Progress

San Francisco, read the battered tin sign. It All Starts Here. A much less battered sign beneath stated what the city had really become: Home of Magenta. Both bore the signature typeface and purple of Magenta’s corporate branding. Sam’s eyes were at risk of rolling straight out of his head. As an Angeleno, he wasn’t impressed. He was sickened.

The road glided up, down, and up again, rolling hills in the darkness, gorgeous rows of immaculate houses planted amongst the grass like an opulent forest. The map display flickered to life on the windscreen as the car was finally able to reach its corporate masters again. It alerted them with a pleasant chime that they were in the Outer Sunset. Everything glowed with the faint orange of the street lights, the car hummed beneath them. After spending the day in a concrete tunnel carved through a war zone, it was as if they had landed on another planet. He pictured the life he left behind: the rubbish strewn about, the half-assembled furniture, even the messy break-up. If he wasn’t careful, this city would sweep him into a dustpan the first chance it got.

Seb dozed off as soon as the car resumed auto-drive. Sam was alone with his thoughts. He watched out the window as the neighbourhood dropped away and they winded through Golden Gate Park, and again Sam was stunned by the cleanliness. LA was his home, but it a was world of chain-link fences, wooden barricades, heavily armed private security. Camps full of displaced people, abandoned buildings, filth. Decay. A city bigger than it needed to be, large sections given over to whomever wanted them. He, like everyone, had learned to ignore it. But here, there was none of it. No dirt to be seen. Perfectly manicured landscaping. Nobody forced to live on the streets. It seemed to be a city fit for purpose. He wondered how they possibly managed.

As they emerged on the other side of the park, the vibe shifted. Gone were the charming single-family Victorians and swathes of green space. This side of the park was dominated by concrete. Brutalist towers shot skyward on all sides, emblazoned with names like “Nopa Heights I”, “Grandview Tower”, “San Isabel Dormitories.” And next to each name sat the familiar logo.

“Corporate housing,” Seb said.

“You’re awake.”

“I was resting my eyes.”

“Don’t know how you can sleep from all the stress.”

“Stress?”

“The checkpoint. That was insane, we don’t have those in LA.”

“Dude,” Seb chuckled, “no shit. That’s what giving up looks like. You know what LA stands for.”

“Los…” Sam regretted starting to answer literally.

“Looks. Away.”

“Is that what you say up here?”

“That’s what we say up here.”

“Great.”

“But the algorithm determined we were low risk for whatever reason, so don’t think about it.” Seb gestured out the windscreen. “This whole area is unrecognisable, man. It used to be a lot of houses and stores. Some good bars over here, too.” Seb had an air of disdain as he pointed out the window toward one corner of a massive tower block. “I used to drink here, at a place called The Page.”

“What happened to it?”

“Progress, dude. There was a housing crisis. All those houses had to go somewhere.”

“This is all Magenta employees?” Sam had trouble telling one block from the next.

“No man, no. Not all. Well, not me, anyway. Maybe I’m the only one.” The car turned off and headed down into an underground parking area, nestling itself in what Sam assumed was its designated space. Seb turned and clapped Sam on the shoulders. “So, listen. Melanie is probably not going to love this.”

“Melanie?”

“My wife.”

“Your what?” Sam threw his head back and gave a whole performance. “Whoa. Wife? Since when are you married?”

“Hey dude, it does still happen. Met her at work. But listen…”

“At your bar?”

“No, the port.”

“Port? I thought you worked at a bar.”

“I own a nightclub, Sam, but that isn’t my job. You think that pays me enough to live on? I lose money on that shit-hole. Listen man, first of all, promise me you’ll never buy a nightclub.”

“Sure thing.”

“Second, just be prepared for some cramped conditions, okay? And probably some robust disagreements between myself and Mel.”

The shouting match erupted in the kitchen before Sam had finished making up the sofa.

“Baby,” Seb shouted as Sam fluffed a throw pillow, “he’s got nowhere, he’s got nothing.”

