“AUTOPILOT”
LOCATION: IN.USA.EARTH
HISTORICAL METRIC: 2073AD
CHARACTER POV: ABRAHAM COBBE (44)
Time behind the windshield is time for thought.
Abraham Cobbe, a middle-aged husband with more years in his stance than could be found on his birth certificate, let these words sit heavily on his mind. In front of him stood a cloudy mirror carrying the condensation of a hot shower and the image of a man. To his left, the sound of water tap, tap, tapping against the tile floor was being interrupted at random intervals by the soft movements of a naked woman. The man in the mirror was tall, broad shouldered, and held firmly together by well worked muscles and ivory white skin.
In the mirror stood a man and, in the shower, a woman.
Sarah Cobbe was Abraham’s senior of six years. Like her husband, Sarah’s body had lost it’s youthful appearance years ago. Abraham knew as much about Sarah’s body as he did about her life, but neither were present on his mind as he watched a drop of condensed steam slide down the mirror and cut his reflection in half.
--
“The time you spend behind this wind shield is the time you use to think? So, you are not thinking when you are not behind this wind shield?” The high-pitched voice spoke from the speakers of Abraham’s 18-wheeler. The voice was steady, firm, and cut through the sound of rainwater smacking against the front windshield. The truck driver had spent the last 13 minutes trying to get the mimic to understand the meaning behind his words.
“No.” The sigh that followed his negation carried the sound of impatience and disbelief with it. “That doesn’t even make sense.”
“It is your job to make it make sense.” The mimic said, restating the words spoken to Abraham an hour ago in a tone his black lunged shift manager could never have recreated. As a Driver, Abraham spent roughly 80% of his waking hours behind the windshield of a Kefla powered delivery truck. While he drove, Abraham dreamed of lives that would be impacted by his own and painted pictures of a world that couldn’t exist. When he dreamed, he was happy.
The other 20% of Abraham’s time was spent in a stoic vice grip that could only be loosened by the contradictory demands of his shift manager and the unconditional love of his wife.
The voice speaking to him through the speaker system of his truck was one of the many contradictory demands made by this aforementioned manager. The man known professionally as Mr. Callico was what the kids would call “old school.” His management approach was void of empathy and the tobacco rolled between his fingers had long since expired as an expression of wealth and power. Still, he had power over Abraham. Power that he had chosen to express by forcing the driver to download a mimic to his truck’s operating system.
“In 15 minutes, you will reconsider letting I take the wheel.” The mimic spoke confidently, but its vocabulary was limited, consisting of nothing more than the words spoken to it since it had been activated an hour prior to this conversation.
“How ‘bout this. I will let you take the wheel when you figure out how to use pronouns.” Abraham let his hands rest on the wheel and blew a combination of carbon dioxide and stress into the cabin. “Now please stop talking.”
“Your mission is to instr-“Abraham jammed a finger into the radio’s analog power control before the mimic could finish regurgitating Callico’s orders.
The radio cut in, replacing the mimics voice with that of a female reporter. “Two suspects with potential ties to the Wings assaulted a young clerk and fled the scene before –” Abraham turned the volume down, toned out the remaining noise, and let his mind wander through the past.
He pushed his thoughts back to the time Callico had fought for him when he refused to install the new digital console upgrade that sat at the center of every other Kefla delivery truck. What had changed? It wasn’t like Callico to force Abraham’s hand and risk upsetting his best driver.
The rain that smacked against his front window came just in time to pull him away from his frustration. With the peace reset, the weathered driver turned his attention to the open road. Through the sheets of rain, a grey expanse of pavement streaked at even intervals by yellow paint stretched out to the horizon, splitting the ancient midwestern fields in half. In the distance, Abraham could pick out the blurred lines of oak trees that interrupted the endless rows of cornstalk on his right and left.
Since the day he stepped into his first truck at the age of 17, he had spent countless hours looking out over these fields. Each plot of land was carefully measured and cared for, divided only so the men that tended to them could maintain a semblance of peace. Beneath the surface, the land was one, connected by an intricate map of roots, channels, and dirt.
The radio’s analog power control clicked back to its original position pulling Abraham’s mind back into the cab.
“I teach ‘Pronoun Proficiency Level 1. Pronoun Proficiency Level 2. Pronoun Proficiency Level 3. Pronoun Proficiency Level 4. Pronoun Proficiency Level 5. Pronoun Proficiency Level 6. Pronoun Proficiency Level 7.’ Many more than 17 times.” The mimic’s high-pitched voice demanded the same attention as an infant with a plastic bat.
Abraham took a deep breath.
The rain drops grew louder and stronger, erasing the fields to Abraham’s left and right to make space for a grey wall of recycled water.
