Glass Shore

by Stefan Jackson

  Oncoming traffic flows over my mot without concern.

  Waiting, I study the crowd. The sharp-dressed young Asian men at the right are in a gang called Sha’ner. The white-tipped canvas shoes are their mark. And now I see there are a few of them on the left as well. So are they guarding the alley? I’ll find out in a moment. They all wear suits but of different cuts and colors. They’re each engaged in separate personal pursuits like talking on the wire or listening to music, maybe playing games, so if it weren’t for the trademark shoes, you’d never know they were a gang.

  The old lady is clear and I rush into the narrow alley. Not even a glance from the kids on the wings. Interesting. As we roll down the tight passage, I realize this is not a short drive. I check the rearview monitor and no one is trailing us. Then the alley opens into a cavernous used mot lot with a large trailer and active garage at the far rear. I park my mot and we both make a fast exit from the vehicle as though it is on fire. Skyscraping residential apartments corral the mot lot, a near perfect circle of solitude beneath a small oval eye of cloudless blue.

  The feel of the city is so faint it’s near distracting.

  This forces me to wonder, as I often do, what had possessed the city designers.

  The Commons had elected Christina Muri-Hiorto as city planner for Manhattan. The diminutive waif and well-known party angel had stated her primary mandate was to redesign the city, adapting it to meet future needs and demands. During the years of development, Ms. Muri-Hiorto ushered dozens of architectural and constructions firm into a shared hell as they pressed to create the future. Four major architects, including Muri-Hiorto herself, went into self-imposed exile and either “fell off the grid” never to been heard from again, or died as a result of a bizarre natural event. All of their unpleasantness experienced before phase four – Underground – had been completed. Their stories are well documented. And a new documentary or Hollywood epic about the unearthly fall of the Muri-Hiorto architects appears every few years. Over the last century their madness has been awarded genius status. All buildings have green roofs. The architects had studied the sun’s movement as it related only to Manhattan. The face of this city is all glass and those translucent panels are also solar machines fueling a lion’s share of the city’s power. The buildings are erected at odd geometric angles and severe staggered heights with faceted crystal panes set all about the city. This irrational design cuts the morning, afternoon, and evening sun into shards and ribbons of colors that vibrates cool across negative spaces and radically sings in hot bright areas. Looking to the west I see shattered thin bands of psychedelic colors in the narrow chasms between buildings. In a moment the hues will change.

  We zigzag through the maze of vehicles. Some in pristine condition, others not so good, and those shabby mots are labeled with big red tags: AS IS for specialized hobbyists.

  A few meters from the trailer, Nikki’s friend steps out and rushes to greet her. They embrace, a tight warm hug then quickly, an all too familiar deep kiss. Miss Asian-Latina garage monkey with small and perky tits looks at me with a smile, a subtle laughing smile. She’s a beautiful woman, tall and thin. Flat black hair with a punk cut. Yet, it’s her shadow ice green eyes that put my mind on hold. Anton catches me staring at her eyes.

  “Nikki, it’s so good to see you again. God, I haven’t seen you in so long. You look marvelous,” says Anton. Her voice is lithesome, innocent and distracting with a Spanglish accent. Her eyes are on me as she steals another deep kiss from Nikki. I assume this is to illustrate that she and Nikki are playmates and way too cool for me.

  And the pisser is, she has succeeded in making me feel less than stud.

  “Anton, this is Apollo,” Nikki makes the intro. Anton thrusts her hand out, assuming we’d shake but I take her fingers in mine as though catching porcelain, then place a tender kiss on the back of her tattooed hand. In effect, planting my lips on the forehead of Felix the Cat. Her fingers are strong and rough. Her nails have a clear sheen, and are cut close and neat. She’s a workingwoman, and she works clean.

  “Oh, a gentleman. Nice to meet you. Let’s take care of your mot,” Anton says. She raises her hand and points at my mot. On that signal, a short Mexican man wearing dirty overalls and large yellow earphones exits the garage and hurries for my mot.

  “Yo boss!” The call comes from the garage. A tall kid with long blonde hair waves at Anton.

  Anton nods toward the trailer. “Go on inside and get comfortable. This will only take a moment,” she says. Anton walks toward the garage. Nikki and I head for the trailer.