Melanie roared back. “¡Ni de pedo dejo que esos pinches cabrones me rompan la puerta nuevecita!”

“Mi amor, por favor, yo lo arreglo.”

The terms of his new existence were drafted: he could stay a maximum of three days unless Seb could find a way to “make him legal”. He’d need proof of employment, or he’d be expelled from the city. Was this what Seb meant by temporary? Sam couldn’t begin to understand. LA was still part of the Republic, wasn’t it? What the fuck was going on?

Chirp, chirp, chirp. Gentle chimes came from Sam’s ear-piece, which lay on a charging pad behind his head. It was the first time in as long as Sam could remember that he’d actually let both his ear-piece and the Ring itself run out of power.

“Hello?”

“Hello, Samir Patel.” A familiar voice came out of the earpiece. Sam’s stomach dropped. This couldn’t be good.

“Aida. Hi.”

“Samir, your Magenta Plus service isn’t available right now, due to a lack of payment.”

“That can’t be right, my Plus is on a friends-and-family plan through my partner, Virginia Rose. She’s an employee. It’s free through her.”

“Your plan changed to monthly direct billing about two days ago, Samir.”

“No, no, no.” Sam was whispering, but emphatic. “That can’t be right. It’s meant to be free. She wouldn’t have just removed me like that.”

But she had. Sam descended into an internal panic as Aida insisted his subscription had lapsed. He pleaded with it, though pleading with Aida for a handout was pleading for the sun not to rise. She confirmed he’d been moved to Magenta Basic: a free plan that offered users the benefit of speaking to Aida about upgrading to a better plan.

“Is there any chance of a grace period, or a free trial? Aida, I’ve been out of touch all day. I just need to reach Virginia to clear this up.”

“Samir, you have already redeemed a seven day free trial of Plus.”

“What?! When?”

“The fourteenth of October, 2026.”

“That was…” Sam whisper-shouted through gritted teeth. “That was like seventeen years ago, Aida.”

“Free trials are for new sign-ups only, I’m afraid.” Aida was a cool customer. There was no budging her. Sam yanked the ear-piece out and flung it across the room, then pulled the Ring off his finger and did likewise. Fuck Magenta, anyway. Fuck Aida, and fuck Virginia for doing this.

He stuffed his arm under his head and tried to sleep on the rock-hard sofa. The sound of muffled Spanish arguing was a miserable substitute for his usual routine. He knew tomorrow he’d have to cave and pay for his own service. Maybe it would be the first step on his new journey.

Sam had sprung from his makeshift bed before sunrise, and he was showered, dressed, and lurking in the kitchen by quarter ’til six in the morning. He’d been drafted into joining Seb at work lest he find himself in frosty confrontation with Mel. Or worse, Seb had added, you two actually get along. Don’t trust you one jot, player.

The sun struck the sides of the massive glass spire at the core of the East Cut as they worked their way toward the Embarcadero. Sam gawked out the car window with childlike wonder.

“Hard to believe everyone thought that was an eye sore when it first went in,” Seb said with a shake of his head. “Now it’s one of the most recognisable buildings in the fucking world.”

“It’s beautiful.”

“It’s the eye of Sauron, man.”

Digital signs hung from poles on both sides of the streets surrounding the spire, all showing the same thing: Rebecca Prue. Clad in her usual smart blazer and shirt combination, her dark brown hair perfect as ever, with a faint smile. She looked down a bit, over her nose, and let out a light chuckle. It was a seamless loop, repeating forever, every sign in perfect sync with the others. Sam stared into the photograph’s eyes, and felt it staring back at him. Solar powered, he thought. Long after we’re all dead she’ll still be here, looking down over it all.

“Rebecca Prue,” he whispered under his breath. “Jesus.”

“There she is,” Seb replied. “Queen of the western world. Looking down over her subjects as they schlep to work another ten hour day for her.”

“Hard to think of her as real at this point.”

“Oh, she’s real. I met her once.”

