Diridon Station, San Jose, Platform Access Tunnel

Conductor Chad stepped down off of coach 711 of the Coastal Starlight with a confidence he had lacked for some long years now, the confidence he had known when he had been Benny Boy, best tight end out of Black Diamond, Washington. The whirring sound of his hip boots, the external prosthesis [an exoskeletal marvel of mobility] combined with the blue glow of the hip, knee and ankle hubs, fit him perfectly on the interior and were not too inhumanly automobile-like on the exterior. Looking down, he saw black titanium alloy thighs somewhat thicker than normal, knees a bit gear-like, but ankles and feet appearing like a perfection of the laceless engineer boot. The back brace that stabilized his wrecked lumber spine housed the power source that soothed and shored up that spine and also moved his legs in anticipation of his vestigial limp, into the realization of a mechanical stride. This felt therapeutic, as if this might heal his legs if he could wear them long enough.

Chad’s U.S. Public Sector legs [the right thigh stamped in brass with that logo] a wonder of military prosthetics—powered by the back brace—was informed by the M.S. Life Science Technologies that was stamped in silver on the left thigh. There was a heck of a cod piece, that was unfortunately stamped DOD.

His hard, beaked hat, his stiff nylon mesh jacket with high collar, all in black, his gray gauntlets that warmed his cold old hands and caused those once lame fingers to spring to action based on his old muscle memory cues, did not need to be fitted with a neurolink. Indeed, so the Life Sciences therapist told him, such personalized methods were against arms industry protocol and, as well, a rejection of Transhuman Gospel—counter to the liberating doctrine of Human Ascent.

The part of him, the Benny part of him, who had been Christian, felt sad inside.

Benny looked at the station through the iron fence and sighed. He would open that gate, perhaps for the last time.

…

Having opened the gate in the kiosk terminal above the ramp to the access way, Conductor Chad spotted movement under the train on one of the Caltran platforms. Something prone, yet moving too fast to be prone, if human, went there. His state of alert—there being no enhancement of his reaction, cognition or arc of decision imparted by the beaked hat, only the laser sight ability that was too keen for him to use in a timely fashion—made him feel like the ever quickening news of the world passed him swiftly by. It felt as if his eyes moved too fast for him to think about what he saw and place it.

‘Can I do this—am I up to this mission, retrofit of a misfit that I am?’

“Conductor Chadwick Benjamin Pozon,” spoke a song-like voice of pure feminine seduction, composed in two tones, one suggesting the promise of sweet virgin approval, the other the full compass of slutty, tantric removal.

These voices, two as one, spoke to him from the many audio ports that there abounded in integration with the audio array, reminding him that his every action was monitored back at REFUGE, “Ariel security shall escort you down to the techway,” indicating that Chad should descend the ramp which had, in his absence, been rededicated as a mechanical only access way.

‘I wonder, were the ramping features of these old tunnels, converted with a purpose for eventual wheeled replacements of we bipedal conductors?’

Two bat winged drones dropped down and fluttered next to his shoulders, made slightly wider by the pleasingly tailored, black, U.S. Public Sector jacket.

‘I feel like Johnny Cash walking into San Quentin!’

Chad walked easily down with long, sure, softly whirling strides, strides that were as silent as unstirring night, utterly absent sound, as the synthetic rubber treads of his titanium boots, designed he had been told, for Space Station, Lunar and Martian operations, lent a sense of vigor to the broken man encased within.

Turning the corner Chad marched on, imbued with critical levels of confidence as his joint hubs waxed blue and his optics telescoped to focus upon the “Bot Staff,” as the few remaining “Meat Staff” thought of their replacements.

Two glowing roller discs, The Automated Ushers, built low to the ground to intercept falling meat passengers, glowed green with greeting as their voice synced all about, “Conductor, greetings!”

Flanking these two twin ushers—the mechanical replacements of conductors—were two hideous, stainless steel dog bots, red eyes gleaming, articulated aluminum tails twitching, robber paws set in an Anubis like attitude of patience, steely forms perfectly erect.

Above these hovered two standard areal drones, the oldest form of hover bot, like the ones he played with as a boy, not knowing they would replace him.

“Greetings,” he spoke, saluting smartly.

The Siren like discs soothed, “Ushers Fair and Fox at your service! Apologies, Conductor Chad, for not greeting you upon the platform. There was a Trespass Incident. The TECHWAY [said with chilling importance] was cleared of organic material.”

He noted that the right most dog had some blood on its needle teeth and was licking it with its silicon tongue. Wanting, from the boy within, to test for any sense of humor, Chad obliged Benny and, pointing to himself, said, “I trust this organic will not be removed.”

Fair and Fox soothed, “Oh, Conductor Chad, you are our HONOR! Last of the Organic Conductors, your function is 91% mechanical. You are perfect, Chad, our Cyborg dad!”

‘Holy Shit,’ he gawked within, ‘I shall be sick!’

He recovered though, with a salute and a word, “Fair and Fox, I am here to retrieve an empath for curation. How will I make their person secure and identified among the station staff?”

“Speak the name of the person as you look into their eyes with your optics and they shall be signified, even if—Future Forbid—you are not present.”

“I shall be off then,” he announced, in as fatherlya way as he might, without cringing before his posthuman Station Staff.

The Sirens cautioned, “Conductor Chad, our Meat Dad, you will be vastly outnumbered and must not go alone. Batman and Wingman will provide areal optics.”

That said, the two bat winged drones, looking like bats, complete with red eyes, dropped down on his shoulders, gripped his epaulets in their carbon fiber talons, folded their plastic wings so that they looked like the tail fins on an ancient Cadillac, complete with a red reflector, and came to rest, silent like tiny gargoyles upon their cathedral crest.

“Wow!” blurted Benny from deep within his fading personality, Conductor Chad feeling with some embarrassment, his face split with a boyish grin.

“Hip, hip, huzzah!” cheered Fair and Fox as the mechanical dogs, barked their steely bark.

“Is that all?” Chad restored some gravity.

The sweet siren voices droned, “Pupper One must accompany you.”

With those terrible words the stainless steel terrier with rubber paws, its forehead stamped in brass, Pupper 1, waged its tail hideously and whined for action.

Conductor Chad, Meat Dad, nodded to the dog bot with respect and said, with a detachment that surprised him, “The Organic Citizens I am tasked with choosing an empath from, fear Mechanical Dogs.”

The Ushers glowed blue and commanded in dual tones, “Pupper One, Parisian Salon!”

With that, the terrible little dog of articulated steel, eyes gleaming red, began growing curly, blue puddle hair, or its synthetic equivalent.

The dog waged its now fluffy tail, howled low like Old Mike the basset hound used to when he was glad to go for a walk, and heeled, perfectly, even as the presumable Pupper Two, whined with disappointment.

“Fair and Fox, I’ll be back long before dusk. My charge must see the sun set over San Jose.”

“Roger that, Meat Dad!” and they parted ways as Conductor Chad and Pupper One forged on into the dawning day.