Timeline Taxi: chapter 1

A throbbing pain wakes me up as it shoots from my lower arm up to my shoulder. My first instinct is to reach for whatever’s hurting my arm, but I recover fast enough to know that I shouldn’t. It’s been centuries since the invention of deep sleep, yet we still need pain stimuli to wake from it. Why no one has bothered to come up with a better way than shooting electrochoques through an arm is beyond me. I turn right, mr. Tunaki is still strapped in firmly, deep asleep. Just the way I left him. I turn to the dashboard in front of me, both our vitals are good. Speed is nominal, 0.99995% c. We’re three days worth of travel time out from Earth. All is good. I remove the probe from my arm as I stare into the blueshifted space in front of me. Just the way I left it.

Mr. Tunaki gets another day of deep sleep before waking up. He doesn’t enjoy his pain shock either, but he’s a little more verbal about it. He reaches to his right arm and starts pulling on the probe — I need to pin his left hand to ensure he doesn’t rip his arteries. I’m serious: these probes make a mess when you pull them out uncontrolled. I once had a client who ripped it off as soon as he awoke and it took me three days of cleaning afterwards. Well, it took the valet three days of cleaning, no way I’m doing that myself. But I know the drill: secure their hands, let them curse, let them shout, lull them like a baby. “I understand it’s painful sir, I know it’s confusing. It’ll only take a minute. You’re doing good. You’re doing great, sir.”

The thought of almost being home helps mr. Tunaki to calm down. His crimes expired two Earth years ago, but we figured we would take some margin just to be sure. After all, it’s only a week of travel time for us, so why not? “Two more days,” I tell him as I hand him a bag of dried spinach pasta. 500 years of space travel and we’re still eating the same kind of boring food we’d eat back then. To be fair, I suspect there will be ships with more luxurious life support systems by now. I think I heard they were making significant progress in that area over the past decades. I might need to look into some upgrades. An updated kitchen would be nice. Luckily, mr. Tunaki doesn’t mind the food quality. He gobbles up his bag as if it’s the best meal he ever had. That’s what over 20 days of deep sleep does with a person — it transforms rubbish space food into a feast.

“Earth, Ground, this is Taxi LT-22, do you copy?”

“Taxi LT-22, this is Earth, Ground, we copy. Welcome back.”

“Earth, how are things down there? Everything’s still the way I left it?”

“Taxi LT-22, everything’s still good here, how was your trip?”

“All good, Earth, thanks. Glad to be back!. Can you send us our parking procedures? We’ll arrive in about two hours.”

“Taxi LT-22, copy, stand by.”

“Taxi LT-22, you can park in orbit lane A44, section B. You can shuttle down from there to Singapore spaceport.”

“Earth, Ground, thank you. Would there be any chance to shuttle down to Yokohama spaceport instead? I’ve got a client who’s from that region.”

“Taxi LT-22, copy, stand by.”

“Taxi LT-22, you can park in orbit lane A44, section D, and shuttle down to Yokohama spaceport instead.”

“Earth, Ground, lane A44, section D, shuttle down to Yokohama; copy that.”

“Taxi LT-22, your parking documents have been sent over. If you need anything else, let us know.”

“Earth, Ground, copy that; thank you, have a nice day.”

With a parking spot secured, I check up on Earth’s — and my personal — financial situation. In theory, the Earth Dollar should be pretty stable, but being away for years on end always has risks. It’s looking good though. Mr. Tunaki’s payment is already there as well. Perfect. There’s about two years of pure luxury waiting for me; and that is if I take into account the upgrades I want to do to my ship. I’ll have to talk to my valet about it. I hope Wakato is still working at Yokohama spaceport, that would be nice.

We park in lane A44, section D, and prepare for separation. I help mr. Tunaki into the shuttle, strap him in, and take place in the pilot seat. “This is the bumpy part of the ride,” I warn him. “There’s a bag underneath your seat if you need it.“

He needed it.

We arrive at Yokohama spaceport without any other problems, although mr. Tunaki vomited part of his spinach pasta outside the bag, onto his lap and, more importantly, onto the chair. “Don’t worry about it,” I lie, “this happens almost always.” Meanwhile I’m worrying about the poor valet who will need to clean up the mess. It stinks.

We make a soft landing on one of the spaceport runways and we taxi to gate A44. I power down the shuttle’s engine, and look who’s there!

“Wakato! Konnichiwa!” I exclaim in my best Japanese as I crouch out of the shuttle. “It’s great to see you!”