“Learn.” Abraham said coldly. “You learned them.”
“Yes. Now you will reconsider letting me take the wheel?” The mimic asked.
The SIM pinned to the upper lobe of Abraham’s right ear vibrated softly and sent a gentle pulsing ring down into his ear canal. He smiled.
“Sure. It’s yours while I take this call.” Abraham lifted his hands off the steering wheel and let them hover an inch above the leather. His eyes stayed glued to the road while the SIM continued to ring in his ear.
The road curved right, and the wheel adjusted accordingly. Left then, and the mimic proved its competence behind the wheel by making further adjustments to the steering column.
It came as no surprise to Abraham that the program had been able to integrate itself into the fly by wire program that controlled the wheels of his truck. Still, without the input of his own mind and muscle, the truck’s movements felt incomplete.
Abraham let his left-hand hover in place, ready to retake control of the wheel if necessary. His right hand moved up to his ear and tapped the dice sized SIM device that had continued to buzz on the outside of his ear. At the touch of his finger, the buzzing stopped.
“Hey love.” The SIM vibrated softly as the sound of his wife’s voice was pushed through his ear canal.
“Hey, this isn’t the best time.” Abraham’s right hand had returned to its position inches above the steering wheel, mirroring his left. “What’s going on?”
“Everything okay?” Sarah’s usually calm voice betrayed hints of concern.
“Sure.” Abraham lied. “They installed a mimic in my truck.”
“What?”
“It’s some new program. ‘Sposed to keep us safer. Callico asked me to test it.”
“Safer?” Sarah scoffed. “Callico’d know better than that. You’re the best driver in the fleet.”
"Yeah, it's got the wheel now. Not doing a terrible job either." He spoke the words as he watched the truck swerve deftly around the carcass of a deer laying at the edge of the street. "Better'n whoever came through here last." His eyes settled on the deer as the truck sped past it. Its innards were being torn at by the red dyed beak of a crow.
As the truck passed, the crow picked up its head, glared through the rain and locked eyes with Abraham. The blood red beak held its ghastly color through the downpour.
“Gotta go love. Wings.”
“Alright, but don’t be late for dinner. I had Hadara prepare something special for us.” The line cut out with a soft beep and the SIM went cold.
The rain softened ever so slightly. Abraham dropped his hands back onto the wheel and retook control of the vehicle. The program didn’t resist
“Best driver in the fleet?” The mimic asked.
Abraham scanned the surrounding landscape before responding. To his right a handful of haphazardly placed wings protruded from the earth. Each wing stood roughly 10 meters tall and pierced the ground at different angles. The red paint at the tip of each had been partially chipped away by wind and rain.
“You heard that?” Abraham asked, his voice betraying the sound of amusement.
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“Best mimic in the fleet.”
Abraham smiled as he kept his eyes on the road in front of him. The downpour had softened to a light drizzle, peppering the windshield with little more than a mist. Past the painted wings, windmills stood tall in the distant fields. Each one cut through the atmosphere while its remaining wings were forced to spiral through space by the harsh Midwestern winds. Abraham let his shoulders bounce as he straightened up in his seat.
“So, how’d you do that pronoun thing?” He asked.
The mimics steady, monotonous voice responded. The voice used words Abraham had never heard before, explaining in lengthy detail how Callico had uploaded the mimic’s basic language software from the Kefla office in Fort Wayne. Abraham let the mimic rant as he stared out at the road and dreamed of a time, distant.
--
“I just think it’s silly to blame yourself for working harder than them. They knew what it would take to keep their jobs as well as you did.” Sarah added. Her voice was distorted, its natural fluidity concealed behind the steady stream of hot water being expelled from the shower head above her.
Abraham pressed his hand against the glass door and pushed his way out of the shower. He quickly wrapped a towel around his naked body. Steam filled the room, clouding the mirror opposite where he stood.
Like many, Abraham used his work as a form of self-expression; associating it with any kind of sillyness was a nonstarter. The road was a canvas and his truck the paint brush he used to communicate his love for the world. Without the wheel between his hands, it was like he had forgotten how to speak, and the wheel had been taken from him
After helping the mimic prove its worth, Abraham had been rehired to remotely communicate with a fleet of mimics. Fortunately, he was to be brought along on dangerous runs as a security detail until the robotic men were capable enough to take that from him.
The men and women he had called peers had been given two options. Retire or be funneled into careers that they had not chosen. All while Abraham continued to live the life of a voiceless roadsman.
Sarah and Hadara both worked tirelessly to pull Abraham out of this period of voicelessness. Sarah used her voice and her plots to fill in where Abraham was silent. Hadara was different. She had chosen to act.
