THE SHIFT BREAKERS AND THE LAST FLIGHT OUT OF PACIFICA
The show at The Off-Shift had ended fourteen minutes ago.
BLAST was still bowing.
The stage was empty.
The lights were up.
Three Officebots were stacking chairs.
A Garbagebot had already vacuumed around BLAST twice.
BLAST bowed again.
“Thank you, Pacifica! You’ve been BEAUTIFUL!”
FRYER stood beside the exit with the particular expression of a Laborbot who had already regretted this evening several times.
“BLAST.”
BLAST pointed toward an empty table.
“You were a GREAT crowd!”
“That is a table.”
“Best table in the house.”
“BLAST.”
BLAST finally turned.
FRYER held up his SCU travel pass.
Their scheduled team transport departure time blinked across it.
23:10.
The club clock read:
23:42.
FRYER stared at BLAST.
BLAST stared at the clock.
FRYER stared harder.
BLAST grinned.
“WORLD COMEDY TOUR.”
“We missed the team transport.”
“Headliners always stay late.”
“You spent thirty minutes signing autographs.”
“The fans demanded it.”
“Two bots asked you to move because you were blocking the restroom.”
“They recognized me.”
“They recognized the restroom.”
BLAST threw one magnetic arm around FRYER’s shoulder.
“Relax. We’re in Pacifica. Beautiful city. Great nightlife. Transportation hub of the western coast.”
“You have no idea if any of that is true.”
“I read the brochure.”
“You were holding it upside down.”
“Still informative.”
Outside, Pacifica glittered beneath the moon.
The futuristic stadium glowed across the bay. Vectors zipped along elevated lanes. Beachbots cleaned neon sand beneath artificial palms. Offshore towers blinked over the dark water.
Above them, a transit billboard changed.
LAST SAVIOR CITY FLIGHT — 00:20
FRYER pointed.
“There.”
BLAST read it.
“Plenty of time.”
A second line appeared.
TERMINAL 9 — 18.4 KM
FRYER looked at BLAST.
BLAST looked at FRYER.
“Plenty-ish.”
THE BEACHBOT EXPRESS
Their first transportation option was waiting at the marina.
It was technically a water taxi.
Technically.
The driver was a Beachbot named WAXX7, whose faded floral shirt suggested he had stopped caring about several municipal regulations decades ago.
His boat was called:
THE TOTALLY LEGAL.
FRYER stopped at the dock.
“No.”
BLAST was already aboard.
“Look! Complimentary flotation devices!”
“That’s a stack of pool noodles.”
“Luxury.”
WAXX7 pointed toward a hand-painted sign:
PACIFICA TERMINAL — 12 CREDITS
BLAST leaned toward FRYER.
“He seems trustworthy.”
The Beachbot was currently using a Savior Soda bottle to plug a hole in the dashboard.
“Does he?”
WAXX7 fired the engine.
It coughed.
It screamed.
Something fell into the water.
The boat launched.
FRYER grabbed the rail with both magnetic arm attachments.
BLAST stood at the bow.
“FASTER!”
WAXX7 increased speed.
FRYER shouted over the engine.
“WHY WOULD YOU SAY THAT?”
“WORLD TOUR!”
They bounced across Pacifica Bay.
A luxury transport swept past them silently.
Their boat immediately filled with spray.
BLAST laughed.
FRYER did not.
Then a red light appeared behind them.
A SCOPE drone floated above the water.
UNAUTHORIZED MARITIME SPEED DETECTED.
WAXX7 looked back.
BLAST looked up.
FRYER slowly turned toward BLAST.
“Don’t.”
BLAST waved enthusiastically.
“HEY, SCOPE!”
The drone’s red lens brightened.
SECOND VIOLATION DETECTED.
FRYER sighed.
“What was the second violation?”
EXCESSIVE ENTHUSIASM.
“Fair.”
They reached the opposite shore at 23:57.
WAXX7 pointed toward a distant transit tower.
FRYER looked at the clock.
Twenty-three minutes.
BLAST slapped the side of the boat.
“Great service!”
The engine fell off.
WAXX7 stared at it.
FRYER stared at BLAST.
BLAST lowered his arm.
“Four stars.”
THE TRAVELBOT
They found the Travelbot beneath a glowing transit map.
Its star-shaped head turned silently toward them.
“Perfect!” BLAST said. “A navigation bot.”
FRYER nodded.
“At least something tonight is going right.”
The Travelbot projected a route into the air.
Terminal 9.
Three transfers.
Arrival time:
00:18.
