Konsk: The Great Takeover of the Place

25 Approach to Centre

Trueman's eyes fair gleamed with excitement, for on the track up ahead was a vision in shiny black with the gleam of multiple headlights, finned wings, tinted screen and thin bands of gold lining, glowing sparkles seeming to slide back and forth along them.

“This is more like it!” He exclaimed as he began to hurry towards it. It appeared to be driverless as well; intriguing!

Rhia followed more slowly, leading a snorting Toby. They stopped, still some distance from it.

The car, for that is what it most definitely is, thought Trueman, began to emit a beeping and then a large section of the side pivoted upward to reveal a single, well padded seat. A synthesised voice spoke from the vehicle.

“Your transit awaits you,” it said,” Sir.”

This was indeed more like it! Trueman almost skipped as he approached to examine it in more detail.

“Wait!”

He turned back to Rhia. She looked positively alarmed and struggled for words.

“You mustn't- I really don't think that's a good- oh, come back, please!”

Trueman hesitated for only a moment, before turning back to the vehicle, fascinated. He checked his internal HUD but there were no flashing indicators that might have suggested danger. Then he was decided.

He looked back to the young woman, for the last time, feeling that despite her secrecy and lies, some expression of gratitude was required.

“Thank you,” he said, feeling rather awkward. “For the, um, lift. And, um, the porridge,” he added.

Then he turned his back on her, Toby, the caravan and the forest and approached his new carriage. He walked once around it. It was smaller than he had at first thought and the shiny black was a bit dull in places with several scratches on the side, one quite deep and areas of paintwork that looked smudged, as though something had been wiped off. Admittedly it only had three wheels but the tyres looked rugged and suitable for a variety of terrains.

“Please enter,” said the car,” And be seated, Sir.”

Well, why not, he thought and got in. It was a bit of a squeeze and rocked like a boat as he tried to settle himself; the vehicle had obviously not been designed for a six foot four muscle man. He succeeded at last, more or less. There was a small steering wheel before him. He gripped it eagerly, noticing it was displaced slightly to the left of the seat and caused a minor twinge in his back. There was a plain dashboard of semi transparent material and various dials and indicators appeared to float slightly above the surface.

“Please engage your seat,” the synthesised voice intoned, stopped, then continued,” belt.. belt.”

“OK,” muttered Trueman, fumbling with straps and fasteners. An indicator on the dash went off.

A motor whined quietly. Electric, marvelled Trueman, just as he had imagined, way back at the Little Big Farm.

“Auto-driver engaged,” the voice spoke up.

Even better! He sat back, or tried to but there wasn't quite enough room. I wonder, he thought.

“Destination?” He asked, then added politely, “Please?”

“Alt-Tech Primary Media Centre.”

Ah, at last! Serious progress. Now he would have the chance to find out what was really going on!

“Letth be off then!” He ordered, happily.

“Voice command not understood,” the car intoned.

Damn this tongue! Trueman cursed. After several attempts, various indicators lit up including some informative words like “auto-driver engaged” and “journey commenced”. The pitch of the whine dropped a little and the vehicle began to execute a multi-point turn on the track, there not being much room, moving only fractionally forward and back each time. It seemed to be rather over cautious, thought Trueman, wondering how he might tweak the coding.

As the car turned around, very slowly, Trueman had a last, rather long look at the caravan, pony and Rhia. She seemed somewhat distressed, he thought, holding her head in her hands and casting occasional glances towards him, her lips working as if she was talking to herself. Was she crying? After a while longer, the vehicle completed its manoeuvre and set off at a brisk pace along the track. His last glance at Rhia confirmed she was crying.

No matter; he attempted to put her from his mind. At first there came a sense of relief that this woman who had so disturbed him would be out of his life again, possibly forever but this was followed almost immediately by a powerful feeling of loss and regret. There had been something intensely familiar about her which he could not place. Was it Dawn that she reminded him of? Or his daughter, Catti? The thought was absurd, how could a grown woman remind him of his six year old daughter? His attention turned inside as he conjured images of the Little Big Farm as though to aid his struggling thoughts but it was no use. The memory, if it was a memory, remained elusive.

A small display on the dash showed the route ahead, wiggling slightly. Despite the suspension it was a wobbly ride, all three wheels being always in contact with the ground and hence following every minor indentation. Still, he thought, now at least I'm going in the right direction! He began to observe his surroundings again, hoping for a glimpse of more advanced structures, perhaps even that space port!

As the forest receded behind, dwellings became more obvious, less nestled in the landscape or sheltered by trees. Neither were they sited with just southern aspects, or so well spaced. Rather than just timber, stone and turf, brick, dense concrete block and other materials were now apparent and they were often jumbled together with at times the feel of shanties, improvised roofs of rusted corrugated metal or sheeting, even tarpaulin. The gardens were more recognisable as such to Trueman, beds of single species rather than the apparent haphazard collections that had reminded him of Dawn's untidy maze garden.

