I’ve hated these places since Croke got killed. Stupid. Got caught red-handed and tried to make a run for it in the Station. Cameras and avatars everywhere. He never stood a chance. Now I’m doing the same thing.
The curtains part in the info desk and the avatar looks up. Supposed to make it more human. Like Good Old-Fashioned People who answer questions. And sell you a ticket, if you’re a tourist. They are, without doubt, the creepiest thing ever.
“Good morning, sir,” it says. It waits for me to say what I want. Customers don’t like questions.
“I need to get out of here and I don’t have a ticket.” I need to get away from Rail Security. Actual people. I miss them talking to this piece of rubber. “I’ve dropped my ticket,” I say.
“I can’t let you out without a ticket.”
“I came from Centre. There was a commotion on the train.” Caused by me, I don’t add. “I don’t know where I lost it.”
“I can check the cameras for you.”
“Well, I’ve got this parcel, you see. It’s rather heavy.” It is. I have the jewels well wrapped up inside. “Do I really have to go all the way back?”
“I can’t let you out without a ticket,” it says, and we’re back to square one. Robo—effing—Jobsworth.
I give it an obscene smile. “I’m a foreign tourist,” I say. “This won’t look good when I go to the embassy.” Tourists are an endangered species.
I could swear the avatar leers. “A foreign tourist is someone who arrives from abroad for business and/or recreation, Mr Field.”
Christ. I look around. Talking to me?
“Mr who? My name is Gustav Flederson. Here.” I dig in my pocket. Let my face fall. “I… I’ve lost my passport.”
“I can check the cameras for you, Mr Field.”
“Mr Flederson.”
“Mr Field. Is your parcel heavy? You can leave it with me.” A hatch opens in the kiosk that the avatar occupies.
“I want to speak to your supervisor,” I say.
The avatar’s eyes dim. It spins on its chair, and I face the back of its head. Which looks the same as the front, but softened to make it look female. She has a yellow chip on her uniform to show she’s the boss.
“How can I help you, Mr Fie—”
“Mr Flederson. The other fellow was most rude, and he tried to take my parcel. Is this the way you treat tourists?”
“Mr Fiel—”
“Mr Flederson. I won’t say it again.”
“Let me apologise if you are unhappy with the service provided by English Rail, Mr Field. However, you need a ticket to leave the station as my colleague informed you.”
I say nothing. I am Mr Flederson and I will not say it again.
“Mr Field. If there is nothing else perhaps you can either show me your ticket, or else make room for other passengers.”
There are no other passengers.
She tries again. I stay quiet.
After 30 minutes, the curtains close and they are gone. Automatic timeout. I stroll through the gates, where the mechanism has been paused. The avatars have registered an anomaly in the system.
The City and Security people looking for me. They won’t catch me here. They have it all on camera and will try to work it out and close that loophole. But it’s not really a loophole, it’s the truth.
I live in the country, that’s where I got the name Mr Field from. I really am Mr Flederson.
Here on business and business is good.