FRYER brightened.
“We can make it.”
BLAST leaned toward the Travelbot.
“Is there a faster way?”
The Travelbot said nothing.
Because Travelbots could not speak.
BLAST waited.
The Travelbot pointed toward the projected route.
“Right. Strong silent type.”
FRYER started walking.
BLAST remained.
“So what do you think of the comedy tour?”
The Travelbot stared at him.
FRYER returned and pulled BLAST away.
“You are asking directions from a bot physically incapable of telling you to stop talking.”
BLAST glanced back.
“He liked me.”
The Travelbot immediately projected:
ROUTE RECALCULATING.
FRYER nodded.
“It’s trying to get farther away.”
THE OFFICEBOT HELP DESK
Their first connection was canceled.
Their second had already left.
Their third existed only on Thursdays.
It was Saturday.
At 00:04 they reached the Pacifica Transit Authority customer-service desk.
Behind it sat an Officebot wearing a badge:
HELPR4 — CUSTOMER EXPERIENCE FACILITATOR
FRYER rushed forward.
“We need Terminal 9. Flight at 00:20.”
HELPR4 nodded.
“Certainly. Please select the nature of your inquiry.”
“We need to get to Terminal 9.”
“Transportation?”
“Yes.”
“Excellent.”
A screen appeared.
TRANSPORTATION ISSUE
Future transportation
Past transportation
Transportation currently occurring
Transportation you wish were occurring
Other
FRYER stared.
“Four.”
HELPR4 selected it.
“Please describe why the transportation you wish were occurring is not currently occurring.”
“Because we are standing here.”
The Officebot processed this.
“Would you describe that as a scheduling concern, geographic concern, emotional concern, or miscellaneous?”
FRYER’s eye twitched.
BLAST leaned over the counter.
“Do you have a comedy club here?”
HELPR4 immediately turned toward BLAST.
“Entertainment inquiries are desk fourteen.”
“Great!”
FRYER yanked BLAST back.
“No.”
HELPR4 printed a ticket.
ESTIMATED WAIT: 47 MINUTES
FRYER stared at it.
Their flight left in sixteen.
BLAST looked impressed.
“Efficient.”
FRYER crumpled the ticket against his chest.
THE BUILDERBOT SHORTCUT
They left the transit hall and found an elevated skybridge pointing directly toward Terminal 9.
A sign blocked the entrance.
BRIDGE CLOSED — BUILDERBOT MAINTENANCE
BLAST stepped around it.
FRYER stopped.
“Closed means closed.”
“Or…”
“No.”
“…it means less crowded.”
“No.”
A Builderbot appeared.
Blue pentagonal body.
Tool attachment rotating at the end of one magnetic arm.
It pointed at the sign.
BLAST nodded.
“We understand.”
The Builderbot pointed more aggressively.
“We’re just crossing.”
FRYER said, “We’re not crossing.”
The Builderbot pointed at FRYER approvingly.
BLAST was already crossing.
FRYER looked at the Builderbot.
The Builderbot looked at FRYER.
BLAST shouted from halfway across.
“GUYS! YOU CAN SEE THE STADIUM FROM HERE!”
The bridge groaned.
FRYER ran after him.
The Builderbot calmly flipped the sign around.
The other side read:
SERIOUSLY.
Halfway across, a section of flooring was missing.
BLAST peered down.
Pacifica traffic streamed hundreds of feet below.
FRYER arrived behind him.
“Tell me you have a plan.”
BLAST looked around.
“Define plan.”
“No.”
“That saves time.”
A construction platform hung beside the bridge.
BLAST stepped onto it.
FRYER stared.
“You don’t know where that goes.”
“Down.”
The platform dropped.
FRYER jumped aboard.
“I hate traveling with you.”
BLAST smiled.
“But you travel.”
The platform stopped thirty stories below.
They were now standing outside a freight depot.
FRYER looked up.
Terminal 9 was even farther away.
BLAST looked at the nearby sign.
PACIFICA INDUSTRIAL FREIGHT — SAVIOR CITY ROUTE
BLAST pointed.
“See?”
FRYER blinked.
“That actually goes to Savior City.”
“WORLD TOUR.”
“For once, stop saying that.”
FIRST CLASS
The freight transport was enormous.
Rows of cargo containers disappeared into its belly.
A Garbagebot supervised loading.
FRYER approached.
“We need to get back to Savior City.”
The Garbagebot scanned them.
Then scanned their SCU badges.
Then scanned BLAST again.
It projected:
PASSENGER TRANSPORT PROHIBITED.