Large clearings of various crops appeared with lines of ragged looking folk working their way through the young plants. Were they weeding the fields by hand? Some of these fields were enclosed by high, mesh fences with regularly placed signs. Although he was unable to read the lettering on them, a lot of it seemed to be red and he wasn't sure if some of the individuals within were wearing uniforms and carrying objects that didn't really look like agricultural implements but more like weapons. There seemed to be a considerable number of fallen trees or rather the large butts of fallen trees, all the branches having been cut off and taken away, for firewood perhaps?

He also began to notice what he could only call rubbish, something he realised had been wholly absent from the earlier parts of his journey, in the so-called old country of the cantrefi. Here there were piles of discarded materials, metals, decaying wood, even plastics and other odds and ends in the bottom of the hedgerows; it reminded him of his own nineteen seventies and eighties.

After a long, steady rise they crested a line of low hills and looked down into a broad valley that cradled a large village or small town where roads drew together. Though there were still woods, these appeared as isolated blocks. There were rows of terraced houses, larger, possibly public buildings and detached bungalows. Further to the east he could make out the blades of many windmills, some stationary, others turning slowly. A great flock of dark birds swirled and turned over the valley and a pall of cloud or smoke loomed beyond the far horizon.

The vehicle continued its bumpy descent towards the valley floor and joined what Trueman could at last call a road. Abruptly the vehicle's passage became smooth. Tarmac! He thought in wonder. Civilisation! Then the car lurched as it hit a deep pothole.

Down on the valley floor, other roads intersected at right angles to the one he travelled. He was pleased to see legible signs declaring directions to “Level 3 Collection-Distribution”, “Site Barracks”, “Energy Generation Plant” and “Inter-Operation Security”.

It wasn’t a shining space port, yet, but the terminology stirred his interest; it sounded much more organised.

Other vehicles moved on these roads, larger truck-like ones, well laden, whining quietly and some smaller, of various shapes and colours. People cycling or walking too, rather busy looking, their heads forward, hurrying.

Now the shining bulge of a large geodesic dome came into view that Trueman estimated at perhaps 50 metres in height, metal framed with rigid panels of smoked glass and plastic. Then a large dish, possibly a radio telescope, thought Trueman, like a crude, cold flower and a big wind turbine turned ponderously on its concrete tower. The lower part of the base of the tower had been gaudily painted. How jolly, he thought, until the improved eyesight of the new body seemed to focus more clearly and he realised it was rather obscene graffiti. The most colourful glyph stated “Earth's Fist”. Beyond the far eastern horizon, clouds thickened, glimmered as though lit by distant fires or lightning. Was that a far off booming?

Trueman ignored a twinge of concern and turned his attention to the more immediate surroundings. Fascinating! He thought; What was the purpose of the dish? And what about the power source? Surely that turbine doesn’t generate sufficient energy for the whole settlement? He looked to the north. A sign said there was another generator. Does that provide energy for industry, some sort of distribution network?”

“Approaching the Alt-Tech Primary Media Centre,” the car's voice spoke quietly.

He became more excited. To his great surprise, he found himself striving to whistle, yet the tongue could not master the subtle positioning that was required and he managed only a feeble peep or two. Ah well, it was of no importance.

At last, he thought, obvious signs of technology and the sense of an underlying science, at least some of which he felt he was familiar with. Somewhere here he would surely meet up with scientific minds like himself, peers with whom he might converse and contribute towards solving the evident problems facing this apparently post-apocalyptic society.

The car suddenly executed an emergency stop as two people ran into its path. Trueman was thrown forward against the seat belt. The car began to beep loudly.

“Please clear the road,” it stated politely.

Trueman stared forwards. One of the newcomers, a youth he thought, of indeterminate sex, had placed a traffic cone in front of the vehicle. The other, another youth, was busily spraying something onto the bonnet. Both were wearing scarfs around the lower part of their faces. In less than a minute they had completed whatever it was they had intended to do and dashed off to the side. The last one waved a familiar rude hand gesture at Trueman before disappearing behind a wall.

Well, thought Trueman, that was a bit unnecessary.

The car repeated its request and increased the volume of its beeps. The cone did not move. On the fourth repetition the car dropped the “please”. Trueman began to look for something that resembled a door handle, thinking he might as well nip out and move the cone; obviously the car's auto-pilot was having a problem. Before he could, the car decided on an alternative strategy and began reversing and attempting to drive around the obstacle without crossing the white lines at the sides of the road. That there was not room did not deter it from nudging forward and backward fruitlessly. Trueman was becoming exasperated.

