Try and Other Stories

By Peter F Legge

  Try and Other Stories is a collection of science fiction and fantasy short stories set on strange and different worlds. Yet they tell of ordinary individuals caught in circumstances outside of their control. Despite closely imagined distant locales and often fantastic events, the humanity of the characters and their thoughts, hopes a

• Language: English
• Publisher: Peter Legge
• Release date: Dec 18, 2020
• ISBN: 9781999510756

Peter F Legge

PF Legge is a retired teacher, husband, father, son, grandfather, coach and writer. He has lived his entire life in southwestern Ontario and currently resides in London, Ontario.

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Preface

This is the second collection of short stories we have published. There is no overriding theme aside from being mostly about men and women in some kind of trouble. Whether or not the story is set in our future or on a different world, the characters are faced with choices that will probably define their lives. As you will read, some have more options than others. I have been told there are novels in here, larger stories, waiting to be written. Perhaps, but we hope you enjoy them anyway.

Try

You’ll never know unless you try. My mom used to say that. ‘Sal, you’ve got to try’. But I know, and I never really tried. That’s how I know. I learned from that. It happens to you if you don’t try too. Good. Bad. No telling which one is coming.

My boot has a hole in it. I missed the transport and it’s raining again. Private vehicles flash by. I pull my hood forward to keep the rain from my face. At least my coat is thick and warm. I look down at the ground. Water sluices through it and over it in a million wandering pathways. My right foot is wet. My heavy sock has sucked up the moisture and the entire bottom of my foot is soaked. On every second step, I squish into cold water. Splash, fuck. Splash, fuck. Splash, fuck. Splash, fuck.

I splash, fuck for a few minutes. It gets me closer to the crossroads. There is a shelter with a bench in it ahead. Maybe I’ll take my boot off and wring out the sock when I get there. But I walk by. It seems like too much trouble for a momentary reprieve. It’ll just get wet again. Another vehicle whizzes by. A big black one with wide tires and darkened windows. Its red brake lights flare as it slows for the turnabout ahead. I hear the whine as it accelerates around the circle away from me. Your own private transport. No schedules. No standing in the rain. No sweating in winter coats. No standing, crammed next to strangers. No nervous glances from nervous women. No long trudges from a stop to work. Or worse, off the transport and then the long walk home to a second story shit hole in a neighbourhood that smells like weed, garbage, and ozone. I don’t hate the people in the black vehicle. I just wish I had private transport. Ok, maybe I do hate them. Fuck them anyway.

I’ll be late for work if the transport doesn’t show up soon. I can’t order my own. I don’t have the exchange. I look at my watch. Blank. I forgot to charge it last night. It fucking runs out so fast. The cold doesn’t help. Fuck Edie. Bought it from him at a brewpub a week ago and now it barely works. Fucking guy.

I turn and see the headlights of the bulky transport. I hustle to the stop just ahead, using a quicker ‘splash, fuck’ pace. I have to make this. I can’t lose another contract. I’m actually waiting when it pulls up and kneels. I step up, flash my cell to the reader and look down the rows of blank faces sitting and looking out the windows. No eye contact, or a place to sit down. Awesome. I move down the aisle, grab a hold and stand on one foot, hoping stupidly that the water will drain out of my soaker. My right foot is freezing. Numb. Good thing I only have to stand for twenty-three blocks or whenever one of these half life’s gets off. Fuck I hate public transport.

The ad at eye level on the side of the transport tells me I should be saving for retirement. On a sailboat. Another one tells me to watch for unattended bags, umbrellas or electronic devices. I don’t have a bag or an umbrella and my devices are shit. I would steal these things if I saw them unattended. Another ad, this one across the aisle, tells me to smoke Alliance Weed. It’s the best it says. Fuck weed. Makes me fucking crazy.

Finally, someone gets off. I’m the only one standing so everyone on the transport watches as I squelch up to the seat and thump my ass down. Then they look away. Mission accomplished, as I have officially sat. Nothing else to see here. Look away. They do. I do.

The windows reflect the light cast by the ads. The streetlights outside are dimmed due to the fact that it is late at night and power is scarce. GPS jammers use a lot of juice. So I can’t see fuck all. But looking out the window is the thing to do on public transport if your eyes aren’t closed, so I join in. Part of the team of morons staring at our own faces reflected in the windows, pretending to look at a city we can’t see.