“Sir! It’s great to see you!” Wakato replies, “Did you have a good trip?”

“All fine. You don’t seem to have aged at all.”

“Oh but I did, and I’m noticing it more and more,” Wakato laughs. “I’m actually retiring next year.”

“Oh that’s too bad… you’re one of the best valets I’ve ever worked with, I mean that.”

“There’s a new guy here now, I’m training him to be my replacement. He’s pretty good, I think you’ll like him. “

“Ah well… we’ll see. Hey about the shuttle, my client wasn’t able to find the bag in time… So there’s some cleaning up to do. I’ve also ordered a refueling shipment. I checked fuel prices when I arrived and they seemed very favorable, so I just ordered a full refueling. Apart from that, it’s the standard maintenance tasks that need to be done, you know the drill, I’ve sent you the full report.”

“I’ll have all of it taken care of, sir!”

“Oh, could you look into whether we can upgrade the ship’s kitchen? I’m really sick of having to eat bagged food.”

“I’ll look into it and send you the available options, sir.”

“Thank you, Wakato San!”

“Sir, if you don’t mind. There was a gentleman asking about you a while ago. I told him you were still on your journey, but maybe you could get in touch with him once you’re back. It was a bit strange sir, the gentleman didn’t want to say why he needed you and didn’t want to leave any contact details.”

“Don’t worry about it,” I tell Wakato, “this happens to me multiple times. Potential clients want to get a hold of me as soon as possible, especially those with shady things going on in their lives.” I whisper the “shady” part because mr. Tunaki is unloading his bags from the hold, and can probably hear me if I speak too loud. “I’m sure he’ll be in touch again,” I continue, “if he hasn’t already found another pilot. In any case, I plan on staying for a year or two, so either he will have to wait, or find someone else. But thanks for letting me know!”

I grab my bag from the shuttle’s hold, shake mr. Tunaki’s hand, and wish him well. Who knows what he’ll do, but he’s not my problem anymore. I walk towards the spaceport exit hall, board the ferry, and am walking into the crowd ten minutes later. The city center is busy — too busy to my liking — but I make it to the hotel without any problems. I’ll stay here for a day or two to relax, then I’ll start to plan. Even though seven years is a relatively short period of time, it takes a significant amount of work and planning to get everything back into order. “Part of the job,” I mumble to myself as I sigh and open the hotel door.

It’s a nice room, it looks out on the spaceport floating on the bay in the distance. I hope Wakato can do something about that kitchen… I pour a drink from the minibar, and prepare a bath. Oh how I’m looking forward to a bath. I undress, drop all my clothes in the middle of the room. But right when I’m ready to step into the bath, the hotel phone rings. I sigh — again. My guess is that it’s Wakato with news about the kitchen, that’s fast; so I run to the phone and pick it up.

“Hello?”

I’m greeted by an unfamiliar voice.

“Yes, speaking,” I reply, “who is this?” Maybe it’s that client Wakato was talking about. I don’t really feel like meeting anyone right now…

“I’m sorry to disturb you, sir,” the voice replies, “I’m doctor Jonathan Russel, from the Sheffield Institute of Space Travel. I need to speak to you very urgently. I —”

“I’m sorry,” I interrupt, “mister, doctor, I just returned from a long trip, and I’m really not interested in whatever you wanna talk about. So thank you for your interest but —”

“Oh but sir,” the doctor says, “your valet told me this would really interest you.”

So it is probably that guy Wakato was talking about. Well, if he deemed it important enough to pass my private coordinates to a random stranger, then maybe I should check it out. I’ll admit, I am a little intrigued by what doctor Jonathan Russel from the Sheffield Institute of Space Travel wants to talk about.

“Ok,” I say, “you have five minutes.”

“I actually think it would be better to talk face to face,” the doctor replied.

I roll my eyes, whatever interest I had is quickly dissipating. “Look, I don’t feel like going out, maybe we should schedule an appointment somewhere in the coming week then.”

“Oh, no worries, sir, I’m in the lobby of your hotel. I can come right up if that’s ok for you.”

Suddenly I feel worried about the intentions of this doctor, he’s already in my hotel? But my curiosity gets the upper hand.

“I’ll come down,” I finally say, “I’ll meet you in the lobby. How will I recognise you?”

“Oh I’ll recognise you sir, but I’m basically the one person who’s dressed wrong for the occasion. You can’t miss me.” He chuckles as he says it.

“Ok,” I sigh out loud, “I’ll be there in five.”