6

The scooter would only get him so far; AnSIL expected that from the beginning. He stood in line for fifteen tense minutes before presenting his ID card to a soldier cop, who eyed him suspiciously and read Bert’s old travel permission letter carefully. “Turley, scan this in and open the gate,” The guard yelled over his shoulder to a guard who was busy filling out forms.
Turley was obviously a rookie who was given the duties that no one else wanted, a servant to the public servants. He stood quickly and beckoned to AnSIL, “This way, remove your glasses and walk between the sensor barricades but otherwise follow me.”
Turley looked up at the black rectangle that showed up on the scan, “Empty your pockets. Slowly please.” He rested his hand on his electro-laser pistol and silently loosened the strap.
AnSIL followed officer Turley’s orders and produced the inheritance tin, opening it before Turley could flag it as a possible bomb.
“Did I tell you to open it? No, I didn’t,” Turley stepped back for a second, seemingly to catch his breath, “Okay, dump the contents on this table.” He gestured to a small glass shelf attached to one of the scanners.
AnSIL complied and Turley watched carefully as he bent down to pick up a fallen pen. The officer scanned the inheritance code and grunted in surprise when it was verified.
“Alright…” Turley pressed a button on the recorder beside him, “A dial, debit case, projection and hard-copy map, three pens and a notebook, a book of poetry, a poncho and survival blanket, a sonic scrubber and a piece of… clear crystal?” “Bathing salt, sir,” AnSIL corrected.
“Bath salts?” Turley raised his eyebrows and looked closely. “It’s mined on old-world, neutralizes odor,” AnSIL answered, wondering if bath salts would be his undoing, “That’s all I know.”
“That would explain why it doesn’t smell like armpit,” Turley grunted and seemed to loosen up after he ran a quick search and found the salts on the net, “You learn something new every day.”
Turley looked back at the line of people backing up behind AnSIL, “Chipper… be on your way.”

After packing things back up, AnSIL stepped out into the orange glow of the sunset and walked away as calmly as he could muster, he wasn’t sure where he was going but he had to get there before curfew. Auto-tanks were already moving into place and an officer was telling a private garbage truck driver that he’d have to make his remaining stops quickly.

Bert heard a beep from his net terminal and reached across his desk to answer.
A confirmation request appeared from the Fed Travel Ministry with the certified permission letter that he’d signed a year before.
Bert quickly entered his confirmation and FTM identification number, shut down the terminal and called up SILer, “He’s heading for the city. The idiot just used my permission letter in zone 91933, ground level. Go finish him.”

(What I’m listening to: No Excuses by Alice in Chains)