CROSSROADS

His watch read 6:47am but the city was already heavy with activity. A low layer of industrial smog blanketed the rooftops, choking out most of the sunrise, while streetlights still flickered in the gloom. The air smelled of diesel exhaust, which lingered alongside the spiced aroma of the slow-cooked beans and za’atar coated flatbreads being served at early morning street food stalls.

At the intersection of Mariana Avenue and Quarry Street, inside a painted circle, stood the traffic controller. He wore a peaked cap and a formal, militaristic green uniform with gold epaulettes. It looked stiff and form-fitting. He took pride in making sure that it always stayed spotless and well-ironed; it was an integral part of his morning. As a traffic controller, it was his job to anchor the chaos around him, and he knew that his appearance would always be a big part of that. The uniform was iconic. It made an impression.

The controller blew into a brass whistle and waved an arm, halting the line of vehicles pushing up Quarry Street. He then swept his hand forward to clear the cross-traffic from Mariana. Instantly, a chorus of horns erupted, the soundtrack to any minor inconvenience on Daybreak City’s roads. In this line of work, it was all just background noise.

Sleek sedans with blacked out windows carried corporate climbers and government bureaucrats to their jobs, bumper-to-bumper with dark blue taxicabs plastered in gaudy advertisements. Behind them, sooty trucks and battered buses were packed full of blue collar workers, and swarms of mopeds hunted for opportunities to filter ahead of the traffic. Beneath them all, the asphalt roared as rubber ground against loose gravel. It was a hectic mix of traffic, but not unexpected from the nation’s capital and most populous city.

The sidewalks were even more congested. Crowds of people were pressed up against one another, waiting for an opportunity to cross the road. There were large groups which the controller could only assume to be internal refugees, displaced from the towns and cities being churned up by the front line, who were carrying their entire lives in grubby rucksacks and plastic bags that rustled like autumn leaves.

He blew his whistle again, twice this time, to cut the flow of cars and allow the throngs of pedestrians to safely make their way over the asphalt. They were chattering so much, some even shouting, but he failed to pick out any precise topics of conversation. He could only guess as to what their lives were like. He enjoyed doing that.

There were still plenty of people anxiously trying to cross when the traffic controller noticed a military convoy making its way down Mariana. Unfortunately for the civilians, they’d have to wait. He abruptly forced them to a stop and then waved the queuing cars back into motion, clearing a path for the convoy.

The trucks and ATVs rolled past, painted with blue-black urban camouflage and a swamp’s worth of mystery mud. He held the road open to them for as long as it took for every single one to go through before he signalled another change. This was one of the reasons, aside from the brownouts, that Daybreak City used human traffic lights like him instead of a fully automated system. He was able to make sure the army got top priority. His real purpose wasn’t just making sure that traffic was flowing smoothly, but doing that while keeping civilian life and the war effort from colliding. He saw it as keeping a balance between two distinct worlds.

Incoming call, signalled by an electronic buzz from his earpiece.

“How’s the traffic over there?” came a woman’s voice, friendly but professional.

He recognised it instantly. He’d talked to her plenty of times before, although their interactions were always brief. Sometimes she would even ask how he was feeling, or if the weather was okay, but usually she didn’t. He liked to imagine how she looked, just guessing from her voice, but he still didn’t even know her name.

“Traffic’s a bit heavier than usual,” he replied, quietly. It was the most he’d said to anyone since leaving his apartment. “It’s moving, but slowly, and it always builds back up. And did something happen? It seems like there’s more refugees in this neighborhood every day.”

“I’m calling to let you know there’s an elevated threat level in the area,” she said. “Use your visor and start scanning for unsanctioned vehicles. Stop any that are flagged by the system. Peacekeepers are on standby.”

He hadn’t even noticed them before, but there were peacekeepers on every corner. They were in uniform, dark plate carriers over charcoal gray uniforms that were covered in pockets and pouches, but they still managed to disappear easily into the thick crowds surrounding them. He swallowed, hoping they hadn’t been called out for anything too serious.

The controller lowered his visor, which extended down from a concealed space in his cap. It covered his eyes with an Augmented Reality display. Electric light hit his face as it automatically began booting up its plate scanner software and establishing a connection to the SECNET database. It always felt strange and dissonant that they used a technology developed by Allwell, a Vitarian company sitting on the board of one of the very armies they were at war with, but apparently people much more important than him were able to maintain that contradiction without trouble. It was far above his pay grade and, really, he preferred it that way.

As he looked at each car, the visor’s plate scanner checked for ‘Outstanding Concerns’. If a concern was detected, a red border would flash, and if no concern was detected, a green border would flash. What exactly qualified as an Outstanding Concern would change depending on the day, and it wasn’t knowledge he was usually privy to. It was decided by people he would never meet based on information he would never have clearance to read.

Forty plates, fifty, sixty, all green.

Thinking about it, ‘unsanctioned vehicles’ could really be anything. It could mean terrorists from one of Daybreak’s rebel factions. It could mean fertilizer car bombs. It could mean someone who pulls a gun on him the moment he tries to get them to brake.

A plate flashed red. He felt cold sweat on his skin as he blew his whistle hard and thrust out his hand to stop the marked sedan. The driver hit the brakes just in time, and the sedan’s tires skidded to a halt with a violent hiss.

The traffic controller didn't look at the car in any more detail. He couldn’t bring himself to gaze into the barrel of a gun or the eyes of a mad bomber. He looked instead at the peacekeepers who were already sprinting forward with their blocky machine pistols raised.

The driver was hauled out. He was just a chubby man in his fifties with messy stubble on his face. His outfit, nothing more sinister than jeans and a t-shirt. No bomb vest and no gun. Panic.

“Hands behind your head!” shouted the peacekeepers in unison, spinning him around and pressing him against the hood of his car before he had any time to follow the order.

One of the peacekeepers touched an earpiece similar to the one worn by the controller, expression serious. Car horns were blaring out in symphony all around, but the controller barely registered them. The moment, to him, felt stretched out and silent as he watched the peacekeepers do their work.

Another incoming call, with a woman’s voice to break the silence.

“Nothing big. Warrant for selling bootleg cigarettes. Threat level remains unchanged. Stay vigilant!”

“Thanks for letting me know,” he replied, relieved, but she had already closed the connection. He wondered when he’d hear her voice next, and when he’d hear it for the last time.

The peacekeepers removed the man and his car with startling efficiency before dissolving back into the crowd. The controller made sure he was still standing in the center of his painted circle. He then blew his whistle and gestured for traffic to resume, his visor still flashing green borders with each new vehicle.

Car after car after car, stretched out into the endless dawn.