BLAST nodded.
“What about entertainers?”
NO.
“Professional athletes?”
NO.
“Comedy legends?”
The Garbagebot stared at him.
ESPECIALLY NO.
FRYER whispered, “I like this one.”
BLAST looked past the Garbagebot.
A container rolled by.
RETURNING EQUIPMENT — SAVIOR CITY UNITED
BLAST grinned.
FRYER immediately recognized the grin.
“No.”
Five minutes later, they were inside the container.
FRYER sat between soccer cones and equipment cases.
“This is cargo.”
BLAST reclined against a bag of practice balls.
“First class.”
“There are no seats.”
“More legroom.”
“There are no windows.”
“Privacy.”
The container door closed.
Darkness.
FRYER’s eyes glowed.
“BLAST.”
“Yes?”
“If this goes wrong—”
A loud mechanical CLUNK shook the container.
BLAST paused.
“Define wrong.”
The floor tilted.
Both robots slid into a pile of soccer balls.
FRYER lay upside down.
BLAST popped up.
“Complimentary recreation!”
Twenty minutes later, the container opened.
Bright lights poured in.
A Garbagebot stared at them.
BLAST waved.
“Excellent flight.”
The Garbagebot projected:
YOU WERE NOT SUPPOSED TO BE IN THERE.
FRYER climbed out.
“Believe me, I know.”
BLAST looked around.
They were not in Savior City.
They were at another Pacifica freight terminal.
A sign read:
SOUTH PACIFIC INDUSTRIAL ROUTE
FRYER slowly turned.
“BLAST.”
BLAST inspected the sign.
“Technically, still Pacifica.”
“You said this was going to Savior City.”
“It said Savior City.”
“It said RETURNING EQUIPMENT.”
“Yes.”
“That equipment was returning TOMORROW.”
BLAST considered this.
“Extended tour.”
FRYER pointed directly at him.
“Do not say it.”
BLAST smiled.
“WORLD—”
“NO.”
THE LAST FLIGHT
At 01:12, long after the real last flight had departed, they reached the passenger terminal.
The building was nearly empty.
Lights dimmed automatically around them.
A giant departure board displayed:
SAVIOR CITY — DEPARTED
FRYER stood beneath it.
Silent.
BLAST stood beside him.
Also silent.
For four entire seconds.
Which for BLAST represented extraordinary emotional restraint.
Finally:
“Well.”
FRYER looked at him.
BLAST shrugged.
“Pacifica has nice benches.”
FRYER sighed.
“We’re sleeping in the terminal.”
“Adventure.”
“No.”
“Character building?”
“No.”
“World—”
“Finish that sentence and I’m leaving you here.”
BLAST sat.
FRYER sat beside him.
Across the terminal, a cleaning Garbagebot slowly approached.
BLAST looked at FRYER.
“You think they’ve got an open mic?”
FRYER put his face in his magnetic arms.
Then his communicator chimed.
FRYER looked down.
A message from the SCU team coordinator.
WHERE ARE YOU TWO?
FRYER typed:
PACIFICA TERMINAL. MISSED TRANSPORT.
The reply arrived instantly.
WHAT DO YOU MEAN? THE TEAM BUS IS STILL OUTSIDE THE OFF-SHIFT.
FRYER froze.
BLAST leaned over.
“What?”
FRYER slowly showed him the message.
BLAST read it.
Again.
Then smiled.
“See?”
“No.”
“They waited for us.”
“No.”
“For the headliners.”
“BLAST.”
“Our tour transportation!”
“BLAST.”
BLAST rose dramatically and pointed toward the terminal exit.
“BACK TO THE OFF-SHIFT!”
FRYER remained seated.
“That is eighteen kilometers away.”
BLAST lowered his arm.
“Oh.”
The Garbagebot rolled past.
Behind it was a small maintenance cart.
BLAST watched.
FRYER saw him watching.
“No.”
BLAST looked at FRYER.
FRYER looked at BLAST.
The Garbagebot looked at both of them.
Ten minutes later, the maintenance cart disappeared into the Pacifica night.
BLAST stood on the back, laughing into the wind.
FRYER drove.
Very slowly.
The Garbagebot sat beside him, expressionless.
BLAST raised both magnetic arms.
“WORLD COMEDY TOUR!”
FRYER kept his eyes on the road.
“I should’ve stayed at Bot Burger.”
The Garbagebot projected one line onto the windshield:
AGREED.
And somewhere in the distance, the lights of The Off-Shift came back into view.
