Liverpool
The fog rolled off the Mersey, blurring the bands of dull gray that made up the sky and the river itself. Cranes like skeleton scaffolds rising above, arms outstretched. James walked with his collar turned up against the damp November chill, shoes scuffing against the cobblestones. He kept his head down, mist thick enough to make it hazy ahead, a smell of diesel and salt heavy in the air.
The old warehouse was still empty, pitted and windowless, somehow still contrasting with the gleaming towers that sprung up all around it. Behind it, shining blue mirror glass of the corporation’s tower, reflecting what little light escaped from behind the clouds. There were still parts of the city that were rusted right through, even if much of it was polishing itself bright again.
James walked quick, straight, into the tower, into the dry, sterile, warmth of the lobby. Promo reels shone large on the screens above reception; cranes moving containers like they were dancing, ships shifting into and out of ports, multicultural staff smiling more than any dock worker was like to show in real life.
Global Flow, Local Care
James joined the steady flow of staff funneling through the turnstiles and toward the lift.
He’d grown up with the smell of the river. Kicking a ball along the empty dockside pavements until a passing squad car decided to flash its lights in warning. He’d run from the police once, as a teen - following friends who’d nicked a crate of energy drinks from a delivery truck. James hadn’t even touched it, but he’d run away all the same. He could still remember the tension in his muscles. Nobody had been caught, but he still felt guilty.
All years behind him now. He badged to to the 8th floor, and the lift doors closed. Through his reflection in the glass, he could see the fog fall away below, looking across a harbor lit with glowing logos in corporate neon.
Yokohama
It was raining, hard. Neon getting pulled into long diagonal lines against the glass. Daichi set his umbrella against his desk, shrugged off his raincoat, adjusted his monitor. From here, he could look down on the container yard far below. Neat in its geometric lines, the cranes like toys, the workers like ants.
In the distance he could glimpse Minato Mirai. Thought of his parents in their shop on the concourse. Shelves stacked with stationery and soap, finding space in every corner for one more item to display. He couldn’t even explain his work to them. They nodded, they were proud of him - it wasn’t just kind words. But his numbers on a screen were a different language to their world of work.
Daichi loved that language. The poetry of numbers, tracing routes and efficiencies, clean flows. It comforted him, he was someone who didn’t let things slip. Someone the bean counters trusted.
Liverpool
James’ cubicle was set back from the windows. Dull, beige, partition walls, a couple of sofas as a nod to “open plan collaboration”. Two monitors for him to watch, numbers scrolling steadily. Their container IDs, port of origin, port of arrival, weight, deviance, compliance codes.
He leaned forward, tapping the keyboard. Searching for the occasional stumble, where there were mismatched delivery codes, or improbably variable weights and cargoes on routes that didn’t make sense. Almost always a clerical error, sometimes theft. He was quick to spot them, always had been.
It was satisfying, but repetitive. Strain on the attention. Catching errors was like proving himself. Stop them turning into red flags, or being able to take action if they already were. Every time he logged something, got a nod of approval, it proved he belonged here. Built beyond what his family and friends might have expected, or hoped.
There was cheerful laughter and gossiping voices a few cubicles away. Monday morning catch up. James just pressed deeper into the numbers.
By midday the sun had burned off the last of the fog, even while still muffled behind the overcast skies. James was aching, shoulders tight from leaning over the desk, bad coffee metallic on his tongue.
One manifest blinked briefly amber, auto-patched quickly, and returned to green. He logged it anyway. Cargo in, cargo out.
Windows too far away to see outside. All that reached him was the hum of the servers on the floor, the whisper of the climate control. At night, when he worked late, you could turn off the office lights and be bathed in the glow of corporate sigils all around.
Yokohama
Daichi was in a briefing room. Rain still pouring, sliding down the glass behind his manager’s head. Same talk - be vigilant, precise, keep things flowing. He bowed when was expected to, scribbled so that it looked like he was taking notes.
Back at his desk, Yokohama harbor spread out beneath him. AR overlays flickered over. He sat down with a satisfied sigh. The same order confirmation was sitting there, waiting patiently for a check and approval.
Liverpool
By mid-afternoon James couldn’t even taste the terrible coffee. He rubbed his eyes, dry, but kept chugging on. Chasing any small discrepancy he could find; flows still relentless.
He liked the steadiness of it. The work was his own proof. Mostly, he believed it.
Part 1 of a four-part story from the Static Drift universe.
Part 2: Trace will be published next Friday (Oct 24).