“Seriously? Where?”

“She came into my club. Her and a friend.”

“Bullshit.”

“She did, dude. This was forever ago, before she was capital R, capital P. She was Valley famous.”

“Yeah, yeah.” Sam laughed, his eyes still fixated on Rebecca’s photos slowly going past out the window.

“I can prove it, I’ve got a picture of her hanging behind the bar. You’ll see it tonight.”

“Pictures don’t prove shit. Actually makes the story less believable.”

They emerged from the glass and concrete into the open air of the Embarcadero. A forest of cranes hung in the air, and a queue of container ships seemed to stretch on forever. Not a soul was in sight. Signs at the boundary to the area warned curious onlookers to stay away: High-speed automation operates throughout The Embarcadero District. Entering area carries risk of grievous injury or death. Some areas may be off-limits under criminal statute.

Somewhere, Sam thought, behind the mile-high stacks of crates, warehouses, and machinery, were the waters of San Francisco Bay. It would be nice to see them some day.

The car passed through several security barriers. Each time, Seb held up a plain plastic ID card. And each time the barrier seemed to grudgingly open, the car groaning forward at a slower and slower pace. It finally manoeuvred itself into a claustrophobic underground car park with an unceremonious sign indicating it was for “P47 Staff.” There were four spaces. After they had parked, three were free.

Seb gave a wry smile. “This is us, chief.” He guided them up a narrow staircase and through the grim little passageways of the human-safe area. Bright white fluorescent lights pierced his eyes and gave him a dull ache after a few minutes. The sea-foam green corridors were the exact width needed. There was a single bathroom, a kitchenette that seemed like it could hold exactly five people, a bottom-of-the-line refrigerator, plastic shop sink, and coffee dispenser with five mugs neatly stacked next to it. In each room there hung the same poster, which bore the seal of San Francisco and the Magenta Corporation logo: Proposition forty-seven facility provided under San Francisco municipal code.

They finally arrived in a cramped room with four identical workstations and four very uncomfortable looking task chairs in front of them. Seb threw himself into the nearest chair by the door and turned on the screen with the flick of an antiquated switch. Really, everything about this room felt like it belonged in another era. No windows, a rolled concrete floor, and the same sea-foam green walls. The kind of oppressive corporate hell you might see in a period piece about turn of the century office workers.

“Nobody sits at the others, just park yourself wherever.”

Sam plopped down next to Seb. “What is all this?”

“This is the last remnants, man.” The screen flickered to life. It was a primitive grid that seemed to show where all the container ships were in the harbour. “I’m a prop forty-seven worker. The last prop forty-seven worker at the port.”

“I don’t know what that is.”

“It’s some law that means they needed to retain some of their human staff when they automated the port. Some fucking compromise from back before Magenta just did literally anything they want. There was a whole legal settlement when they tried to repeal it. So they’re stuck with it.”

“So what do you do?”

“Nothing.”

“I don’t understand.”

“I don’t do shit, man. My title is Harbour Master. But I don’t have any responsibilities. It checks to make sure I’m here. But, otherwise.” Seb spun round in his chair with a grin. “Ta-da.”

“And this pays…?”

“Three hundred grand a year.”

Sam dry swallowed. “Fuck.” It was around what Virginia made at Magenta, and well over three times as much as he’d made when he worked at the music label.

“Raises linked to inflation every year, and the salary started at what the actual Harbour Master was paid when the law took effect. There used to be four of us per shift. But the law changed or some shit a few years ago, so they don’t have to replace us when we leave. They can’t fire us unless we do something wrong, and they can’t lay us off… so they offer us huge payouts to quit.”

“Wow.”

“I’m the last man standing.”

“I don’t suppose you have hiring authority.” Sam scratched the back of his neck and stared around the room. Surely for that much money, he could sit in here for a few hours a day.

“No, sir. We are fully staffed. One person. I’ve never felt so useful in my life.”