  6

  The trailer interior is upcycled chic, accent on used mot parts. The centerpiece of the office is Anton’s desk, a disc of polished textured steel. It’s the hood of a classic Petty T Black-Flash. All six seats in the trailer are from different vehicles. The crushed red velvet love seat is from a Bowie DIG 40. It’s beautiful. I make my way to the love seat. Nikki follows.

  I sit and a moment later, vow never to leave the love seat; it embraces the contours of my bum and back and holds me in a soft mold. This is mother’s womb comfort.

  “Wow… this is nice,” says Nikki. She snuggles into the crushed velvet.

  I snuggle up to her. “This is the standard seat in the Langford coupé series,” I inform her.

  She nods, respecting the brand. “Everyone talks about the speed of a Langford. This is the thing to talk about.” She pokes the love seat with her fingers.

  Then she playfully pokes me in the chest. “I like that little black toy of yours.”

  We smile. And before I get too happy, I have to clarify. “Which one?”

  “The one you flexed back at the warehouse with the cute little gloves. Can you get me one of those?”

  “I’ll work on it.”

  “You lie.” She gives me a small kiss anyway.

  We sit in silence. I study Nikki’s profile. Soft worry lines spoil her fine complexion. Yet, she seems both at ease and focused. Nothing dangerous or tricky or erotic flits across her screen. Something drives this girl and it’s more than just the thrill of the moment. And it’s not money. She’s on a mission but she has so many balls in the air that I can’t target her true goal. Most people are easy to figure out; feelings, ideas and agendas exposed through speech and manners. I’ve spent a lot of time with Nikki and the best image I have of her is akin to a well-rendered blue pencil sketch. She likes the rain. She likes the sun. She likes to dance. And she can fight. She has a sense of humor and it’s not politically correct. She likes sex. She likes drugs. She doesn’t see herself as a survivalist or rebel, even though she excels at each quality. Over the years, I’ve come to see her as a mercenary with a purpose. Lord knows what that purpose is.

  Nikki sets her canvas bag in my lap.

  Right.

  The Files. Could this be her raison d’être, or one more piece in the great and fancy royal scam?

  She loosens the strap and removes a manila envelope from the inner pouch without lifting the outer flap. I clutch the bag beneath my arm as I lean in and study the folder.

  A heartbeat before the soldiers had stormed the junk warehouse, we were looking at another folder. That folder contained pictures of the Glass Shore.

  “My contact, Ezra, said this would blow my mind. It will change my world. He said it was my grail,” Nikki says to me as she opens the thin folder. It appears to have no pictures, just text. The pages have a big blue stamp of the United States Air Command upon them. We read.

  Day Hour Min Sec

  00 00 12 52 GC: Confirm live bogey Jump One. Maintain course. Do not engage.

  00 00 13 01 LTCR: Roger Ground Control.

  00 00 13 10 LTCR: Jump One to Base.

  00 00 13 15 BASE: Go Jump One.

  00 00 13 18 LTCR: Confirm live bogey.

  00 00 13 20 BASE: Confirm visual of live bogey Jump One.

  00 00 13 24 LTCR: Roger.

  00 00 13 36 LTM: Adam, you see that?

  00 00 13 39 LTCR: Yeah
, I see it.

  00 00 13 41 LTM: What the hell Adam? That thing is not from our world. How does it fly?

  00 00 13 43 LTCR: Easy Jimmy. Focus and prepare to intercept.

  00 00 13 47 LTM: Roger.

  [R]

  00 00 17 21 GC: Jump One, can you hear me?

  00 00 17 22 LTCR: Roger Ground Control. Locked on bogey.

  00 00 17 27 GC: Maintain course.

  00 00 17 30 LTCR: Roger.

  00 00 18 33 GC: Jump One. Radar indicates bogey has entered US air space at alarming speed.

  Execute.

  00 00 18 40 LTCR: Repeat order Ground Control.

  00 00 18 44 GC: EXECUTE BOGEY.

  00 00 18 46 LTCR: Understood Ground Control.

  00 00 18 49 LTM: A-one is locked, sir.

  00 00 18 51 LTCR: Roger.

  00 00 19 04 BASE: What the hell is going on up there? Nuke the damn thing!

