Adelaide 2047AD

Forget the suspension of license - I never had one. But a thousand hours community service! I know, I know what you’re thinking - lucky not to have a jail sentence or a conviction recorded. Well, I had a good record didn’t I? And it all came down to some software in a network of computers sitting on a bench in the court. Cursors blinking as if they were barely awake. Did they have to put those ridiculous wigs on the screens. Ludicrous. Microsift JusticeScales v34! Every single judicial case, precendent, sentencing note, appeal, sentence, crime, victim impact statement….all in a huge artificially intelligent neural network.

“Continually learning, continually expanding” - so says the advertising campaign. Continually learning how to rip us off, continually expanding into every facet of our lives.

Ali finally showed up for a visit several hours after the limo event. When all the sugar had left his system. He felt so guilty he paid for my lawyer, who after getting advice from a team of legal software engineering experts (in fact, one of them was an ex-Microsift employee with a grudge), formatted my case details in such a way as to convince the neural network that I deserved a lenient sentence. Talk about legal arguments, they inserted a recursive loop that sent those networked judges into a spin. They went from laptops to lap dancing in a few milliseconds. In the end, the court sherrif had to reboot the lot of them, which according to the rules of double jeopardy (Computer-assisted justice Regulations 2020 Article 14), meant that I got the default sentence (a thousand hours community service) and couldn’t be retried.

The burly bloke with the bat started across the street. Others were approaching from houses further down. We’d be minced meat soon…and I couldn’t get to that door in time. Then the sugar and fear kicked into Ali’s system and he speared his cane into the door gap. Just in time. The safety mechanism reacted and the door sprung open. We jumped in.

“Car: close the doors.”

“I’m afraid I can’t do that, Dave, ” the car replied, matter-of-factly.

“Ali! Now is not the time to be searching through the glove-box!”

“Wait a sec, a-ha,” he smiled. The interior lights went off, in fact the entire dashboard shut down. And most importantly the door slid back shut with a whoosh matching the whoosh of the cricket bat outside.

“What have you done? And what the hell is wrong with this car? It’s gone crazy.”

“I think it needs some attitude adjusting, but in the short term I just pressed the reboot button.”

Sure enough, the screen on the dash was coming back to life running through the self-check, installing the startup programs.

“Quick, hold the left radio button in and it starts up in safety mode.”

“Safety mode? Watch it!” One of the gorillas outside swung the bat into the windscreen. It bounced off - bullet-proof safety glass. The others had surrounded the limo and were starting to rock it backwards and forwards.

“Get in the front and grab that wheel,” Ali ordered. I followed without thinking. Mistake number one. Mistake number two was depressing the accelerator and skidding off over the toes of seven members of the Hills Angles Bike Club (sic, I read a tattoo on one of the forearms against the window).

Fortunately I couldn’t hear their screams as we left them nursing crushed steel-capped boots in a storm of gravel.

The street signs were non-existent in the area, the dashboard compass was not active in “Safe Mode” and our sense of direction was useless after spending so long cooped up in The Complex. We stopped a safe distance off to ask an old lady waiting at a bus stop, but I couldn’t understand her accent, nor she mine.

Finally we followed a bus onto Main North Road and headed south.

We were cruising back at eighty-five when I saw a police checkpoint up ahead. Was it a scam? I’d heard about fake police checkpoints recently and decided not to stop. Soon there were a posse of police motor cycles following us, indicating through the dark glass that I should pull-over.

I’ve been detained for a few days. A long story. Last weekend I went out with Ali from Apartment 1726. We hadn’t left the building complex for over a year. You needed a good reason to leave The Complex. But a good friend was opening a night club so we bucked up the courage and decided to step out. With all the extra police on the beat in the CBD it was rumoured to be safe again.

Ali rented an American limousine especially for the event (who owns a car these days? I had to give the guy at the junk yard a six-pack to dispose of mine). The theme was “Black”, so we hired some fancy pimp outfits. To top off the look we checked into the health spa on level 13 and got the darkest spray tan possible - columbian espresso. We were black allright.

The limo rolled up outside the apartment, we got in, tucked in our purple velvet over coats and enormous afro wigs and the doors slid shut.  The night club, Asteroids, was opening not far away on Pirie Street.

“Distination?” the autopilot lady purred.
“Oi, whachoo talkin bout, bitch, we already booked this trip, and what’s wid dat weeeeird accent?” Ali squealed in his best faux Queens.
“Plase rupate clearly. Distination?”
“You know the way, woman, weeza goin to Pirie Street.”
“Distination Pirie Street, plase confirm.”
“Whaat? You deaf, sister? You heard what I said. Pirie Street, pronto.”