“At least you’ve got dops and digis to keep you company. And you could get through so many streams. Not so bad, really.”

“No, sir.” Seb shot a look of disdain straight through Sam. “First of all, really? Fuck dops and digis, man. But there’s no signal in here anyway. They shut it off right before they started offering buy-outs. Imagine that.”

Sam shuddered. It was something he could scarcely imagine. The problem of his expired Plus account tickled his brain uncomfortably. “So you’re just… alone here?”

“Well, I had a colleague until around a year ago. But she took a buy-out.”

“Ah.”

“So I had to marry her,” Seb said with a wink. “Missed her too much.”

The trip to pick up Sam’s visitor permit was meant to be uneventful. As the car was sent on a detour for the third time, Seb let out a groan.

“It’s gonna be the fucking forty-sevens.”

“The what?”

“There’s just been a lot of protests. They know exactly where to stand to fuck with the auto-drive sensors. Fuck, we’re gonna be late. Let’s walk.” Seb leaned forward and smashed a button on the screen that just said Park Now. The car dutifully complied, and the pair was on their feet. “It’s like a kilometre. It’ll be fine.”

The sound of drums and chanting got louder the closer they got to City Hall. “MAKE IT RIGHT! MAKE IT RIGHT!” Sam and Seb slipped through the crowd, past security, and into the building.

The queue at the one working visa kiosk wrapped around the vestibule twice over. Seb grunted and groaned.

“Should I meet up with you later?” Sam worried Seb might not survive waiting in such a long line.

“I’d ditch you instantly,” Seb answered. “But they don’t play around with who they let into the city these days. An existing resident has to vouch for you.”

The queue lurched forward, as each person got their visa decision. Each decision seemed to take about a minute, some longer, and each led to either elation or heartbreak. Half the time, the latter tended to result in a member of staff becoming involved: they’d be shuffled out of the queue, perhaps a few words exchanged, but ultimately they’d wind up outside.

As they got closer to the front, Sam started to get nervous. “What exactly are they asking for? Don’t they already know who I am?”

“They do. It will just ask you a few random questions from your life, to better prove it’s you. None of this shit is foolproof. Security theatre, man. Then I need to give the thumbs up and you’re golden. Well, for three days.”

Sam started to sweat. His hands felt clammy. What kind of questions? He tried to remember everything that had ever happened to him in his life, just in case it came up.

Seb put a hand on Sam’s back to nudge him forward. Just a few ahead of them now. “Relax.”

“But what kind of questions, do you know?”

“No idea, man. I’m from here. Never had to deal with this. Just don’t fucking lie to it, okay? They aren’t gonna ask you something they don’t already know.”

“You’re from here?”

“Well, Concord.”

“Is that nearby?”

“Step forward, please.” A staff member gestured for them. Seb gave Sam a polite shove, and an animated face appeared on the screen, floating in a white void. It was yellow, vaguely human-shaped, with a black moustache and a little blue police cap. They could not be serious.

“Hi!” The face bounced and waggled as it spoke, and the voice would’ve fit well in a 2000s-era cartoon. “I’m Pete Police, and I keep San Francisco safe from bad people! What’s your name, young man?”

Sam threw his hands up and gestured at it. Seb just shrugged.

“Young man?” Pete Police was respectful, but determined.

“I’m Sam Patel.”

“Sam Patel! That’s short for Samir?”

“Yes it is.”

“Yippie!” Pete Police whizzed around the screen in a little police car for a moment, sirens blaring. He then re-appeared at the centre. “May I call you Sam?”

“You may.” Sam exhaled with a laugh, a smile stretched across his face.

“Sam, how’d you get to San Francisco, bud? Was it by car, or plane, or train?”

“Car.”

“That’s right, Sam! You came in by car. Do you remember who was driving the car, Sam?”

“It was my friend Sebastian. He’s right here.” Sam gestured to Seb, who gave Pete Police a quick wave.

“That’s right again!” Sam was nailing this. “Sebastian, is Sam your friend? Is he staying with you?”

