the rural zones, large areas of Great Britain exclusively designated to agriculture. People had abandoned the once-desirable countryside for the safety and security of the major towns and cities, UN Hibernation subsidies being the biggest incentive of them all.
In the cities, living was good. Jen could see it all around her. Affluence. It would be in stark contrast to where she was heading.
The solar embedded roads of greater London gave way to regular tarmac as she reached the outer checkpoints. Here, most of the vehicles were either carrying supplies or workers. She entered the priority lane and pulled up in front of a booth.
A droid asked her to flip her visor, its green light flashing across her retina.
‘Reason for travel?’ the droid asked.
‘Leisure,’ she replied.
Once past this checkpoint, if they wanted to know her whereabouts, they would have to track her. She still couldn’t believe she had to think like this. Her frequent use of the word they was worrying. Were they really now the enemy?
The droid opened the barrier and Jen pulled away, the road ahead strangely quiet. To her left, huge buildings flashed gold, bathed in the reflective glow of the morning sun. She decided to make the most of the decent road surface and pushed her bike up a notch. Twenty minutes later and the buildings of the past were all but gone, replaced by fields of crop and huge processing plants. Every few miles small, town-like communities would appear, their sole purpose to house farm workers and technicians. Feeding the UK was big business.
Above her the vapour trails of light air travel were broken by a huge transport ship descending into an airport just south of Thame. She tucked her head down and rode on. Despite her heated clothing the wind chill was starting to eat at her bones. The sun had disappeared by the time she reached Burford, smothered by dark clouds that sat ominously over the old town. She remembered the tourist attraction it had once been, thought back to her childhood when she would beg her parents to take her to the old-style sweet shop there. Even then the town had been struggling, the shops slowly closing down, the city migration already underway. Aldsworth, her destination, was seven miles ahead, but out of curiosity she turned right, wanting to see the high street again. As she dropped down the sloping hill her bike’s tyres adapted to the road surface, which was potholed and uneven.
Burford was quiet. The Cotswold stone cottages lining the once-pretty descent were covered in ivy and some of the windows were smashed. She could see a few people, most of them wearing the familiar overalls of land workers. The shops she remembered were gone, closed up or converted into open-fronted garages housing machinery. The old-style country pubs she remembered were still standing, but only one appeared to be trading. It was tired looking with a cluster of street sellers plying their trade on the pavement outside.
She had heard stories of how the old towns were almost dead. They were right. This place was a ghost town. A group of workers eyed her suspiciously. Jen guessed they didn’t see many motorbikes this way, particularly modern electric ones. The atmosphere here was unnerving. It felt almost lawless, like something out of the Wild West films her father had enjoyed. Bad things could happen out here and no one would know.
Her thoughts returned to the job in hand. She turned the bike around and sped back up the high street. This time she didn’t look anywhere except ahead.
Just before the turning to Aldsworth, she pulled in and watched huge farming machines hovering over fields that stretched on for miles. They were the size of passenger aircraft, yet she could see at least nine. She noticed a group of men in white protective clothing hosing down what looked like a large harvester. The days of manned farming had ended years ago, but people were still needed to maintain and manage the process.
She was only
In the cities, living was good. Jen could see it all around her. Affluence. It would be in stark contrast to where she was heading.
The solar embedded roads of greater London gave way to regular tarmac as she reached the outer checkpoints. Here, most of the vehicles were either carrying supplies or workers. She entered the priority lane and pulled up in front of a booth.
A droid asked her to flip her visor, its green light flashing across her retina.
‘Reason for travel?’ the droid asked.
‘Leisure,’ she replied.
Once past this checkpoint, if they wanted to know her whereabouts, they would have to track her. She still couldn’t believe she had to think like this. Her frequent use of the word they was worrying. Were they really now the enemy?
The droid opened the barrier and Jen pulled away, the road ahead strangely quiet. To her left, huge buildings flashed gold, bathed in the reflective glow of the morning sun. She decided to make the most of the decent road surface and pushed her bike up a notch. Twenty minutes later and the buildings of the past were all but gone, replaced by fields of crop and huge processing plants. Every few miles small, town-like communities would appear, their sole purpose to house farm workers and technicians. Feeding the UK was big business.
Above her the vapour trails of light air travel were broken by a huge transport ship descending into an airport just south of Thame. She tucked her head down and rode on. Despite her heated clothing the wind chill was starting to eat at her bones. The sun had disappeared by the time she reached Burford, smothered by dark clouds that sat ominously over the old town. She remembered the tourist attraction it had once been, thought back to her childhood when she would beg her parents to take her to the old-style sweet shop there. Even then the town had been struggling, the shops slowly closing down, the city migration already underway. Aldsworth, her destination, was seven miles ahead, but out of curiosity she turned right, wanting to see the high street again. As she dropped down the sloping hill her bike’s tyres adapted to the road surface, which was potholed and uneven.
Burford was quiet. The Cotswold stone cottages lining the once-pretty descent were covered in ivy and some of the windows were smashed. She could see a few people, most of them wearing the familiar overalls of land workers. The shops she remembered were gone, closed up or converted into open-fronted garages housing machinery. The old-style country pubs she remembered were still standing, but only one appeared to be trading. It was tired looking with a cluster of street sellers plying their trade on the pavement outside.
She had heard stories of how the old towns were almost dead. They were right. This place was a ghost town. A group of workers eyed her suspiciously. Jen guessed they didn’t see many motorbikes this way, particularly modern electric ones. The atmosphere here was unnerving. It felt almost lawless, like something out of the Wild West films her father had enjoyed. Bad things could happen out here and no one would know.
Her thoughts returned to the job in hand. She turned the bike around and sped back up the high street. This time she didn’t look anywhere except ahead.
Just before the turning to Aldsworth, she pulled in and watched huge farming machines hovering over fields that stretched on for miles. They were the size of passenger aircraft, yet she could see at least nine. She noticed a group of men in white protective clothing hosing down what looked like a large harvester. The days of manned farming had ended years ago, but people were still needed to maintain and manage the process.
She was only
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