“Abraham—Abe, Hello? —How long is this going to last?” She asked and followed Abraham out of the shower. The water stopped when she set her foot down on the shower mat.
Abraham turned to face his wife. “What?” The emotion in his voice was as limited as his attention span.
A trained patience pushed her anger away, bottling it up for later. “Go enjoy your morning coffee with Hadara, we can talk about this another time.”
Abraham pulled a white shirt, stained the color of rust, down over his head. “Hadara doesn’t drink coffee,” his muffled voice forced its way through the fabric. He fitted the shirt over his chest, met his wife’s pleading eyes, and held out a hand. His eyes fell, watching as Hadara’s small brown hands found a place to rest within his tired joints and callused skin. The small hands, which were very clearly not his wives, supported his stance and kept his glistening eyes from overflowing. The tears were locked in time. Frozen in a blurred state of prepubescence.
Through these blurred lenses Abraham watched the hands holding his shift in shape and form. Hadara’s soft, dark hands turned pale. As they grew, they gripped tighter and tighter to Abraham’s hand between them. The pale hands cracked and creased at odd angles as they took on a new form.
Abraham forced himself to look up into the eyes of his wife and the panicked movement forced a single tear down his cheek. Before the flood could follow, he pulled his hand away, swiped aggressively at his face, and made his swift escape back into the present.
--
Abraham pulled a hand away from the wheel to massage his tired eyes. Outside, the red tipped windmills continued to spin. The quiet radio rambled on with a history of the Wings. He picked out tidbits of the story that detailed the gang’s original mission to unify the disparate groups on Chicago’s South Side. Abraham knew better than to trust the stories he heard on the radio. The idea that the Wings had succeeded in stamping out gang violence was ridiculous. He knew of the danger posed by the Wings. He knew what it felt like when one of their red tipped windmills sent a wing flying through the sky and those on the road could do little but pray that the wing didn’t land near them.
He also knew how to tell the difference between the rain smacking against the top of his trailer and footsteps quietly shuffling into position above his cargo.
“There are three men moving along the top side of our trailer.” The mimic spoke in its typical high-pitched & measured tone.
Abraham stayed calm, leaving one hand on the wheel and using the other to press a small button on his dashboard. At his press, the vehicle redirected power to the static net lining the top of the trailer. Abraham lifted his ear, listening for silence. The continued shuffling of feet cued him in on two things. The static net had failed to lock the invaders motor functions and the vagrants on top of his trailer were smart enough to disable the net before boarding.
“DOT regulations suggest taking deep, steady breaths until you are able to reach out to law enforcement.” The mimic continued.
“Oh you know DOT regulations now?” Abraham retorted.
His hands continued to move, reaching underneath his seat for a small brown bag.
“The data uploaded by Mr. Callico included the most recent DOT regulations put in place by—”
The sound of an atomizer pierced through the atmosphere.
“Stop talking.” Abraham lifted his ear until he heard the high-pitched sound of an atomizer tearing through metal. He slowed the truck.
They are after the cargo, not me.
“Take the wheel.” Abraham commanded, then cautiously lifted his hands off the wheel.
“I am programmed to ensure the safety of any cargo that is placed under my provision. In this case that is you, Mr. Cobbe.” The program spoke.
Abraham reached for the passenger side door and released the locking mechanism. The lock immediately snapped back into place.
“With this as my directive. I cannot allow you to exit this cab.” The program continued.
He tried the lock again. It snapped back into place. “You can’t be serious.” He hit the locking mechanism and reached for the handle. The handle wouldn’t budge. He tried three more times before it was clear that he couldn’t outmaneuver the mimic. Abraham took a deep breath and spoke in even tones, “My directive is also to protect this cargo. The cargo that is currently being stolen.” His steady tone broke, speeding up as he continued. “Now download something that lets you open this door or I’m blowing a hole through it.”
The program responded with silence.
Abraham tested the lock again, but it snapped back into place like it had before. After a final frustrated breath, he opened the glove compartment. Inside sat a small black box sealed with a red warning label at both ends. Abraham grabbed the box, peeled away the seal, and let the red warning label fall to the floor.
Inside the box, a two pronged syringe labeled “AD.STIM” sat snug within a styrofoam mold. Abraham grabbed the STIM out of the mold, jammed it into his thigh, and discarded it alongside the warning label. His thigh began to quiver as the adrenaline ran its course. Before the shakes extended to his hands, Abraham grabbed the brown bag and uncovered a collapsible police baton, a half-filled jar of mace, and a snub-nosed Smith & Wesson Bodyguard. Abraham flipped the revolvers chamber open to find 4 slugs and a single empty chamber. He pushed the chamber through its rounds with a flick of his thumb and stopped it with the blank in line with the barrel.
