The Enkron depot is swarming with drones vying for spots on the landing pads. Robotic trains loaded with delivery items zigzag across the arena, passing the cajero's scrambling to do the work the non-human gizmos can't accomplish.

All packages have no information printed on them, just the familiar spiral barcode stamped on each face. Enkron employees receive data and logistics information via their optical implants. No implants mean less efficient ways of doing things. Booking to pick up packages had to be scanned manually with handsets. Implants weren't mandatory, but Enkron makes it difficult for those who refuse them. I just have to work harder, using a handheld scanner. Not too difficult a task, but a huge burden to those who've opted to insert cyberware surgically and neuroject it with their brains.

I spot one of the delivery guys I know, his jet-black hair and subtle tattoos peeking out from under his sleeves, and his preference for wearing the company safety vest over a comfortable jumpsuit with various pockets to hold his delivery gadgets and tools, making him unmissable amongst the other uniformed cajeros.

Jonsa Coffey walks up to me, his abnormal height making it difficult to notice his cybernetic eyes gleaming with a soft neon-blue hue. His mood seems darker than mine.

"What's with you?" I ask. "I thought you were going to hold out."

The shame on his face betrays him. "Shit, man. My wife pressured me into it. She refuses to communicate with me using the old touchy pads."

I raise my hands to show him I'm not upset. "All good. You're entitled to a choice. I can't say I'm not disappointed, but..."

"It is what it is," he adds, ending the topic in the way he ends any other awkward conversation.

I understand, so I let it go. "What else is bothering you?"

"Things are not good," he replies. "My efficiency is down the toilet. Got lost on all drop-offs. Every single one."

I find this strange. His implants should help him receive bookings and navigate through the city. "You have implants now," I say, trying not to sound sanctimonious over his decision to cave to the current fads.

"Today was different," he says. "My eyes seem to be playing up as if I couldn't get a clear signal. I received a booking to pick up a package from an unknown location, the details were just fuzzy."

"Did you try rebooting the implant?"

Jonsa shook his head. "It doesn't work like that," he says, shrugging my ignorance off. "I decided to take the job anyway after the geotracker confirmed the location. I set out on my bike. It paid well and I thought I could do it old-style. As I rode through the city, I realized that I had no idea where I was going. The streets looked unfamiliar, and the address didn't make any sense." He pauses, deep in thought.

"Geotracker glitched, that's all. It happens, doesn't matter what technology you use."

He looks at me gravely, "I resorted to using my touchy pad. The place doesn't exist. No map on the entire internet can verify its existence. Suddenly, the implants turned off and when they came back online, I received a message warning me not to deliver the package."

"Maybe someone hacked them? It's been known to happen."

Jonsa looks at me, confused. "Why would anybody hack into my eyes?"

"Illegal substances?"

"I don't think so."

"What did you end up doing?"

"I just quickly turned around and headed back here. I'm grateful that my implants have finally started working again. I need another score before I finish up today."

"Are you serious? Your implants are playing up. You can't go out there like that."

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Jonsa walks away, "Gotta make the money."

"What was the location's name?" I call out.

He turns, walking backwards, and says, "Cedarwood. Doesn't exist." He turns back and joins the other hurrying Enkron cajeros.

I proceed to the next dock, the cache of new knowledge swirling inside my head. Between Jonsa's surrendering his body autonomy to cybernetic implants and the mysterious ghost suburb, I conclude that I have reached my quota of enlightenment. From now going forward am to spend the rest of the afternoon focused on earning an income.

Picking up the parcels at Loading Dock B proves to be quite the task, especially with the eleven largish wooden crates that await their retrieval. The Enkron dock buzzes with activity as unmanned forklifts manoeuvre in and out of the bustling warehouse, stacking crates high with uncanny precision.

They stacked pallets of cargo in rows between yellow lines.

I approach the lone cajero wearing a bulky headgear.

"You can't be in here," grunts the unfamiliar short tubby cajero. In my mind, I christen him 'Tubs'.

"I'm collecting a dispatch."

"You don't have implants," responds Tubs, a hint of disgust in his voice. "It's not safe for you in here."

