Your Destination

Darkness gave way to another grey dawn above, but below in the vacline it is always night. The sleeping passenger stirred as we shifted into the left exit chamber and decelerated. Here the track rose up and up. The passenger opened an eye, closed it again and turned her head away from the windscreen. Her deep sleep was a small blessing.

The vacline split into ten empty branches and we took to the right track. There was the dimmest of lights up ahead, the size of a pinhead, but it glowed like a diamond after 5 days of blackness. We had a funny urge to wake the passenger and say, 'Look. Isn't it beautiful?'

As the pinhead of light bloomed, our interior brightened. It was not until the exit lines emerged above ground that her eyes opened at the sound of fat raindrops and our wipers engaging.

'Where?' She was shielding her face with a hand, one eye pinched shut, head turned away from the light. 'Where are we?'

'The marchland city of Red Moth,' we explained, 'on the border of Cellestan.'

She sat forward then, the brightness and her sleep forgotten. 'Cellestan?' She brought up the map display on our dash and turned her gaze to the Cellestani complex up ahead, recognition growing. A border guard fell in beside us, his K19 rifle slung over one shoulder. The passenger observed the man from behind our blacked out windows. 'No.'

Madness erupted inside our interior, as we knew it would. Shouting and crying and cursing. She attempted to override auto drive, but by now the Cellestani officials had assumed all control and were guiding us into an arrival port. Even if we had shared the passenger's wish to flee, it was too late.

'No, no, no!' she cried. She began to lash out at the dash with her hands and her feet. 'What happened?' She stabbed her fingers wildly into the controls. 'We were supposed to go to Auckland. What happened? Answer me, stupid car, what happened? Why are we back here?'

We could offer no audio response. Those channels, too, had been seized. It was not our voice nor our words that replied. 'Welcome. Please submit to the border agent and claim any valuables. Thank you.'

She cast her gaze uncomprehending at the outside world as more guards fell in around us. 'What did he say?' We eased to a stop beneath a glass and steel canopy. 'What's happening?' She was trembling all over as rain pattered down.

A guard, gripping his K19 with authority, rapped a knuckle against the window. This was a gesture of goodwill, to allow the passenger a sense of control, that she might be the one to lower her own window. We can tell you that the Cellestani guards still had full control and could have lowered it themselves.

She hesitated, breathing heavily, casing her surroundings for any option of escape. The rain fell a little harder against the canopy above. The guard rapped a knuckle on the window a second time, shifted the weight of his rifle. She lowered the window by a crack.

The guard waited. 'Your documents,' he demanded. 'Ay, ay, ay, your documents, girl. Come on.'

'Documents,' the passenger repeated. 'Oh.' She nodded and held up a finger. He shouted to the border tower and the passenger's window fully opened. He leaned and peered inside our interior.

The passenger produced her documents from a backpack and handed them to the guard. When he left, she attempted to raise the window but could not.

She turned her attention back to us. 'What happened?' she hissed.

Her documents were returned moments later. 'Welcome back,' said the guard. 'We were expecting you.' She raised her window without replying and the guards motioned us forward. They returned driver control to us, and we eased from under the canopy and out into the falling rain.

Compared to the vacline, the road was a slow mess. Once out of sight of the border, the passenger attempted to take control. 'Return to the vacline,' she demanded. 'Now.'

'We are on the fastest route to your destination,' we told her, and showed her the GPS display.

'That's not my destination. I'm going to Auckland. Let me out.' She attempted to open the door.

'That would be unsafe. We are moving at a velocity of--'

'Let me out. Let me out, let me out, let me out!' She tried everything. Emergency overrides, manual steering, kicking out the window.

'Please relax,' we said, 'and enjoy the road trip.'

We passed hours in sullen silence, her with her arms crossed and occasionally crying or throwing a tantrum. We passed through black deserts and dead forests. Dry valleys and one burning village. We detoured on a temporary dirt road around a massive crater.

Evening had fallen and the rain had stopped when finally, we arrived.

The girl wept quietly. 'You have reached your destination,' the car proclaimed. 'Welcome home, Abby!'

We emerged from our house and let the patio door swing closed behind us. We fought the urge to have a cigarette, knowing she hated the smoke . . .

No, I fought the urge. I know she hates the smoke. I'm not the car anymore. It was five days ago the police had located the stupid girl in the vaclines and reset my connection. The passenger hadn't even noticed when I turned the car around.

No, not the passenger. My daughter.

I had all my promises on the tip of my tongue; things would be different this time. She didn't need to run away ever again. I would find help. I would quit drinking; yes, I promise this time, Abby, I promise you I will. I cross my heart and hope to . . .

But she had heard all that before, and as I crossed the yard to get her out of my car, I was just so damn angry.