  00 00 19 07 LTCR: Doing my best Base. Bogey is evading.

  00 00 19 10 LTCR: Target locked. Missile away.

  -END TRANSMISSION-

  Nikki stares at me and I stare back at her. She turns the page over and we find it blank.

  “They fired a nuclear missile at a real alien spacecraft. That’s what created the Glass Shore in Washington State. Not three terrorists.” I say, somehow managing to keep my voice to a low roar.

  “This is insane. Gliddin ordered the nuke strike,” Nikki states as she pokes the document. “They shot down an alien spacecraft.”

  “This has got to be a lie.”

  We sit in silence, save for the background din of a working chop shop, the sharp hiss of acetylene torches cutting through hardened metals, the dull yet oft times high-end frequency strikes of flat head mallets against steel, and the short bursting whirls of power tools. We watch the guys work, through the large office window. I can see Anton standing at the far right of the shop, wearing goggles, doing that supervising thing. She then walks away from her crew and disappears from view.

  Nikki says, “It was all a lie yet it all made so much sense. In retrospect, a terrorist attack was comforting. I remember that day. I was scared. I mean I was, like, just rocking on the couch in front of the TV, chain-smoking. If they had mentioned aliens I would have lost my mind.”

  “Right. A nuclear explosion on American soil was bad enough. We were mobilized within two seconds of the event and it was scramble like nothing imagined. It came down to just weapons and ammo. No supplies. I remember thinking everyone was gonna die. I remember thinking, this was the last day.”

  “You were in the marines, right?”

  “Yep.”

  Nikki takes her pack of cigarettes from her bag. She pulls one free. Lights it and takes a long pull. “So how you feelin’ about aliens?” she asks then exhales.

  “I’ll get back to you on that. We have company.”

  7

  Ms. Swarthy, all one point eight meters of her, enters her office. We look up at Anton. She tosses her goggles onto her silver desk.

  Nikki passes the file to me. I secure it as she stands to greet our host.

  “Thanks again for this, Anton.” Nikki says. She gives Anton a quick peck on the cheek.

  “Please, it’s my pleasure,” says Anton. Then Anton shoots a quick glance at me as she sits down at her desk. She does not lose her smile as she looks me over, but for some reason, I don’t feel the love.

  Anton turns on the TV. “Here, have a look at this. Your vehicle is being sought yet the driver does not seem to be either of you. Isn’t that strange?”

  The thin face of a woman wearing rimless square cut glasses, with a coffee-with-cream complexion and fine blonde hair that brushes her shoulders materializes in the large office window, eclipsing the view of the chop shop. The word “ALERT” appears in shocking red letters to the left of the newscaster’s lovely head. The Telesur logo appears in the lower right hand corner of the screen.

  The pretty announcer displays her clean white teeth and says, “National Security officials issue this ALERT AND SEIZURE warrant for this vehicle and the occupants.”

  My mot replaces the newscaster’s face. ALERT AND SEIZURE flashes on the screen next to my vehicle.

  The face of a man in his mid-twenties with short brown hair and pleasant off-center smile, accented with sterling white teeth, appears on the screen. The newscaster says, “An ALERT AND CAPTURE warrant has been issued for this man. He is the owner and suspected driver of the vehicle. He is wanted for the murders of six officers and arson. He is accompanied by an unknown woman with dark hair.”

  “I thought you said you didn’t kill them,” Nikki whispers to me.

  “I didn’t kill them. Bolt strikes don’t kill. Perhaps they died in the fire that you set.”

  Nikki nods, asks, “So who’s the guy with the bright white teeth driving your mot?”

  “He’s my cousin.”

  “He’s cute,” she says. I see Anton nod in agreement.

  “Next time I see him, I’ll let him know he’s got fans,” I reply. Truth is, it’s not my cousin. It’s my business associate in drag. She was nice enough to do it for me because I don’t photograph well.

  A picture of my mot displays at the right of the split screen. The faux picture of me appears below it. The blonde newscaster continues, “This is an open call to international recovery agents, as well as licensed Model Citizens of Manhattan and the EC Commonwealth. Reward yet to be determined but guaranteed. Be on the lookout for this man and this mot. A woman with dark hair may still be traveling with this man. Unknown if she is a hostage or an accomplice. Exercise caution with both individuals. Suspects are wanted for questioning. To collect reward, suspects must be delivered alive and in good health. Freelancers will face jail time and harsh penalties for undue harm and death to suspects. Freelancers do not interfere with police or recovery agents in the commission of arrest. You may qualify for partial compensation of reward if you can conclusively demonstrate you provided positive assistance before, or during the arrest.”