My afro wig was starting to itch as we pulled away from the kerb.

“Yo, brother, do a line with me,” Ali smiled, bringing out some white powder bags. I was thinking, Holy Shit! This guy is crazy.
“That’s not what I think it is?”
“Whizz Fizz, baby, ” he laughed.
“Where’d you get that? It’s been outlawed for years.”
“Burnside, bro. Sugar dealers on every corner.”

Since the diabetes epedemic of the 20’s sugar candies had been strictly monitored, in locked cabinets and sold only to non-obese adults. The government introduced regulations requiring warnings about the dangers of consuming Mars Bars and Snickers and Kit Kats, obesity, diabetes, dental caries. But people didn’t seem to care, they were addicted. So the government forced producers to plaster pictures of the effects to try and shock consumers - fat guts, dentist drills, insulin injectors, diabetic leg amputations. To no effect. So they forced the sugar candies off the street, on-the-spot fines for possession of less than three bars, prison terms for dealing, mandatory sacharine programmes for addicts.

And now Ali was licking up a line of Whizz Fizz in the back seat of a stretch limo. I joined in of course.

The limo auto-pilot was babbling on but we paid no attention. The fix hit me like a hammer. I started to feel light-headed, euphoric.

Then I looked out the window. Holy Mackerel! It was dark outside. Too dark. No street-lights kind of dark.
“Car, repeat last announcement.”
“Repeating last announcement made four minutes ago. ‘Now leaving CBD safety perimeter. Estimate time of arrival seven minutes.’”
“Where the hell are we going?”
“Grid map location: 118F12 - currently on Main North Road heading north.”
“Main North Road?”
“Car, confirm destination!”
“Distination: Pirie Street.”
“Car, bring up a map.”

I knew we were in trouble as soon as I saw our dear sweet CBD at the bottom of the screen, and the little car icon marked “You are here” entering …. Elizabeth West. An Ohno second ticked over in my brain. I froze.

“Whass da trouble, bro?” Ali asked in a Whizz Fizz haze, sherbet powder caked around his lips.

Before I could answer the limo halted.

“Destination: Pirie Street,” the autopilot answered, with a smirk. The doors slid open. The smell of unfiltered air attacked our noses.

Ali stepped out and addressed the crowd, shouting ”Yo, motherrrrr fuckas! Yo’ bruthers from North Terrace have arrived.” He eventually pulled off his sunglasses and opened his eyes. “Dave, whay iz all dem bitches? Whay iz da night club, man? Whay iz we?”

Lights came on in several houses up and down the street. Three blokes in blue singlets stood up from a couch on the varandah of a plasterboard house opposite. By the light of a single garage fluoro tube I saw they were holding stubbies of West End draught.

“Farkin’ pimps in our street,” I heard one of the say.

“The trouble is, Ali,” I whimpered, “that this stupid “Made In New Zealand” autopilot has taken us to Perrie Street, Elizabeth West. Not Pirie Street, Adelaide.”

One of our friends opposite picked up a cricket bat from the grass and strode towards us.

“Enjoy the party,” the autopilot said. As her doors slid shut I’m sure I heard her add, “..Mither fockers.”

To be continued.

It’s finally arrived. The President’s Day long weekend. Well, long for some because these days public holidays are only for the lucky few. To solve that problem, President J. Eager Howard announced that the public holiday would be scheduled on a Sunday, and decreed that Aussies shall all have the day off to go to our place of worshipping choice - church, mosque, pub - and celebrate Australia being the lucky country. I guess we were lucky that the winds after the reactor failure in outer Melbourne blew out to sea. Unlucky for New Zealand. But we should be lucky to have a Sunday off? My father still remembers the times when weekends ran for two days and long weekends three. I haven’t seen him for a while, since he won that free Reader’s Digest holiday.

So I thought I might take the scooter down to Victor. But this morning the radio reported that the city’s 38 million litre unleaded petrol storage facility at Birkenhead was empty and that some of Adelaide’s service stations were expected to run out of fuel today. The State Government and the RAA urged motorists not to panic into bulk buying fuel, but the queue must’ve been a kilometre long at the Hindley Street station, snaking all the way out onto West Terrace and causing all sorts of jams and scooter rage. Some wanker in an armoured-personnel carrier didn’t jump the queue, he just rolled right over the top of it. Lucky I saw him coming and pulled the scooter out of the way. Turns out it was a lady from Burnside, yes she had gold shoes on. Why do they keep buying these monster trucks when the world has run out of petrol? I think they must be sniffing it. She proceeded to fill ‘er up with the last of the petrol.

