The Road to Hell by Peter Cawdron Page B

robotic driver.
    “ The Astor, South-side, on Maple,” replied Harrison.
    Outside, flashes of yellow and red whipped by the smoothly accelerating cab. Rain pelted the roof, streaming past on the windows, distorting the image of reality around them into a blur of colour. Neon signs lit up the night. XXX Shows, No Loan Refused, Jackal on Primetime, Phase-Cola, pawn brokers and Turkish bath houses all called out, yearning for business.
    Inside the cab, warm air began flowing from the ceiling. Music played softly while various advertisements rolled across the back of the driver’s seat.
    “ Why the Astor?” asked Susan.
    “ That’s where this all began,” replied Harrison. “From what I’ve heard on the street, some serious heat came down there about three or four days ago, which fits in with the time stamps on your photos. I figure that’s where your shots were taken, so if we’re going to pick up the trail, that’s the place to start.”
    The cab rolled slightly, weaving its way through the old town, around buildings and spires, passing several pylons supporting the new city above. Susan stared out at the rain, watching as other craft whipped by just a few feet on either side, their computerised collision avoidance systems constantly correcting their course, ensuring order in the midst of the chaos in the air-lane. Slowly, the fluorescent neon signs began to fade as the cab moved out of downtown and into the old industrial area that had once been Newark, New Jersey.
    The cab descended next to a burnt out factory and pulled up in front of the Astor. Vacancies shone in red neon, flickering in the darkness above the hotel entrance. Harrison paid in hard currency, not something uncommon in this part of town, where no one knew anything and nothing ever happened, nothing that could be proven at least.
    Susan questioned him about it, so Harrison explained.
    "Hard currency is a convenient way of avoiding an electronic trail, which is the sort of thing the police data mining department is always scanning for, some confluence of seemingly unrelated, benign events that together revealed criminal activity. Too much Big Brother for my liking so I stick with cash."
    "Cops are dumb," Harrison continued. "Too much bureaucracy to ever be effective. Too much reliance on technology, when nothing will ever supersede the human brain. Even robots, for all their advances, are still no match for human thinking. At best, they are simply clever mimics drawing on psychometric interpretations, but never really thinking or reasoning for themselves."
    Outside the cab, a couple of teenagers sat up against the side of the hotel. They weren’t bums, just out for a good night. Having had a bit too much alcohol, they were mellowing, sitting on a bench shooting the breeze as the nightlife rolled past. One of them, a girl, was about Susan’s height and build. Harrison pushed 20 credits into her hand and said, “This is for the shoes.”
    “ What?” the girl asked, somewhat confused. “Hey, leave off,” she cried as Harrison ripped her sand-shoes off one by one and tossed them to Susan. Her drunken boyfriend was slow to catch on and in no state to do anything other than laugh.
    “ No, wait,” the drunk girl cried as Harrison kept walking and turned into the hotel. Susan followed hard behind him, hopping as she slipped on the sneakers. Not a bad fit, she thought, a little worn, but not too bad at all.
    “ Thanks,” Susan called out, waving at the bewildered girl as she disappeared inside the hotel.
    A blast of warm air hit her as she stepped inside the lobby, which was a welcome relief from the cold damp of the city.
    Smoke wafted from a cigarette sitting in an ashtray on the counter. Smoking was illegal. She knew that, and she was learning that, down here, nobody cared about the law.
    Dark stains marred the carpet on the floor. The lobby was small, claustrophobic. Fake mahogany panels lined the walls while a small, electric chandelier hung