I wish I could take my fucking boot off and wring out the damn sock. I have time and it would feel so much better. But that kind of disrobing would take me into crazy public transport personality territory. And I don’t want to live there. I shift my gaze from my own fuck ugly face in the window and scan the others. I see male, female, black, white, yellow and brown, wet, tired, young and old. One guy is looking around at the same time. Our eyes meet. I give him a simpering half grin and shrug my shoulders. ‘Hey, you know, here we are’ kind of thing. He looks away. No response. I feel like a dipshit for a second or two, then it passes. Fuck him.

I finger my cell in my pocket. I turned it on to pay for the ride and then turned it off right after. Automatically. If I turn it on and look at it my agent will know. So will Tendentia, my contract employer. They fucking watch. They will know. So if I scan my usual sites and get some texts from the usual suspects, within an hour of showing up at work some VR HR rep, a Carol or an Ian will ask me if everything is ok. And if I’m lonely. And if I’m a fucking psychotic. No, yes, no. Or is it yes, no, yes? Do I want some company? Do I want some weed? A pill? Someone to talk to? Oh please, can I? Can I fuck some dead-eyed corporate tech? Get stoned? And then tell some social worker dipshit with a tattoo on their neck how sad I am? Please? Fuck that. I leave it alone, a brick in my coat.

The transport shudders to a halt. I look down the aisle and through the front windshield. I see blue and red and white flashing lights. The engine clicks off and winds down. A lot of people take out their cells, to find out what is going on. Our driver, who was slouched into one of the front seats gets up, sits in the driver’s seat and grabs the handles. AI off then. Not a good sign. The front doors open. Everyone is looking now, heads craning. A big security bot walks in on four legs. The paws look like the end of a Q-tip, but rubber. Big torso, no head. Its matte black body is lit with one row of small blinking blue lights. It moves like nothing ever moved before some genius decided we needed robots to fight wars and rescue people and scare the fuck out of everyone.

I know what this one is doing. I wrote for a robotics company a few contracts ago. Actually, everyone around here does. They’re everywhere. It’s a sniffer. Explosives. Enhanced performance drugs. Live firearms. Viruses, computer, and bio. He’s a fucking smart bot. Everyone holds out their cells in bare hands without being asked. I do too. The bot walks up and down the aisle. Security stands right inside the front door, not moving, face hidden behind flat black faceplate and helmet. He’s got a big fucking gun, pointing at the floor. It’s a fucking railgun, a howitzer. It could knock down a ten-story building. What the fuck is going on? Oh man, I’m going to be late. Tendentia does not give a fuck about roadblocks. I will lose exchange if we can’t hurry the fuck up here. Black beauty finishes up and trots off the bus. Security follows behind. Dog walks man. Nothing was said. I feel a lot fucking safer now.

The transport edges forward. I put my face right up against the glass and cup my hands around my head. Now I can see. It’s dark. And raining. And there is a fucking battalion of security at the roadblock. And at least twenty bots, standing perfectly still or trotting purposefully somewhere. We slide by and all I can see moving are wet people wearing drab clothes. That’s all. I lean back and close my eyes. I can hear the bus’ whining tires. No one talks on public transport at night. Unless they are cranked, stoned or drunk. No one here fits that bill. It’s very quiet. Wet foot aside I am almost comfortable. Warm. Someone else is in charge of the trip. Maybe I could just drift off for a couple of minutes… No. My watch is dead and my cell is off so no alarms. Nope. Stay awake. I press my right foot into the wet sock. That helps.

We drive on. We aren’t stopped but I see flashing lights and security at every intersection. Something is up in this fucking city. Maybe Traci will know. Traci is banging some security type. She should know. I’ll ask her as soon as I get to work. My stop approaches. I suddenly wish I could stay on this transport for another hour or day or week. Warm. Safe. Float along with no ability to change direction or responsibility for anyone or anything. Roadblocks would be okay. I’m clean. I almost forget that I hate public transport.

Instead, I stand up and push the button. The transport slows and then stops. The door opens and I go down the