Timeline Taxi: chapter 2
Doctor Jonathan Russel from the Sheffield Institute of Space Travel stands out indeed, dressed in a typical brown English raincoat, a hat, a small bag in one hand, and an umbrella — an umbrella of all things — in the other.
“Where did you think you’d travel to?” I ask him with a sarcastic smile.
“Oh it was raining in the UK when I boarded the plane, I had almost no time to prepare, so here I am.”
The doctor smiles and I have to admit, he seems like a genuinely pleasant person at first sight.
“Would you like to sit, have a drink perhaps?” He proposes as he holds a chair for me. The hotel’s lounge is crowded, noisy even. I don’t like it here.
But we sit down, I order my usual, the doctor orders coffee, which I find odd for an Englishman.
“It’s been a long flight,” he tells me when I ask about it.
“So, how about we skip the smalltalk?” He continues.
I think I like this man.
“On the phone I told you I’m a doctor at the Sheffield Institute of Space Travel. Have you heard of it?”
I shake my head.
“Naturally,” he continues. “The institute was founded five years ago, so it makes sense that you haven’t heard of it, I believe you were still traveling back then.”
I nod. This doctor seems to know a lot of things about me…
“We’re concerned with the theoretical and practical study of space travel and everything related to it. I particularly, am working on a study about possible ways of dealing with time dilation — a concept you’re fairly familiar with, I reckon; given that you’ve made it into your job.“
I nod without interrupting.
“Now, part of my study involves a practical test, flying to a specific point in space, and back. I’m looking for a pilot.”
Well that’s all still pretty vague if you ask me, I’m still not sure what the doctor actually does, and why is he talking to me? There are plenty of UK taxi pilots. No need to come to me.
“Look, I just came back from a trip, and plan to stay for a year or two. If you want to, we can schedule a trip two years from now, but I’m sure you’ll find other taxis that are available to leave earlier.”
“Well, here’s the problem. No other taxi pilot wants to take me.”
“Well that’s not a good way to sell yourself, doc!” I exclaim as I lay back in my chair and sip my glass.
“Oh it’s nothing bad though, it’s just that… See, this place I want to travel to is — well — it’s far.”
“How far?”
“Slightly more than half a lightyear away.”
I whistle as I sit up straight again, my glass still in my hand but I’m not sipping it anymore. “Yeah that’s not gonna happen, doc! That’s what — more than a year of travel time back and forth, so a hundred years of Earth Time. No way any pilot wants to make such an investment.”
“I was told you do long trips though, longer than usual trips.“
“I do,” I hesitate to say while I’m thinking about how to end this conversation — no way I’m going to travel that far — “but not a hundred Earth years! 30, 40 years, maybe? The longest trip I ever did was 43 years. But let me tell you: that was no fun coming back. No way I’m doing a hundred!”
“What if I told you that price wouldn’t be a problem? And, sure, such a big time gap is huge, but you’ve now bridged, what, 500 years in total?”
“453,” I correct him.
He’s quick with his reply: “Well in total that’s significantly more than a hundred!”
“How do you know so much about me? And what kind of price are we talking about when you say it isn’t a problem?” Ok, I can’t help being a little bit intrigued.
“Four times your normal rate. But I’m allowed to bargain up to six times, so let’s just say six.”
The doctor’s smart. He ignored my first question and distracted me with a huge pile of money instead. I look at him in silence for a moment.
“No, I won’t do it,” I conclude after a moment and intense staring from the doctor’s side. “There’s too much risk, half a light year, that’s — that’s huge, it’s too much.”
The doctor looks at me, disappointed, but I can also see a level of understanding in his eyes.
“So,” he says after having thought it over for a while, “if you find yourself doubting that decision in the coming days, would you be so kind as to give me a call? You can reach this number,” and he slips me a business card of some sorts.
“I’m pretty sure I won’t,” I say as I grab the card and slide it into a pocket, soon to be forgotten. I get up, shake his hand, and leave him at the bar. Time for my bath. I make it up to make room, undress — again — as I refill the bath, I slide into the hot water, and close my eyes. Bliss.
A while later — I’m not sure how much later — I’m woken from my slumber by a loud knock on the door. I can hear someone shout my name in the distance. I hear a loud bang as I sit up half confused, and two seconds later the bathroom door swings open. Two cops grab me from the bathtub. They don’t care about me being naked, they grab a towel, wrap it around my waste, and drag me down the hallway. In total bewilderment, I just let it happen.
It’s only when I’m sitting in the cop’s car that I get a chance to gather my thoughts. “Hey!” I shout towards the cops in the front of the car, “what’s going on?” My wrists hurt, I was handcuffed right before I was pushed into the car. The cops ignore me.
“Hey!” I shout again. No answer. I kick the seat in front of me. No answer. I kick it again, not expecting an answer but simply out of anger. I’m driven to what I suppose is the police station, though I’m not familiar enough with Yokohama to be sure. It looks boring and official. It could be a police station.
