David Robbins - New York Run

Trikes were the order of the day. Thousands upon thousands. Another vehicle, a cycle similar to a trike but with four wheels, was also in plentiful evidence. The four-wheelers had two seats, front and back, and could seat up to six occupants. The trikes and four-wheelers packed the highways.

Each road appeared to handle traffic flowing in only one direction. The intersection would have been a madhouse, except for a yellow traffic light suspended above the middle of the junction, its red, yellow, and green lights apparently signaling directions to the drivers. When the traffic light facing one of the roads was red. Blade noticed, the vehicles on that road would stop. When the light was green, the trikes and four-wheelers would resume their travel.

“I don’t believe it!” Geronimo said.

“Now you see what I meant,” Captain Wargo stated. “We lack the resources to provide cars and trucks for our citizens, so we do the next best thing. Cycles don’t require unlimited raw material, and they consume far less fuel than cars or trucks. We can manufacture enough cycles for everyone at a fraction of the cost a full-sized vehicle would demand.”

“Does everyone own a cycle?” Blade asked, half in jest.

“Everyone of legal age, yes,” Captain Wargo answered.

“Doesn’t anybody around here know how to walk?” Mickok joked.

“Why walk when technology can provide a preferable alternative?”

Captain Wargo responded. “Besides, vagrancy is illegal.”

“Are you tellin’ me it’s against the law to walk?” Hickok inquired.

“Of course not!” Captain Wargo said, scoffing at the idea. “You can walk anywhere, anytime. Of course, you need to obtain the proper permit first.”

“Of course,” Hickok said.

Blade faced the Technic officer. “Why is there only traffic on the other three roads? Why are we the only ones on this one?”

“It should be obvious,” Wargo said. “This road is an exit road. It leads to the fence. Why would anyone want to use this road?”

“What if they want to leave Technic City?” Blade queried.

“No one leaves the city,” Captain Wargo said archly. “Why should they want to leave? You know how dangerous it is out there. We didn’t have much trouble because even the wild animals and the mutants fled from the SEAL. But for someone on foot, it would be certain suicide.”

“They could use a trike or four-wheeler,” Blade suggested.

“Taking a vehicle outside of the city is strictly forbidden,” Captain Wargo said, “unless you get a permit beforehand.”

“Of course,” Hickok interjected sarcastically.

For the briefest instant, a fleeting rage burned in Wargo’s eyes. The look vanished as swiftly as it appeared.

The three Technic police abruptly pulled ahead, their lights flashing and their sirens sounding. All traffic ground to a halt, leaving the intersection free of vehicles. The Technic police headed due east, and it was as if a huge hand were parting a sea of cycles. The trikes and four-wheelers scooted to the sides of the highway, some to the left and some to the right, opening an aisle for the Technic police and the SEAL.

“Follow them,” Captain Wargo directed.

Blade complied. He gazed at the vehicles lining the sides of the road and received a rude shock. Instead of staring at the SEAL, as any ordinary, curious person would do, the occupants of the trikes and four-wheelers averted their faces, deliberately turning away from the transport.

Or were they turning away from the police?

Blade was feeling distinctly uneasy. Something was definitely wrong here, but he couldn’t put his finger on the exact cause. He doubted the Warriors were in any real danger; none of the troopers or vehicles they had seen so far could pose any threat to the SEAL. The transport’s shatterproof structure could easily withstand small-arms fire. And the trikes and four-wheelers would be as fleas assaulting a grizzly if they endeavored to impede the SEAL. The Warriors were safe for the time being, but realizing the fact didn’t dispel his nervousness.

The scenery shifted, the residential buildings being replaced by larger edifices, up to four stories high and covering several acres. They were either white, gray, or black.

“This is part of our manufacturing sector,” Captain Wargo informed them.

Blade recalled seeing photographs in the Family library depicting prewar industry. “Where are the smokestacks?” he asked. “And how do you keep your factories so clean? I thought they were usually gritty and grimy, and made a lot of noise. Yours are so quiet.”

Captain Wargo smiled. “You’re comparing our modern, computerized, transistorized, and miniaturized factories to the obsolete monoliths prevalent before World War III. That’s like comparing worms to shrimp.

There just is no comparison,” he stated with pride.

Worms to shrimp? What a strange analogy! Blade watched as the Technic police continued to part the traffic ahead. “This doesn’t look like the Chicago I remember reading about when I was little,” he commented.

“It isn’t,” Captain Wargo declared. “We rebuilt it from the ground up.

The old ways were wasteful, inefficient. They deserved to be replaced.”

Wargo paused and looked at the passing factories. “Chicago wasn’t hit during the war, but a lot of the city was damaged by the looters, the hordes of scavengers, the roving gangs, and the mutants after the war was over. When the Technics came to power, they knew they had to rebuild from scratch. Out with the old and in with the new.”

“It must have taken an immense work force to accomplish all of this,” Blade mentioned.

Wargo grinned and waved his right hand to the right and the left. “As you can see, our work force now numbers in the millions.”

“All of these people?” Blade inquired, glancing at the ocean of humanity lining both sides of the highway.

“All of them. It’s against the law for anyone not to work. Being unemployed is a major crime,” Captain Wargo disclosed.

“What about your children?” Geronimo entered their conversation.

“What about them?” Wargo replied.

“Where are they?” Geronimo probed. “I didn’t see any playing in the yards in the residential area. Where are they?”

“Depends on their age,” Captain Wargo said. “Those over twelve hold down full-time jobs. Those under twelve are in school.”

“What about the infants?” Geronimo asked.

“They’re in school,” Captain Wargo reiterated.

“Even those two years old?” Geronimo questioned.

“Compulsory day-care begins at six months,” Captain Wargo said.

“Six months?” Geronimo exchanged astonished looks with Hickok.

“How do the parents feel about that?”

“They don’t have any say in the matter,” Wargo replied.

“You mean the young’uns are stuck in day-care whether the parents like it or not?” Hickok demanded.

Wargo snorted. “Parents! What the hell do they know! The government knows what’s best for the children, not the parents. We don’t place the same emphasis on parenting your Family does.”

“Do tell,” Hickok retorted.

“In fact,” Captain Wargo began, then hesitated, debating the wisdom of finishing his sentence. He shrugged and went on. “In fact, our children aren’t raised by their natural parents.”

“What?” Blade joined in.

“Biological bonding inhibits their effectiveness as productive citizens,” Captain Wargo said. “The kids are brought up by appointed surrogate parents. This way, we avoid all that messy emotional garbage other societies are tainted with.”

“I think they call that garbage love,” Blade remarked icily.

“Don’t take offense at our system,” Captain Wargo stated. “Just because it’s different than yours doesn’t mean we can’t live together in peace.”