F3: ‘Welcome to the Umweltzone’

This is the next layer of The Terminal. Very much unfinished, but – since I need lunch – I’ll post the second half next week. And then there’s at least one more piece to come – I really like the characters, so it could easily end up being more.

WELCOME TO THE UMWELTZONE

Pedal to the floor, I race through the liquid mist of post-industrial Berlin. Even in the twilight, silver and green dominate. A world of infinitely customisable architecture – modular units and wind turbines; turf and steel. This side of the wall, Berlin’s heritage was papered over and trampled underfoot. Preservation and conservation were thrown aside; surplus to the orgy of market-humping and wide-eyed commerce. Thirty years later, and this part of the capital is home to a thousand small business enterprises, buoyed by EU subsidies and staffed with caffeine-fuelled graduates of every stripe. Welcome to the Umweltzone.

The Nissan chatters away, exchanging data with Galileo and the other cars and lorries on the German A-roads. Yesterday, it was a hire vehicle; a bullet point on the expenses of the Brazilian account. Today, it’s utterly convinced of its role as an Interflora delivery van, bearing a cargo of vacuum-packed dwarf orchids.

I call it the lunchbox.

It’s monitoring traffic density, ethanol use, meteorological patterns, and the humidity of the simulated orchids. Apparently, I’m entering a pocket of unusually low pressure, part of a diffuse ribbon of bisecting the continent from Stockholm to Nice.

Luckily, the lunchbox isn’t capable of monitoring the integrity of its own information systems. Thanks to Simon, an adjusted p2p nav system is narrowing in on the physical location of our target. Now, we’re just waiting for her to make an appearance in the terminal.

“Is she there yet?” I ask, flicking my eyes to the dashboard chronometer. “It’s another hundred before the lunchbox is in range. At least.”

Allowing for speech/text conversion and a five second lag, I await his answer. My stomach is a knot of elastic bands.

“Not yet. Wish you could this place, Red; it’s bizarre.” The words belong to Simon, but the voice is provided by the vehicle. Distracted by the peculiarities of my own journey, I marvel at the temple to the railway, a great glass box which passes on my right.

Then, the voice of a woman; “What do you think?” With no obvious point of origin, the question fills me with raw panic.

“Stunning.” It takes a moment for me to realise that this response wasn’t me, but belonged to the diver. Definitely Simon; enthusiastic, with the occasional slip signalling his Mancunian origins. Which means … the woman was Rosanna; our target. Her voice sounds a little older than I’d been expecting, but – hell – at least she’s made an appearance.

Relaxing into the seat, I passively stare as the lunchbox indicates right, turning towards Alexanderplatz.

“And I’m on. You ready?” The artificial voice sounds peculiarly urgent. I have to remind myself that it’s a quirk of programming, nothing more. Outside, the square allows an unhindered glimpse of the city skyline, as punctured by the garish lights of a brutal spire; a lingering monster, born of the twentieth century. But the nav says we’re still out of range. Where is she?

“Think I can see the television tower. Give me a little longer?” I hazard, listening to the fawning and simpering of Simon and our target. She sounds younger than I’d been imagining.

Then the lunchbox is turning. A sharp lurch to the right, and the tower recedes into the ashen haze. Looking at the chronometer, I bite my lip. The elastic bands are back, and they brought friends. I can feel the droplets of sweat glistening on my forehead; should have packed the sweatband.

In the background, I’m forced to listen to Simon’s attempts at flirting. It’s excruciating. Frankly, if it wasn’t what I was paying him for, I’d probably have vomited by now.

But when the p2p nav starts blinking, my misgivings evaporate. A reverse-engineering of the girl’s connection protocol finally yields a physical location – Landsberger Allee; a converted hostel, right on top of the railway station.

“Think I’ve found the vats.”

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