The cops lead me down the hallway — dressed only with a towel around my waste, mind you. Somewhere along the hallway, they stop at a random door, open it, and lead me in. They remove my handcuffs as I sit down on one of the two chairs in the room. “What is going on?” I demand once more. No answer. They both exit the room and the lock clicks shut.
I look around. What is this place? Is this an interrogation room? I’ve only seen them in detective series. It looks like an interrogation room. With the two chairs, the table in between, the mirror glass. Yeah, this is an interrogation room. “Hey!” I shout again, but there’s only silence. It probably takes no more than ten minutes — but it feels like an hour — when suddenly the door clicks and swings open. I look startled as a tiny man walks in. He smiles faintly, puts down a huge stack of papers on the table, and sits in front of me.
“Do you have any idea why you’re here?” He asks without introducing himself.
“No”, I snap, “who are you?”
“You’re a taxi pilot, is that correct?” The man continues and ignores my question.
“I am, who are you?”
“Are you aware of the International Space Travel Regulations Act of ‘91?” He continues, flipping through some of the papers without looking up.
“‘91? That’s what? Three years ago? No, I was traveling back then. I just arrived back and haven’t had a chance to catch up with everything. Who are you?” I ask once more. “What am I doing here?”
Still, he ignores my question.
“I figured.” He mumbles. “The International Space Travel Regulations Act — ISTRA — was signed by all UN countries three years ago. It details all regulations concerning space travel, including providing taxi services to convicted or suspected criminals. Something you aren’t unfamiliar with, are you?”
He looks up now, I stare at him. He seems to enjoy this moment.
“The interesting part about this law is that it acts retroactively up to 300 years.”
He pauses for dramatic tension. I decide to not give him the satisfaction and continue to stare with a puzzled gaze. Not receiving the hoped reaction, he sighs, then continues.
“So, you’ve been doing a lot of traveling, haven’t you?”
“I do.”
“Well, let me cut to the chase” he seems to have already lost his patience. ”You were reprimanded for many of your taxi travels, including the most recent one with a certain individual called mr. Tunaki. You’ve had a trial and,”
“Hang on,” I say, “a trial?”
“Like I said, a trial, a little over a year ago. We actually tried to contact you via your valet but it seems that you were unavailable at that time. Section C of ISTRA mentions that after three failed attempts at communication with a suspect, we’re allowed to charge that person in absens — that’s Latin — meaning there’s an immediate trial. If, during that trial, said suspect still isn’t able to provide any rebuttal, the charges are automatically accepted.”
The cop stops reading from what I assume is a printout of section C of the so-called “International Space Travel Regulations Act”. He looks at me. I can’t say anything.
“Anyway,” he concludes, “you’ve been convicted on all accounts. Since you weren’t available at the time of sentencing you’ve received a suspended sentence, as well as a fine. This last one will be automatically collected from your bank account now that you have been informed about the sentence. Any questions?”
I look at him in disbelief.
“Well,” I stammer, “why did you abduct me out butt naked from my hotel room?” It’s the only reasonable question I can come up with, I’m still processing the rest.
“Sure. ISTRA section C also outlines the procedure for dealing with absent suspects or convicts upon their resurfacing. They are to be informed immediately, or as soon as possible, about their current situation. This is of course meant to protect the rights of each suspect, or, in your case, convict.” He smiles when he says “convict”.
“So what, a fine?”
“Yes, well, the fine was set on, let me check, 1.2 million Earth Dollars, since you’re an Earth Dollar Bank client, we can automatically collect this charge from your account, which will happen as soon as you leave this office.”
“But, you can’t do that!” I shout. I want to stand up but realize just in time that my towel might drop… so I stay seated.
“As a matter of fact, sir, I can, and I have. The charge has already been prepared and will be automatically deducted once you leave this office.”
I can’t say anything. 1.2 million is almost the whole of my capital. But the cop doesn’t stop there.
“As to your suspended sentence, you’ll still have to serve it. The judge ordered, let me check, 2 years in prison. We won’t arrest you right now, because we want to allow you to get your business in order before serving your sentence. You have a week where you’re not allowed to leave the city, your passport has been invalidated, and together with the fine charge, all access to your bank account will be blocked until you’ve served your sentence. You’re to report next week, Monday, at 7 AM in Yokohama General Prison. If you fail to report there on time, you’ll be arrested and your sentence will automatically be prolonged by a year. At least, that’s what the judge’s order says. Any questions?”
I just stare into nothingness. Less than an hour ago, I was having a bath, now I’m a convicted criminal. I’m out of money and I’ll have to serve two years in prison.
“No? Ok, then you’re free to go, until next week, of course.”
The cop smiles, stands up, walks to the door and unlocks it with some kind of wristband sensor. Another cop walks in, drags me up — I’m just in time to grab my towel — and leads me out. I’m handed a folder of papers while walking out, my file with all necessary information, and that’s it. I’m on the street in front of the police office. In a towel.