Jones dropped his visitor’s badge on the hall floor. He headed down to street level, skipping the checkout at security. His client’s office was in an old art deco low rise that had kept its historical facade. As Jones passed through the wrought brass doors, the sun broke through the clouds. A soft orange glow lit up the plastered balconies and fire escapes on the row houses crowding the street. Jones felt heat rising under his collar, and unzipped his fleece jacket. Monterrey had been a sweatbox that morning, and even up here in the Bay it was getting hot. Stepping down onto the sidewalk, Jones began to make his way downhill, calves aching.
Even though the sun had nudged aside the clouds, the mood on the sidewalk was grim and hurried. A pharmacy marquee announced that it was two in the afternoon. Commuters streamed towards the entrances to the BART, heads down, elbows akimbo. Others jostled for open space on corporate shuttle busses with unusual ferocity. Jones wondered how fast the news was spreading. To avoid texts from Franklin Rubicon, he’d given his phone to a homeless family in the Tenderloin that morning. He was starting to regret it. He wouldn’t be able to call a Robot Ride to get him out of the city.
On Geary street, Jones passed a diner, and considered stopping for a bite to eat. After one look at the patrons lining the counter, he decided to keep moving. Men and women, dressed in dark technical fabrics, filled the counter seats. Blackwork tattoos poked out from under their sleeves. They wore wireless headphones, or augmented glasses, and ate their omelettes in grim unison without speaking.
Jones found the entrance to the BART and descended the stairs. Students and workers crowded the station. The line to enter the platform was twenty people deep. The men queued in front of Jones at the fare machine stared at their banking apps, refreshing the balance of their investment accounts over and over. It didn’t look good. Some of them were trying to trade with one hand while fishing their credit cards out of their wallets with the other. Jones dug around in his pants pockets, looking for quarters. His clients had said they would reimburse travel. He wondered if he should save his receipt. It did not seem plausible that they’d reimburse for his trip home. It also did not seem plausible that had his wallet.
Jones ditched the line and made his way to the customer service booth. “Can I use your phone?” he asked. “It’s a bit of an emergency.” The station attendant gave him a dirty look through the scratched plexiglas window and returned her attention to her phone. She also had her investment app open. Jones knocked on the window. The station attendant, who had started to pack her purse, shook her head, letting out a visible sigh. She opened up the gate and walked out, leaving the booth open. Jones paused for a second to watch her as she dashed up the marble stairs and out of the station. Sliding into the booth, he grabbed the service telephone from the wall and called Amelia, his secretary.
“Thank god you called,” she said. “Things are heating up over here.”
A woman wearing a fake fox stole pounded on the plexiglas window. She waved her fare card at him. Through hand signals, Jones tried to explain that he didn’t work for BART, and couldn’t help her. Throwing up her hands in frustration, the woman dropped the fare card to the ground and took a running leap towards the turnstiles. She cleared them with two feet to spare, the tail of her stole trailing her gracefully.
“There’s a lot happening here too,” said Jones. “Do you see my wallet anywhere?”
“Get back to the office any way you can,” Amelia instructed. “We need to board up the windows and stock up on fresh water. I’m working on tape backups of all your photos, in case the data centers shut down.”
“Does that seem drastic?” Jones asked. In the background of the call, he thought he heard a wrench clanging against a pipe.
“I refuse to be on the streets when the internet goes out,” Amelia said, her voice husky with effort. “You’re lucky that your agency is so unsuccessful, Jones. You’ll be better prepared than the rest of us for what’s about to come.” She hung up. Carefully placing the receiver back on the hook, Jones opened the back door of the booth and made his way down to the platform.
He had to wait for three trains to arrive before he was able to secure himself a spot. After stepping hard on a few toes, he wedged himself between a group of boisterous teenage boys and two hunched, weeping stockbrokers. Jones considered the scene waiting for him back at his office. He decided, before heading back, to visit his old friend Bugs. Amelia was an effective secretary, but terrifying when she was in project mode. Everyone would be happier if he stayed out of the way.