Fortunately a pedestrian noticed the car's confusion and stepping into the road, deftly snatched the cone aside. The car set off again, silently, leaving Trueman to provide a courteous wave of thanks. The pedestrian, a clean shaven man, replied in kind, then stared through the screen at Trueman before turning hurriedly away, a look of shock on his face.

The roadway here was lined with a formal arrangement of trees and bushes. There were sculptures also, mainly polished metal and representational, of human figures, in heroic postures, as though seeing a distant landscape, or reaching up as if for stars. Mostly they were of men though there were some female forms, kneeling or standing behind the men, rather voluptuous, thought Trueman, with supportive hands placed on their man's broad shoulders. Between the shrubbery and statues, Trueman caught tantalising glimpses of pastel coloured structures, perhaps dwellings although some might have been small factory units or workshops with rows of windows to catch the light and people working within.

Each branch in the road provided partial views of colonnades or fountains or some feature worthy of attention. Everything was just right, subtly so, the gentle hues, the proliferation of plants, all appearing immaculately green without a trace of disease or pest damage; almost as if they were plastic, he thought. Indeed, there was an air of manufactured perfection to it all and Trueman began to find it rather disturbing; it reminded him of his daughter Catti's construction set.

The arc of the dome hung above the trees ahead and gradually grew until it filled his forward vision. Banks of solar cells were mounted on its sunward side, only the smears of droppings from the many birds who sought out this warm perch marring the visual perfection. There was a lessening of traffic as he neared the Centre. Trueman’s eyes were drawn to the upper curve of the geodesic dome, gleaming in the sunshine as it rose above the trees. Through the smoked glass he thought he could make out various levels and dim figures at work within. Not long now, he thought.

Then the base of the dome became visible and what looked like a grand entrance, ramps and steps carefully arranged, perhaps to draw crowds of people towards the multiple glass doors. He was disappointed when the car turned to the right and progressed around the dome until it arrived at a far less obvious entrance porch. Rather like a tradesman's entrance, he thought.

The car stopped and announced it had reached it's destination. The side door swung up and open, creaking and a man approached, rather cautiously. He had obviously been waiting for the new arrival and now, at the last minute, Trueman was suddenly filled with doubt, realising that he knew nothing about this place or its many occupants.

When he didn't move, the man edged further towards the car, very slowly. Trueman struggled briefly with the seat belt release mechanism and clumsily pulled himself out of the vehicle. It rocked violently with the change in weight.

This man, shaven faced and young, forehead wrinkled in concentration, or concern, seemed unsure whether to offer help or not. He wore a well fitted, one piece suit with multiple pockets, mauve with purple piping. Over his heart was the image of the planet, green and blue with a white twist of cloud, above, an illuminated name badge, stating “Laurence”. He backed off suddenly when Trueman stretched after sitting so long in such a constricted position.

Trueman, a rather bewildered look to his face, stared about him, as if seeking an escape route.

“Would you care to follow me, Sir?” Laurence managed at last, nervously.

Trueman took a last look back at his carriage, noticing the new addition of a stencilled fist in bright green on the bonnet. He chose to grunt as a reply and followed as Laurence started back towards the entrance portico. Keeping several paces ahead and slightly to one side, Laurence half turned as he attempted to keep Trueman in sight but he didn't find this easy and stumbled repeatedly, hurrying forward each time to maintain his distance.

A safe distance, wondered Trueman?

At the entrance, another man, also clean shaven with even shorter cropped hair, wore a similar suit but this one loose and bagging at the calves where they met high-laced, black boots. A waistcoat of a dark, semi-rigid material, gave him a military look and a great variety of devices were clipped or hung from various straps, at least one of which looked to Trueman like a holstered weapon. Over the heart this one had the same green and blue planet emblem and swirl of cloud but the name badge simply stated “Security 32”.

Laurence spoke quietly to the second man who moved to stand well to one side. The glass door opened of itself with a swish that seemed to continue for a second after the movement had ended. Laurence entered the dome.

Trueman took a last look round and a deep breath then followed Laurence, aware that the second man had drawn in two paces behind him, his right hand lowering to lightly rest upon the handle of his weapon.

Thus did Trueman, self professed hacker and scientific genius of a bygone age, enter the Alt-Tech Primary Media Centre of one of the richest men in the world, feeling any confidence he might have had melt rapidly away as he faced yet another unknown future.

And this one appeared to include guns.

Thanks for reading. Comments, suggestions, criticisms always welcome. Various things rising with spring sap, including Designing for Fire, The Real Coed Y Brenin and its Changing Patterns of Rainfall and of course, more Konsk. Till then, take care all. Hwyl! Chris.