Bob in the Land Beyond

Laden with their cargo tonnage, the hulking Octo-Cycloids thundering on my flanks threw sprays of rainwater at my transparent enviro-shield. Streaming down the 12-lane MegaHighway, the corruption and misery of the Black Fortress faded quickly in distance, but regrettably not in memory.

I am a writer: not a greying sage high up in his ivory tower, but your hungry, faithful scribe, posting my stories back to more peaceful worlds from the chaos and poverty of this benighted dimension.

I was born in the Compact Housing Grids of the northern sectors, the likes of which I could look upon from the seat of my personal transport module, through the blurring media of greasy plexiglass and honest, manly tears. Here, oily smoke plumes mark the daily collisions of jet-boy racers’ chromed machines with reinforced concrete; here the gaping facades of vacant retail properties line every approach. I would sincerely hope, dear reader, you will have no reason to become acquainted with such a place.

It was she, when I was first came to Centre as a young man apprenticed to the Guild of my profession, who first showed me the truly magnificent possibilities of life beyond the great vacuum of the outer districts. She too was then newly a scholar, but foremost a princess.

At first trepidation held me back from the edges of the circles she moved in, but riding high one night on spirits and branded caffeine infusions, I finally made her acquaintance. In spite of her regality, she looked beyond my poor Sprawl-boy exterior and embraced me, undeserving, as her equal.

We united in our love of the analogue-pop of the rag-tag Guitar Kids in their independent clubs, and in our alignment with the rebel bloc fighting against the iniquity of participation by our Imperial troops in aggression against the Oriental territories, but these superficialities only presaged far deeper emotion. We spent nights ensconced together in the warmth and security of her Royal Fortress, safe against the viral smogs and hordes of narco-zombies abounding in the urban zone beyond.

How can I relate, to those who never known it, the ecstatic foreknowledge that an eternity of bliss awaits you and your beloved in the rejuvenation vats? But this gleaming future was stillborn, diseased like the offspring of Clone-Tank Plague – poisoned! by her consort, Darren, the Islington Tax Accountant!

Now, cherished reader, I am driven to the Land Beyond. The journey will be hazardous and unending, but the blasted nuclear wastelands will perhaps lack the hollows and crannies in which the memory of her face might flourish.

The module’s radio communicator trills through my reverie! Gingerly, I punch ‘Accept Call’.

Bob? I know you can hear me, Bob. I’ve been ringing your phone for hours. Please listen to me. I’m sorry, I’m so sorry. Please turn the car around and come home so we can talk. Bob, I -

-- written by J. A. Davies