“Last chance.” Abraham said quietly while carefully pushing the chamber back into place and tucking the collapsible baton into his pants. He placed the nose of the gun against the window with one hand, turned his head, and covered his right ear with the other.
The silence was broken by a click as Abraham cycled the blank through the chamber.
Three, two, one.
The cab filled with the explosive sound of a firearm and glass shattering. Abraham used his elbow to push the remaining pieces of glass out onto the street. Wind and thick pellets of rain forced their way into the cab, but the drivers resolve combined with the raw adrenaline to lead him through the opening and into the open air.
--
With his back to the field and the gun secured in hand between his chest and the open window, Abraham steadied himself. He looked to the left, just in time to see a masked figure pull their head back over the edge of the trailer. Abraham refocused on the space in front of him, then hoisted his own weight up to the top of the cab. Once steadied, he looked to the trailer behind him and fond a beast waiting for him, alone.
The winged beast stood inches away from a hole carved out of the trailer. His attention was directed down into the hole, away from Abraham and his gun. The driver could see that the intruder’s face was covered. Flight goggles, a red bandana, and a rust-colored hood made what could have been a thick-boned teen, appear more like a beast of legend. They stood steadily atop the trailer with broad shoulders and sturdy legs. Abraham moved to the trailer and stepped to the left, placing himself in the beast’s blind spot.
The thief adjusted his footing as a strong gust of wind came through the field on his left. The wings on his back channeled the kinetic energy created by the wind through the tri-propeller system that made it possible for the machine to take to the air. The wind didn’t force the boy to turn, but he did anyway.
Abraham was still 3-4 meters away when the thief noticed him. The intruder took a wide stance and wiped his goggles with the sleeve of his hoodie. Just as his head dipped, Abraham lifted the Smith & Wesson and pulled the trigger. The bullet cut through the wind, rain and metal propellor system attached to the thief’s back.
The sound of the gunshot was followed by the sound of a 300lb backpack smacking against the trailer. Abraham slowly approached the felled beast. They scrambled to free themselves from the suit as he approached but were quickly knocked unconscious when the back of Abraham’s Smith & Wesson smacked into the side of their head. The driver stood over the unconscious intruder with gun ready, then dropped to his knee. He removed the hood, goggles, and bandana to reveal dead eyes, brown skin, and the feintest hint of a mustache decorating the boy’s upper lip. A trickle of blood cut the boy’s face into fragments, forcing a sense of urgency into the driver’s movements. Abraham tucked the gun into his pocket and placed his hand centimeters away from the boys open mouth. A soft warm breath tickled the back of his hand, saving him and his family from a trauma that would have haunted them for generations.
“Damn kids.” He spoke into the wind as he looked to the hole carved out of his trailer. The AD.STIM gave him the strength he needed to fight the wind and stand back up. He stepped over to the hole and looked down.
Just as his line of sight pierced the metal trailer, a helmet shot up at him from within. Abraham stepped back just in time to save his skull from being crushed by the second member of the gang launching themselves out of the trailer and into the sky. The third member followed with a controlled ascent and a strong hand that locked into Abraham’s collared shirt and forced him up off his feet.
The lack of footing shattered the driver’s spatial awareness, giving the winged pilot the chance to locate the collapsible police baton tucked into his jeans. The second winged beast positioned themselves beneath Abraham, grabbed his ankle with both hands and freed him from the first pilot’s grip.
Now, Abraham dangled upside down, swaying in the wind as the winged monsters above him flew back toward the truck.
The driver inhaled deeply and steadied his vision long enough to see two things. First, the mimic had stopped the truck in the middle of the road. If the Wings hadn’t thought he had a co-driver before, they did now. Second, the winged pilot that had originally lifted him off the trailer was flying directly at him with the police baton in hand. Abraham stabbed his right hand into his pocket and pulled out the revolver. He put two shots into the air before the pilot above him could adjust its flight pattern. The maneuver that followed forced the gun out of Abraham’s hand and made him direct his focus on the breakfast that was beginning to force its way back up.
The first bullet flew aimlessly through the air, a test shot. The second connected with the approaching pilots right wing and sent them into a controlled dive. Abraham watched as the pilot tumbled through the air and crash landed just short of the street. The beast holding on to his ankle slowed their winged suit to a hover. Abraham looked up, watching as the last thief searched the sky for their partner. The pair hung in the sky, slowly descending as the suit struggled to maintain altitude with the added weight of its captive. Then, Abraham fell.
--
From inside the truck’s cab, rain continued to poor down over the windshield, softening the outside world. Each drop left its impact, but none left a mark.
Tap, tap, tap.
Tapping until each tap was lost in a flood of incomprehensible noise.