  Nikki turns away from me, and sashays over to the sexy, over-tanned and oily Anton. She asks, “So, Anton, how long before our new mot is ready?”

  “Soon.” Anton looks me in the eyes. “And yes, you can trust me not to screw you.”

  “Thanks for the assurance,” I reply, calm, meeting her stare. I don’t believe her.

  The blonde newscaster continues, “Earlier today in midtown Manhattan, evangelical extremists toting homemade flame throwers attempted to burn Underground patrons. The police rapidly foiled the heinous scheme without injury. The treacherous act was attempted at six UG gates in the thirty-fourth street area. All terrorists have been captured. Authorities want to assure the public that the Underground is safe.

  “In Middle East news, for the second time in the history of the Orthodox Church of Jerusalem, Rawhi Arafatti, a Palestinian, is elected as the head bishop, or more accurately, the Orthodox Patriarch of Jerusalem. Insiders note that the results of the election are due to the absence of Greek clergy in Jerusalem which can be traced back to Israel’s reluctance to renew the visas of many of the Greek ordained. ‘We are now ghosts in our own home,’ stated Theophilus V.

  “Today’s financial highlight remains Mkeyinc. It closes at eight-point-six percent, for a gain of seventy-three cents. This is the forty-seventh straight day that Mkeyinc has averaged a seven percent increase. The high realized two weeks days ago at thirteen percent due to gossip that gold had been detected on One Ceres. This amazing rally buoys the markets to another single day record gain. Across the global boards nearly twelve billion shares changed hands. This is Telesur international news and I’m Maria de Vernala. We’ll be back in thirty.”

  “Best insider stock tip I ever exercised. Space is the market,” Anton says as she turns off the TV. The east wing of the chop shop returns to view. The sweaty crew works hard converting stolen vehicles into pre-owned luxury driving opportunities.

  #

  I hear a soft, dull ping. I see A
nton tap her earpiece and nod. She turns to us as she taps her earpiece again. “We’re good, kids,” she says as she heads for the trailer door.

  As we exit the trailer my nose is assaulted by the acrid scent of something akin to burnt hair and baked cat piss. Nikki’s face tells me that the stink has hit her like a brick as well.

  “What the hell?” Nikki utters as she raises her shirt up to cover her nose and mouth.

  “Unfortunately, we work with a lot of gases. Cutting metal and such, it is a stinky business,” Anton replies with a smirk and light shrug.

  We walk in a straight line, through the thick of the renovated mots. I almost walk right by my mot. I’ve had it for better than five years and I didn’t even notice it until I was right up on it. It is a sixty-four Ono-Wong Series Eight. A slim, all muscle two-seater with a massive trunk. It had been midnight blue. Now it was a neat silver-tone. And it was more than just a paint job, they modified the body with a touch of old school class.

  “Anton – this is my mot, right?”

  “Oh yeah. I thought you were going to walk right by. Good eye.”

  “I love the tail fins.”

  “Good, good. My touch. They’re coming back in style.”

  “I know. Man – this is sweet. Nice job.”

  “Thank you. A satisfied customer is the sound I live for.”

  “So we’re good?” I ask Nikki. I open the passenger side door for her.

  “Yeah, I covered the cost,” she says.

  “Thanks again, Anton. Take care,” Nikki says with a light wave.

  “You too, Nikki. And don’t be a stranger.”

  Nikki gets in the mot. I shut her door.

  Anton unplugs the mot and sets the power jack into the catch.

  I nod to Anton as I round the front of the mot. She nods back, turns and walks away.

  Suddenly Nikki pops into view …

  Anton whips around, as if on fire, her hands going up to her neck. Anton stares at me with eyes wide and blazing, her jaws shut tight. I can almost feel her teeth grinding. Her body is rigid and yet she trembles, as if her skeleton is set to vibrate and it has just received an incoming call. Then her eyes close and she drops to the ground like a stone.