“Yeah, man.” Seb gave a curt nod. “We’re old friends. He can stay with me. I’ll vouch for him.”

“That’s great! Both of you are doing so well.” Pete scrunched his face up and looked around. A little cartoon folder appeared in front of him, and he read it studiously. “Oh no, Sam.” His voice dripped with anxiety. “Oh, goodness.”

“W-what’s wrong?” Sam shot a look at the staff member. They deliberately avoided eye contact. With a quiet beep, Sam’s earpiece activated. Pete was now holding an old timey phone receiver.

“Sam.” He heard Pete’s voice directly in his ear. “I needed to speak with you privately because I’m worried about a grown-up you seem to know. They’ve done some bad things. And my friends are looking for them.” Pete’s face seemed to grow larger, and the background behind his disembodied head had faded from white to a near-black.

“Dude,” Seb strained to hold a smile as he whispered through gritted teeth. “What the fuck is he saying? I vouched for you.”

“What? I don’t know what you’re talking about.” Panic instantly gripped Sam. His head swung between Seb and Pete. “I don’t know what it’s talking about.” He didn’t know who to be now, how to act.

“Samir.” The kiosk arrested his attention back to itself. “I’m not mad. You’re not in trouble or anything.” Pete Police had gotten uncomfortably paternal. “But I do need to ask you some questions about your friend Gemma in the United Kingdom.”

“No. Who?” Sam whispered, then bit down on his lip and shoved his hands in his pockets. He felt Seb kick his foot, but he didn’t dare look: his gaze was fixed on Pete Police.

Pete furrowed his digital brow and inched even closer. Sam thought he might exit the screen. And then, he vanished. The screen was black. Sam stared. His eyes burned from forgetting to blink.

“Please exit the facility,” came the voice from overhead soon after. “Please exit the facility.” It repeated on a loop, as muffled whispers rose up around them.

“Dude,” Seb shouted. “What the fuck did you say to Pete?”

“There’s a security situation outside, gentlemen,” said the staff member. “If you can head just down there and out the emergency exit.”

“But my…” Sam gestured at the kiosk. The staff member shook his head as Seb grabbed Sam’s arm.

Their walk quickly turned into a jog as they moved toward the exit, opposite the way they’d come into the building, and soon found themselves out back in an alley. Nobody seemed to have followed them out, and Sam couldn’t remember whether anyone had even been behind them in the queue.

Seb put his hand on the wall and let out a sigh as the exit door clicked shut. “What the hell was that?”

“Maybe someone pulled the fire alarm,” came a clipped voice from behind them. They both turned their heads in a fright. A woman leaned on the wall a few feet away from them, tucked away in a shadow. Around Sam’s height, a short crop of messy blonde hair atop her head, her round face dotted with a bit of acne. She looked young, though the UCSF jumper might’ve been lending to that.

“Jesus Christ!” Seb shrieked with a full body jolt. “Fuck, lady!”

“Were you in the queue behind us?” Sam sputtered. Seb’s reaction had hit him harder than the surprise of the mystery girl. His pulse quickened.

“Kicked out?” She stuck her lip out in a performative pout. “Qué lástima.” Everything about her made Sam curious, and he wasn’t sure why—on the face of her she looked like a box fresh random, but she gave off an infectious energy that threatened to pull him straight in. She gave them a tight smile and a tiny wave. “Good to meet you both.”

Sam wanted to reply, but the girl seemed to almost hop away, disappearing around the corner before either of them could react. He clung to the memory of her with both hands.

The sounds of the protest carried on the wind and seemed to have reached fever pitch. Sirens approached. Sam could hear a megaphone in the mix.

“Forty-sevens.” Seb shook his head. “Just be grateful and fucking move on.”

“Who was that?” Sam kept staring where the girl had been. He was about ten minutes away from having processed the last five minutes.

Seb laughed. “This fucking town. Let’s go before we get caught up in something. Come on, my club’s not far.”