I don't allow his tone to affect me. "Just give me my allocation."

"Get out of here," insists Tubs. "I'm serious, asshole. You can't be in here, not without implants."

I don't back down.

"If I don't make pick up, you're going to have ten fairly large crates sitting on your floor. I'd say that'll fuck your logistical workflow right up. Your day could turn into a complete nightmare. Where's my dispatch?"

This changes the cajero's attitude.

Flustered, he asks, "What code?"

"I don't know. The customer is Snake Island something.

"Serpent Island Foundation. Lot twenty." He points to a tower of timber crates. "And go get implants, like everyone else."

I move on and approach a stack of eleven large wooden crates, each adorned with labels displaying the sender's name.

Serpent Island Foundation.

The logo depicts a colossal stone structure, featuring a serpentine head within a circular coil of the snake's body. The wood smells fresh, a rarity, the whole packaging embodying a striking and enigmatic image.

I stand next to a yellow-coloured robot stacker and ask, "Location?"

The Depot 13 AI replies via the robot stacker, "Villa 1, Raven Mountain."

"Where's that?"

"Fifty-eight kilometres west on the F1 Motorway."

"The desert?" I ask.

Through the settlements? That's an arduous journey.

Dock 1 seems to have accurately interpreted the tone of my voice.

"This is a premium class docket," it says. "Would you like to pass on this allocation?"

"I'll take it. Relax." I began scanning each barcode with my touchy. The Cyberstar pulls in and backs up to the crates.

The yellow machine crawls closer. "This is a drive west of the city districts and deep into the desert wilderness. We recommend this delivery for implant-enhanced drivers.

"I'm good."

"You cannot rely on your antiquated touchy and its connection to the geotracker mapping system. Many of these platforms are facing service shutdown."

"I'll manage. Hand over the docket."

The yellow robot stacker remains idle.

"Dock 1, hand over the docket." A tense moment skewers my thinking process, my paranoia leaking into my thoughts. "Don't do this to me. I need the allocation."

The robot stacker springs to life and gently loads the timber packages carefully onto a waiting Cyberstar.

Once loaded, the yellow machines move on to the next job.

Upon inspecting the delivery sheet, I see an address, Villa 1, Raven Mountain and one contact detail, David Sanforth. I check the location, noting the distance. A cool fifty-kilometre drive, straight west and deep into the desert wilderness. Without implants, I would need to rely on my antiquated touchy logged onto the geotracker mapping system, and many of these platforms are facing service shutdown.

Is it a real address? With fake drop-offs common in smuggling operations, I consider crosschecking it with my touchy pad. The location appears legitimate, so I settle in for a long drive and a late finish.

Once loaded, the yellow machines scroll away to the next job. A group of cajeros catches my eye, loitering near the loading dock entrance. I notice that they are wearing sneakers and jeans under their Enkron Service jackets, a normal habit, but something seems off.

As I climb into the cabin and power up the truck, I can't shake off the feeling that something isn't right. I take a closer look at the manifest before heading out.

"Avocado, plot a course for Raven Mountain."

"To travel from Fontana City to Raven Mountain, there are a few possible routes depending on your preferred tollway?"

"No tolls, please."

"Start by heading north on Salamander Highway. Follow the signs until you get onto the F1 Motorway. I will guide you from there toward Raven Mountain."

The three cajeros at the entrance grab my attention again. My suspicions grow stronger the more I study them and wonder if this is some kind of illegal activity. I wait a few seconds to evaluate my paranoia, deciding to ignore the cajeros, who are most likely truck repair techs gathering out the rear for a break. My depression may be playing up, stirring up my paranoia, but my instincts feel still sharp enough to recognize when something innocent is afoot.

I gently press down on the accelerator, urging the truck forward as it smoothly glides out of the Enkron dock and onto the bustling street. The outback delivery location is a long way from civilization, with lots of wealthy estates sprinkled along a known shady strip of state-owned parkland where it isn't uncommon for suspicious characters to lurk.

I shake off any anxious feelings and focus on the delivery and what playlist I am going to listen to.