Anyway authorities assured us that by this afternoon a fuel tanker would dock in Adelaide, with another to arrive tomorrow, to fill the Birkenhead facility, which still only holds reserves for seven to 10 days.

So with that option gone I decided to go with the flow and take the only free transport on the road - the bus to Ikea. With the new expansion complete Ikea has taken over half of the airport site, what with the airline industry in tatters and flights reduced to a trickle after the recent fuel shortages. The only air traffic I noted was military - the refurbished Hercules aircrafts (most of them past retirement age of 75) taking troops northwards.

For lunch we had a picnic on the plastic grass of Ikea Square, with complementary Ikea vegetarian meatballs (although I’m sure they were trying out some of the new recycled paper ones) and then they kindly dropped us all back on North Terrace. All in all, it could have been worse.

Typical. How could Isaac Asimov get it so wrong? The year 2047 and the futures and possibilities that he dreamt of - where are they? I’m still waiting. Waiting. Tick. Tick. Tick. They can’t even get the date right on the screen - no, don’t dream, this is not the first decade of the new millenium - it’s 2047.

2047? No gleaming towers. No advanced civilisation. No space stations (not even a good public transport system - although, depending on the state of the electricity grid we can catch a tram from Adelaide Central to Glenelg now that they’ve finally laid the tram tracks from Victoria Square down King William street). No third law of robotics or whatever it was. The only robot around here is my stupid dog-shaped vacuum cleaner, Fido V7.3. “Man’s Best Friend”? “The Golden Staph retriever”? My foot! The only law of robotics that she follows is getting stuck in the closet and sucking up my keys as soon as I drop them.

Even now she’s banging into my feet under the desk, trapped in some infinite search loop bounded by the mathematical environment of the curved plastic that pervades in my freshly upgraded apartment.

But I digress. My job is to send you the situation report for Southern Australia.

It’s been a horrible day. Goldie (that’s what I call my Fido) and I woke up to unbearable heat. The CBD here in Adelaide averages about 6 hours electricity daily and the rest is generator electricity, provided by “The Company” which means we get switched to the B circuit - we can run the small things like ceiling fans, and microwave ovens - but no toasters and definitely no air conditioners. Except for the Execs above the twenty third floor, who can run whatever the hell they like.

We woke up to an ominous silence - and then I realised I still had my noise-cancelling headphones on. I took ‘em off and let the sound of jack hammers and backfiring oil-fuelled buses, screeching trams and buzzing mopeds hit me. I could even hear the sound of regimented boots on tarmac as one of the local troop detachments practised up and down North Terrace below. The noise is enough to wake anyone up. Not to mention the stench of uncollected garbage.

Goldie was whining - an indicator that the generator hasn’t been working and that she needs to be recharged immediately. So I went next door to check and got a confirmation. It might not work all day. The neighbor responsible for it, we call him Brad, is a veteran of the old Electricity Trust and loves to tinker with transformers. He was going to bring by the ‘generator doctor’ as soon as he was free. In the meantime “The Company” suggested we go to work as the factory generator was working just fine and it was nice and cool (as long as the ‘Work For The Dole’ people kept peddling).

This evening the electricity came back on at 7 pm. For only twenty minutes- as if to taunt us. Goldie was actually past taunting. She was lying on her back, four legs to the ceiling, tail in the wall socket, in the default recharge position. Twenty minutes got back her pulse but little else. The moment the lights flickered on I jumped in front of the television. I could hear the neighborhood children on the streets below scatter back into the shadows.

The television flickered on, my profile registered with the information service provider, and “Channel Me - Everything I Want To Hear - And Nothing Else” splurted into life. Same old boring stuff - a “Happy Days” four day special - every single episode. But believe it or not I’d had enough of The Fonz. So I fiddled with the hack circuit (that I’d bought in an alley down off Hindley Street) and managed to tune into some government channel intra-station, probably leaking from Parliament House.

The news was all so depressing. How come none of this gets out? Soaring temperatures and declining rainfalls caused by climate change are wiping two a billion dollars a year off Australia’s wheat industry within 30 years, a study shows. Rice yields are also well-down since the Murray stopped flowing. (But at least we can have cheap T-shirts with the cotton we’re growing.) Professor Peter Dice, from the Queensland University of Technology, today said a study of five major wheat-growing areas showed that changes to weather patterns had caused a drop in production of 34 per cent. He said atmospheric carbon dioxide levels had increased significantly in Australia over the last 40 years, causing temperatures to rise by an average of four degrees and rainfall to drop by around 27 per cent.

I was half-way through an analysis of the George Zee Bush invasion of East Timor when the power went off again. This apartment only has a small UPS so I’ll end this report now.