Kevin sprinted across the port, boots mashing against cracked pavement. The night roared with the endless groan of cranes, the shuffle of containers stacking, and the sweep of searchlights slicing its darkness. His longshoreman's jumpsuit, pulled hastily from its cabinet, still fit him like new. The oil-stained fabric heavy with the weight of his old life and the pride he once took in the work.
He skidded to a halt near the crane control tower, the structure and it's enormous shadow dominating his field of vision. Its windows glowed with dull yellow light, a beacon of never-ending duty. Now it was manned by chipheads blindly following protocol, eyes glazed with the quiet obedience that came from Clarity's grip. But how different was that from when he used to do it? Before everything changed, Kevin rarely questioned his routine, rarely wondered about the world beyond the next shift, and hustling off items for a flip or charity. That thought gnawed at him as he ducked behind a wall, out of breath, eyes fixed on the entrance. A scanner pulsed red above the door, ready to confirm the presence of a valid Clarity chip.
"Gold, you copy?" he whispered into a walkie clutched tight.
"Go for Goldstar," came her calm voice, faint through static.
"The door's locked and coded to F8 Clarity. It'll scan me, see I'm unchipped, and trip every alarm in the port."
A pause, then: "Do you still have your old access keycard? I know most of the entryways still have the module intact… Not sure if they still work…"
Kevin's hand moved instinctively to the pocket where it had always lived. His fingers closed around the worn plastic of his old access card, the faded photo of a younger him staring back. He chuckled under his breath. "I can't believe I still have this thing. Fuck it, we ball."
He darted from cover, slipped beneath the scanner's arc, and in a fluid motion the most prestigious old-world ballet would be proud of, slid the card into the reader module. The world froze for a beat… if this didn't work, they were finished. Then the lock clicked green. Access granted.
"I cannot believe that actually worked." Kevin whispered into the walkie. "Over. Going dark." It's static went quite.
Inside, the air smelled of machine oil and human BO. Behind the console sat the operator: an older man, heavyset, clothes tattered from years of work. He squinted at Kevin for a long, an uncomfortable silence.
"Hey Bud, I'm linking to you with Mind-Link," the man said, lips fumbling as if out of practice. It was clear he hadn't communicated with his mouth in a few years. "You're really gonna make me use my actual mouth? Don't recognize you. What are you doing here?"
Kevin forced a polite grin and put on an overly optimistic "corporate" voice. "Hey there Boss, logistics sent me. I've got an urgent adjustment to your pickup and drop-off manifest."
The operator frowned. "Never seen you before. And I can't confirm you without Mind-Link. Manifest Adjustment Protocol states everything must be confirmed on link."
Kevin tapped on his temple, faking frustration. "Yeah, about that. My chip's been glitching all day. Need to take it in for maintenance. But hey, call your supervisor, he'll vouch for me. This is high priority for the corporation itself"
The operator groaned. "Don't feel like linking with that prick right now. Always riding me. Just transfer me the manifest and I'll get it done."
Kevin gestured vaguely, tapping on his fake Clarity chip again, pretending to scroll through invisible data while being careful not to disrupt the superglue keeping it attached. "Thing's busted, I can't initiate any transfer. But I've got it right here, I can see it. Container number 1328 requires the adjustment. The destination… uh…" His throat tightened. He gulped nervously while attempting to keep his cool. "Florida." Kevin wasn't a good liar, but thus far he was good enough. Chipheads weren't the brightest, in fact, even if they were, the Clarity chip had intentionally dumbed them down and dulled them out to be better cogs in the corporation's wheel.
The operator blinked. "Florida? That's a state. States don't exist anymore. I haven't heard that word my entire career. You're not supposed to say that." His eyes narrowed now, suspicion flickering across his face.
Kevin swallowed harder. "Sorry. Long day. I meant F8-27A."
A red flag pinged in the crane operator's Minds-Eye user-interface. A monetary fine popped up paired with an annoying alarm sound effect: INFRACTION: $35 F8 Coin. REASON: Unlawful Speech of a Former Territory. The operator cursed, and filed a dispute.
"Good thing your chip's busted or you'd be fined for that too." F8 automatically levied fines against anyone who dared speak the name of previous states; all states had been replaced with their "F8 Dash Territory System."
He leaned back, studying Kevin again. "And F8-27A? What's in that container anyhow?"
"Oranges." Kevin replied, his worst lie yet...
The crane operator paused again, working overtime to think harder. "That territory is nothing but agricultural citrus exports, and you're telling me this container is full of… oranges, and it's going there? That's like taking sand to the beach" He lightly chuckled while also sounding more doubtful.
Kevin forced a nervous laugh. "Yeah. Oranges. Urgent, extremely urgent oranges. Consumable Logistics wants them moved immediately. You know how this goes, I just do what they say. It doesn't make sense to me either, but making sense and understanding stuff aint what they pay me for"
The operator stared at him for a longer beat, then sighed and turned to his console in agreement. He punched in a series of manifest adjustment authorization codes an old keyboard. Finally he muttered, as if typing took an unacceptable amount of effort opposed to just thinking it with Mind-Link, "Alright. Container 1328, destination F8-27A. Lifts out now."
Kevin exhaled, tension draining. Through the window in the far distance, Goldstar's container rose upward toward the night sky, swinging gently as the crane carried it away like a puppet master recalling their puppet from a successful show.
"Thanks again," Kevin said in a thankful tone.
"Don't thank me," the operator replied. "And don't think you're off the hook yet, Bud. I went ahead and called in a Vision Officer to fix that glitchy chip of yours. Figured he can get you sorted out right quick. Next time you need something it will happen way faster."
Kevin's stomach dropped. He forced a nod, edging toward the door. "Appreciate it. I'll just… wait right outside for him."
The operator grunted. Kevin slipped out, heart pounding, the distant thump of marching boots already drawing closer.