s voice comes scrolling up to replace him as the ride starts. WHERE WE GOING, BODA?
‘Hyde Road.’
IS SOMETHING THE MATTER?
‘Just fucking drive, will you!’
Charrie falls silent. The cab moves with sadness.
Boda just wanted to drive; she wanted to drive away from the whole world…
Instead she makes it as far as Ardwick, where the rising sun casts a glimmering sheen on the waste ground around a bunch of abandoned factories. A man is waiting at the designated pick-up point. He’s the only person in sight, and he’s so thin Boda has to look twice before she sees him. An unknown figure, she’s never driven him before. She brings Charrie to a halt, speaks through the cab’s system: ‘Deville?’
The man nods. He looks edgy for some reason.
‘Get in.’
The passenger settles his bony shape into the back seat. Boda sees the Vurtball ticket that Coyote had given her, resting on the dashboard. She starts up the cab. Charrie hardly responds, just a slow chug-chug along the road.
‘Charrie, what’s wrong?’
I DON’T KNOW, BODA. I FEEL A LITTLE SIC
K.
‘What?’
I FEEL LIKE I’M LOSING STRENGTH…
‘Oh, come on.’
Belinda hears the passenger window sliding open.
‘Here will do nicely,’ says the passenger.
‘I’m not in the mood for games.’ Boda turns around to see the window opening between her and the passenger. He’s smiling at her. Belinda presses at the window button, receiving a no-response answer. The window is now fully open. Boda turns back again.
A gun is levelled at her head. The passenger motions at her to stop the cab. Boda refuses, turning back to the dash, calling up the Switch…
WHAT IS IT?
‘I’ve got a loony on board, Columbus.’
OH DEAR.
‘Did you check this guy?’
YOU KNOW THE PROCEDURE, DRIVER. ACTIVATE DEFENCE MECHANISMS.
Boda presses at Charrie’s Shock Button, aiming the juice into the passenger compartment. Nothing happens. The passenger is just sitting there, smiling, the gun held straight and true. ‘What’s happening, Charrie?’
I CAN’T HELP IT, BODA, the cab says.
‘What?’
COLUMBUS IS HINDERING ME.
Charrie’s voice fades into darkness. The passenger presses the gun against the back of her neck. ‘Why are you doing this?’ she asks, trying to get her voice under control.
‘Keep quiet!’
‘Columbus, what’s happening here?’ Columbus doesn’t answer. For the very first time, Columbus doesn’t answer. Boda’s eyes are resting on the Vurtball ticket, like it was some ticket out of trouble. She reaches for it. It feels like she’s reaching for Coyote.
Boda grabs hold of the ticket, just as…
Just as the passenger presses down on the trigger. Boda’s head is slightly awry because of her move towards the ticket. The bullet drives a road into the side of her head, grazing the tattooed map. The bullet travels from there, a deflected line to the windscreen of the cab. The glass splinters into a web of containment. Emergency procedures. Charrie bursts into a sudden motion. The passenger and Boda are thrown back by the acceleration. Charrie drives himself forwards, makes a vicious U-turn. The passenger’s head collides with the passenger window, the gun falls from his hands.
‘Charrie? What’s happening?’
WE’RE GETTING OUT OF HERE! HANG ON, the cab replies.
The passenger window slides shut as the cab speeds back down Hyde Road, a left onto Brunswick, the passenger being thrown around in the back, locked in the cab-space. Boda gets her hands back on the wheel. Columbus coming on strong: BOADICEA, WHAT ARE YOU DOING?
‘What the fuck are you doing?’
THERE’S BEEN SOME MISUNDERSTANDING.
‘You bet there has.’
DRIVER-BODA. PLEASE EXPLAIN.
‘I’m on a new fare, Columbus.’
NEGATIVE. NO FARE REGISTERED. PLEASE EXPLAIN.
‘I’m making a pick-up.’
NO PICK-UP CALL REGISTERED. EXPLAIN.
‘Fuck you.’
THERE IS NO FARE, BODA. DO YOU REGISTER ME?
No choice.
No choice for the driver or the map.
The passenger called Deville is flailing around in the sealed compartment when a fast right on to Upper Brook Street sends him flying again, the cab speeding dangerously along the street as Charrie comes scrolling up: BODA, LET ME GO, PLEASE. STOP MESSING ABOUT UNDER MY DASHBOARD. TAKE YOUR HANDS OFF THE SIXTEEN PLUGS UNDER MY DASHBOARD.
‘What?’
UNDER MY DASHBOARD, THE SIXTEEN PLUGS. PLEASE DON’T PULL THEM OUT.
‘I’m not touching you.’ Her eyes on the road ahead, every few seconds a glance back to see how the passenger is getting on. He looks like a dying goldfish behind the glass.
YOU’D BETTER NOT PULL THOSE SIXTEEN PLUGS LOOSE, BODA, BECAUSE THAT’S WHERE THE SWITCH IS CONNECTED TO YOU. YOU WOULDN’T WANT TO LOSE COLUMBUS, WOULD YOU NOW?
‘What will that do to you?’
DON’T WORRY ABOUT ME.
Columbus comes on line, his words burning into the system. WHAT THE FUCK ARE YOU DOING, XCAB CHARIOT? YOU FANCY THE SCRAPYARD ALREADY?
I’M DOING ALL I CAN, COLUMBUS. EVERYTHING I POSSIBLY CAN.
Boda smiles. ‘I’m on the case, Charrie.’
Boda reaches down, under the dashboard, to where the system wires are plugged into the cab. She pulls the first one loose. Charrie screams then, and Boda moves her hands away from the board.
