Okay, so this was mostly written in the last hour...
John Jonson sat forward in an almost too comfortable two-person seat staring out the scenic window of his 'pod'. It wasn't really a pod-not really. It was more like a sports car without the controls. That was the first problem.
You see, John Jonson worked for the city's tourism department. He was riding a tourist rail, and a two-person car was too small for most tourist groups, no matter how many amenities were added to it.
Sometimes, it was scary riding the 'pods'. Most commuters didn't know what he knew. John Jonson's father had been one of the men who designed the original Japanese 'pods'-quite like personal bullet trains. He, himself, had a part in the design of the aptly named "Commuter's Transports".
Most people didn't know that the transport they were riding wasn't even touching a track. It was magnetic-it rode a river of magnetic waves along tubes all across the city. It was what allowed them to travel at speeds only possible in frictionless vacuum, and what allowed them to, seemingly, stop on a dime. Most people didn't know that the windows separating them from the vacuum of the tubes were only millimetres thick, and weren't glass at all. They were made of a metal that was far beyond John Jonson-a metal, obviously, made for being strong yet transparent.
"Would you like some more refreshments, Mr Jonson?" A computer asked.
John Jonson scribbled in his notebook. Another mistake he had to fix. His ex-wife's voice irritated him.
"No," he said curtly, as though she were in the 'pod' with him, then turned back to the scenery.
Endless miles of ocean were outside the 'window'. The last time he'd bothered to pay attention, he'd been looking out at the San Francisco harbour only thirty or forty feet above the surface. As he watched then, the clouds were coming closer and closer. The sun was directly above him-or, at least, close enough not to matter. He could just make out the bottom of the city-a boat, likely carrying construction workers, entering a port connected to one of the massive concrete piers-if he tried hard enough. The support beams made out of a metal stronger than steel but softer than silk. Each beam was a foot thick, made of these strings spun together into an enormous rope.
He didn't feel the shake. He couldn't know anything was wrong. It was one of the safety features. Moving at such a speed would turn anyone's stomach into a series of knots. Inertial dampeners, so to speak, were developed for exactly that reason. Of course, they were primitive compared to those in science fiction literature and entertainment, but they served their purpose well.
Something fell past the window too fast for John Jonson to recognize. An audible shockwave of a thud on the tube made his heart pound as if he was running a marathon. John Jonson felt the bile rising in his stomach as he saw the charred and bloody face plastered to the once scenic view-window of the tube rush past him. Another thud, and he was really starting to get nervous. The entire pod shook, and he could see air passing between his pod and the tube wall.
Then there was no tube. He watched-held by gravity's nemesis, free-fall, to the wrong end of the pod-as he fell a mile and a half to the surface of the water. He saw the city; an architectural masterpiece. A hollow pyramid eighteen times the size of the Pyramid of Giza-two layers taller than it's Japanese sister city. Skyscrapers hung from the point of each of the one hundred forty smaller pyramids like fruit from an odd-looking tree.
His last moments were on their way, but his life didn't flash before his eyes. He cursed himself for his last thoughts being not about loved ones, but five words.
"This pod is definitely failing."
You see, John Jonson worked for the city's tourism department. He was riding a tourist rail, and a two-person car was too small for most tourist groups, no matter how many amenities were added to it.
Sometimes, it was scary riding the 'pods'. Most commuters didn't know what he knew. John Jonson's father had been one of the men who designed the original Japanese 'pods'-quite like personal bullet trains. He, himself, had a part in the design of the aptly named "Commuter's Transports".
Most people didn't know that the transport they were riding wasn't even touching a track. It was magnetic-it rode a river of magnetic waves along tubes all across the city. It was what allowed them to travel at speeds only possible in frictionless vacuum, and what allowed them to, seemingly, stop on a dime. Most people didn't know that the windows separating them from the vacuum of the tubes were only millimetres thick, and weren't glass at all. They were made of a metal that was far beyond John Jonson-a metal, obviously, made for being strong yet transparent.
"Would you like some more refreshments, Mr Jonson?" A computer asked.
John Jonson scribbled in his notebook. Another mistake he had to fix. His ex-wife's voice irritated him.
"No," he said curtly, as though she were in the 'pod' with him, then turned back to the scenery.
Endless miles of ocean were outside the 'window'. The last time he'd bothered to pay attention, he'd been looking out at the San Francisco harbour only thirty or forty feet above the surface. As he watched then, the clouds were coming closer and closer. The sun was directly above him-or, at least, close enough not to matter. He could just make out the bottom of the city-a boat, likely carrying construction workers, entering a port connected to one of the massive concrete piers-if he tried hard enough. The support beams made out of a metal stronger than steel but softer than silk. Each beam was a foot thick, made of these strings spun together into an enormous rope.
He didn't feel the shake. He couldn't know anything was wrong. It was one of the safety features. Moving at such a speed would turn anyone's stomach into a series of knots. Inertial dampeners, so to speak, were developed for exactly that reason. Of course, they were primitive compared to those in science fiction literature and entertainment, but they served their purpose well.
Something fell past the window too fast for John Jonson to recognize. An audible shockwave of a thud on the tube made his heart pound as if he was running a marathon. John Jonson felt the bile rising in his stomach as he saw the charred and bloody face plastered to the once scenic view-window of the tube rush past him. Another thud, and he was really starting to get nervous. The entire pod shook, and he could see air passing between his pod and the tube wall.
Then there was no tube. He watched-held by gravity's nemesis, free-fall, to the wrong end of the pod-as he fell a mile and a half to the surface of the water. He saw the city; an architectural masterpiece. A hollow pyramid eighteen times the size of the Pyramid of Giza-two layers taller than it's Japanese sister city. Skyscrapers hung from the point of each of the one hundred forty smaller pyramids like fruit from an odd-looking tree.
His last moments were on their way, but his life didn't flash before his eyes. He cursed himself for his last thoughts being not about loved ones, but five words.
"This pod is definitely failing."