Martin Greenberg - The Future We Wish We Had

“All right,” I said, giving in. “But we’ll get something used, not showy, and I’m going to insist on certain safety features. Just give me a minute to change out of my work clothes.”

By the time we reached the dealership on the outskirts of Marianasville, I was much calmer. On our way past the colorful glow of habitat domes, around the kelp fields, and past the fish processing plant, André and I had discussed the budget and ground rules, and he was grinning with anticipation. I zoomed my faithful SPig right into the center of the lot and parked in the first available space. André had already donned his NEMM-nose-eye-mouth mask-and waited impatiently for me to put my gear on.

Since I didn’t want to get my hair wet, I chose a full transparahelm. I popped the lower hatch and allowed André to drop smoothly into the water. I followed a moment later. The hatch closed behind us as we swam toward the first submarine that caught André’s eye, a sports model Nuke Mini, a muscle sub powered by a miniature nuclear generator. The vidsticker on its window proclaimed that it could do zero to a hundred twenty in under ten seconds.

Naturally, I was appalled. The I saw the price. I gasped and quickly had to adjust the flow on my air condenser rebreather unit.

“You can’t fully appreciate its features without a test drive.” The voice came from behind us.

We whirled to look at the salesman in his garish plaid wetsuit. He wore a vidbadge that said, WELCOME TO SUBMARINE WORLD. I’M RON.

I activated my helmet mic. “No, thank you. I think it’s out of our range, er… Ron.”

‘But Mom, why not take a test drive? It would be fun,’ André said with a reproachful look as if I were trying to suck all of the joy out of his afternoon.

I kept my voice calm and reasonable. I could do this. I was his mother. “There’s no point in driving the ones you can’t afford. Why don’t we try that one?” I pointed toward a compact Waterbug.

The salesman’s face fell at this much more sensible choice. The vehicle had once been red, but had now faded to a sort of rusty pink color. “It looks very fuel-efficient, and it’s in our price range.” I tried to sound as enthusiastic as possible. “Can you show it to us?” The vehicle was definitely ugly. Even a SPig would be a step up from it.

“You realize, of course, that the Waterbug is an older trade-in,” Ron replied, forcing a smile. “It can’t compare favorably to the Nuke Mini.”

“My son is buying his first sub,” I told him in no uncertain terms. “He doesn’t need all of the features on the Nuke mini. Once he shows us that he’s responsible-maybe in a couple of years-we can come back to look at a Nuke Mini, and you can help André set up a reasonable payment plan to help him establish a good credit rating.”

“Very well, then,” Ron replied as the smile dissolved from his face and was replaced by a look of resignation. He led the way toward the other sub.

‘Mom,’ André said to me over the private microphone, ‘I need to do this myself. It’s my first time, and you’re doing all the talking. It’s embarrassing.”

“Okay.” I raised my hands in mock surrender. “I’ll keep quiet. But don’t forget this is for transportation, not to impress your friends.”

He nodded as if he had heard the lecture a thousand times before, not just once on our way to the dealership. “I know, and it has to be safe enough to withstand a nuclear blast. I’ve got the whole list of your requirements right up here,” he said, tapping his forehead just above the NEMM rebreather.

André was exaggerating for effect, of course. But not by much. Agreeing to let him take the lead from here on out, I made a motion across my mouth as if applying emergency water sealant.

Keeping my vow of silence, I watched as Ron of the plaid wetsuit gathered himself to launch into a full-fledged sales speech, even though I could tell he was not impressed by the Waterbug. “This minisub’s a beauty, all right. She’s got low usage, sturdy crash webbing, an economical smooth-spurt engine, dual rudder controls, and not a speck of wasted space.” He gave me a conspiratorial grin, grown-up to grown-up, that was as false as his phosphor-glow hairpiece. ‘Very sensible.”

I didn’t answer. André peered into the vessel through its front viewbubble, then turned toward Ron and gave him an okay-just-try-to-impress-me look, and rattled off a series of questions. For once, apparently, my son had done his homework.

The salesman tried to keep up and had to make frequent reference to the datascreen on his wrist. Long before the man finished explaining the lack of warranty, the almost non-existent cargo capacity, and the inadequate max speed, I could tell André’s mind was made up, so I knew that his final question was just for show. “And where do the passengers sit?”

“Ahh.” Ron tugged at the collar of his garish tartan suit. “In the, ah, the interest of economy and, ah…” His voice trailed of. “Actually, it’s a one-person vehicle.”

André gave me a glance and spread his hands as if that clinched it. “I’m afraid we’ll have to keep looking, then. See, I need to be able to pick up my little sister from her aquaballet lessons. I can’t even take my mom out for a test drive in this thing, much less take care of Reina. At this rate, I might as well get an AquaScoot. It’s cheaper, faster, and even more fuel efficient, plus it has room for a passenger.”

As I said, I’m a mom, and I’m not completely oblivious. André was playing both of us. I knew that one of André’s primary purposes in buying this vehicle was to be able to go out on dates without wearing the protective gear and portable ACRU rebreathers that would be required on a Scoot. It was a clever stroke, of course, to mention that only with an appropriate vehicle would he be able to free up even more of my time by picking up his sister from school and lessons. I knew, of course, he had no intention of purchasing an AquaScoot, but Ron did not. And his dealership did not sell AquaScoots. I saw his face pale by at least two shades of blue-green when he realized that any chance for a commission was about to swim away.

Suddenly Ron’s concern seemed to be all about safety. “An AquaScoot? With no protection from reefs, predators, and submersibles that don’t watch where they’re going? Besides, when you consider all the excess gear you’d need-sonic repellents, ACRU units, helmets-you would hardly save anything at all. And it’s so uncomfortable. Come with me. I think I have just the thing.”

Obviously, the plaid panderer finally understood whom he needed to please and was playing to André for all he was worth. “Hold on,” Ron said, grabbing onto a loop on one of the continuously cycling transportation cables that crisscrossed the submarine lot. André and I each caught a loop and we were whisked away to the outskirts of the lot, where we all let go of our cables. Ron gestured with a flourish toward a sleek, flashy minisub in neon yellow. “I think that you’ll find this is much more to your liking. It just came in.”

I shuddered to think what the price would be. The slick vehicle was far too new to be within our price range, and maybe just a bit too sexy for my son to own. I was about to suggest that we keep looking when I remembered that I had promised to keep my mouth sealed. I decided to wait.

“Allow me to present the Subatomic,” Ron said, “with twelve independent propulsion jets and eight customizable attitude jets, plus six brake rotors, complete with energy-recapture turbines. She’s had some heavy usage, but for the price, this minisub is a steal. Compact and safety conscious, the Subatomic can carry the driver and three passengers-or the driver, one passenger, and a generous cargo when the rear seats are-”