GOOD DRIVER, says Columbus. LET US NOT BE FOOLISH. But there is a waver in his voice that gets to Boda. Her hands reach back under the dash, to pull out the second plug, looking towards a manual overdrive. Chariot is calling out to her, over the diminishing waves, his voice growing darker and darker, the letters fading from Boda’s taxi-vision…DON’T WORRY ABOUT ME…BODA…DON’T YOU WORRY ABOUT…BODA…DON’T YOU…DON’T YOU WORRY…DON’T YOU…
Ignoring the fading voice, even though it kills her to be doing so, Boda’s fingers are pulling on the ninth socket when Columbus kicks back.
OKAY, BODA. LET’S TAKE THIS EASY. THIS CHARIOT BELONGS TO ME.
‘We’ll see.’
The thirteenth plug…
YOU LEAVE ME NO CHOICE.
‘Is that so?’ The fourteenth plug…
BOADICEA JONES, YOU ARE HEREWITH TERMINATED FROM THE EXTRAORDINARY PRIVATE PERSONNEL TRANSPORTATION COMPANY. ALL OUTSTANDING SALARIES WILL NOW BE IMPORTED INTO YOUR SYSTEM.
Boda sees her credit meter glow to a sad and blue 227.60.
The fifteenth plug…
GOODBYE, DRIVER-BODA. NICE WORKING WITH YOU. Columbus’s final words echoed by the faint voice of Charrie…
GOODBYE…BODA…NICE WORKING…WITH…MAYBE ONE LAST SHOCK BEFORE I VANISH?
Boda works the Shocking switch to the passenger compartment. Stunning volts. The cab gleaming. The passenger screaming from the back as he takes the lightning, and then falling, fading…
NICE WORKING WITH YOU…WORKING WITH YOU…NICE…
Chariot drifting to a standstill. The splintered windscreen blinded by rain. The Mancunian Way layered above her on concrete stalks. Cars speeding by. Boda pulls out the sixteenth and last plug.
This cab is Boda’s now. Alone.
The time was now 7.42 a.m. and something very strange was happening to the Manchester map. All the roads were twisting and turning in the Xcab system, breaking their connections with each other and then joining up into new shapes. There were 2000 cabs in the Xcab system all connected, each to each. There were now 1999 broken connections. The removal of a single cab from the Hive had caused this mutation, because the part was the whole. Gestalt system. Xcabbers city-wide thought they were taking fares to the correct drop-off, only to receive abuse and refusals to pay when the cab pulled up outside the wrong destination. Columbus went crazy with the strangeness; he didn’t know what to do. He felt ill. Like a virus had come into his body. That bitching Boda had removed herself from the Hive. Nobody had done that before. Columbus was at a loss for some few minutes whilst he felt some ninety-seven complaints come flooding in. Xcabs never got complaints! Jesus-cab! Columbus was overloaded for a while then, and he felt himself to blame for the mishap. If only he hadn’t tried to take Boda out. If only he hadn’t let his one per cent of humanity rule his feelings. Despite all these misgivings, he managed to get some semblance of his former self back on line. He had a back-up map available, thank Barleycorn, but it would take a while to access it. He started that process, at the same time answering all the complaints personally. It took just under fifteen minutes for the new map to load. It was an early copy, a remnant from the first years of Xcab life and it would be full of gaps and omissions. It would have to do for now.
Once that replacement map was up and running he put a call out to all the cabs and told them to ride easy with the passengers, and then he declared that today would be a fare-free bonanza; anybody could travel gratis to any destination. Another first. No payments to be made. This was damage limitation in the Switch�
��s manual. And once all that was in place he then called up all of his empty cabs and told them to find that rogue driver. Columbus wasn’t that worried about Boda, it was the vehicle he wanted back. That cab called Chariot was part of his system, a vital organ of the body Xcab. The new map he had planned would be useless unless he was complete.
SHIT! WHY DID I LET THAT BITCH…
Columbus hated getting angry, it was too much like human behaviour. The situation wasn’t over yet. He had only six days until the new map came through from Vurt. Persephone was a short-flowering bloom. Six days in which to find his lost cab, and silence Boda.
Once and forever.
FUCK THAT IMBECILE PASSENGER! CAB-JESUS! HE WAS SUPPOSED TO KILL THE DRIVER, NOT MAKE HER ESCAPE THE MAP.
Columbus also had this problem: now that the Chariot was lost from the Xcab system, it was just another car on the streets. The Switch could trace the car through the city, but he couldn’t talk to it. He couldn’t direct it. Chariot was now a free radical. A maverick. Of course he had the location of the cab: the junction of Upper Brook Street and the Mancunian Way. Columbus sent four cabs toward that position. And he had the home address of Boda still in the banks: Dudley Road, Whalley Range. He sent another two cabs to stake out that place. Another three cabs to Alexandra Park, just in case Boda headed over to the blackcabber’s last fare-drop.
All points covered, and Boda being run down, but deep in his intersections Columbus felt the loss eating away at his road-soul.
Boda drags the passenger’s shocked-up and dormant form from the compartment, and then climbs back into Charrie. She works the controls until she manages to get him moving again. The road is sluggish, and the cab feels sick under her fingers, and it’s only after she’s driven some fifty yards or so that Boda realises she doesn’t know where she is.
A stranger newly arrived in her home town, Boda’s Xcab mind-map is dead and buried. For the first time in nine years she is lost. A lost girl. The feeling makes her hands tremble on the wheel. She turns the cab into a side street and then parks. The street is called Cloak Street. Boda racks her brain for what this could mean, but can find no knowledge there. No clues. Her head-map is aching from where the bullet grazed her, and she rubs at the damaged roads there. Her fingers wet with blood. A faint light shines along the windscreen, and a voice of trembling words: WELCOME BACK, BODA, HA, HA, HA.
