"The Crate" by David Rich

Two women escape from a country that forces equal treatment to one that encourages differences, and find both have their issues.

“Short Stories For Long Discussions…”

Mission Statement: After Dinner Conversation is an independent, nonprofit, literary magazine that focuses on short story fiction that encourages philosophical and ethical discussions with friends, family, and students.  Each story comes with five suggested discussion questions.

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"The Crate" by David Rich

I cruised out of BLE’s house in my crate. A teenaged girl like myself, she was one of few people I’d ever seen in person.

            I stopped my crate in no place in particular to flat-out break the law. I was so good at hacking crates that I’d reprogrammed mine to open upon command. Crazy illegal!

            All crates were programmed to protect everyone’s fundamental right not to be seen. Basically, they remained closed until confirming you’re in the presence of only legally sanctioned live contacts. Then you go back in before seeing any unauthorized people.

            History recounts that long ago, people judged one another by things such as gender, ethnicity, occupation, personal transportation vehicle, etc. But the modern American Political Union, our beloved A.P.U., made that intrinsically impossible.

            When the door opened, I stepped out of my crate into broad daylight. Although my actions were illicit, I expected no witnesses and deemed them as harmless.

            I viewed a sea of crates, perfectly identical boxes on wheels, rolling to their individual destinations. Inside each, I imagined a human being enjoying physical isolation by texting, gaming, taking in media, or any number of things.

            Then, I glimpsed a mother and child crossing the street. I believe they were of Asian descent (though we rarely spoke of ethnic physical traits). Certainly, they’d legally arranged to walk wherever they were headed. But we weren’t supposed to see one another.

            The girl stared at me; she didn’t appear old enough to understand the law. When the mother spotted me, she made her daughter look away and hurried her along.

            The moment was amazing. They were two random people I’d never seen before. Above all, I’d beaten the system. I was powerful. The mother who’d seen me couldn’t disguise her horror.

            It was exhilarating.

* * *

            Of the people I’d known in person, all but BLE were family relations. BLE was my only ‘live’ friend; all my remaining friends were still virtual. It was a sore subject for me. I suspect that by my age, most had several legally sanctioned live friends.

            I remembered hacking BLE’s crate profile and learning that she had six live friends and many more virtual friends than I. Knowing things like that was forbidden because comparisons can make people feel inferior. And in this case, I was angry! It’d made no sense to me that she’d have more friends.

            I knew I was much smarter than BLE and made frequent hints about it without telling her explicitly. I couldn’t risk that she’d lodge a complaint, or worse, record the conversation.

            If you denigrated anyone, they caught you. If you compared and contrasted people’s merits and flaws, they caught you.

            I’d been accused of revealing my own accomplishments from time to time. Usually, the AI’s caught it in my text messages. Fortunately, minor correct speech violations resulted in either warnings or assignments to watch dreadful reeducation videos.

            One had to be subtle. So, earlier that afternoon, I’d managed a casual comment regarding the ease of last week’s chemistry exam. Her riled glance was priceless.

            Despite our complicated relationship, we were indispensable allies in solving a mutual problem.

            We both wanted to flee the American Political Union.

            It seemed obvious why I’d want to leave. How infuriating it had been, possessing superior intelligence, to be considered merely an equal in a sea of perfectly identical crates!

            But BLE?

            I knew she was distinctively pleasant and engaging in person, though I had minimal data to compare. Perhaps I’d always suspected she didn’t belong hidden in a crate.

            The hare came through, BLE texted. In our secret code, that meant one of her many friendship connections had provided the geographic coordinates of a gap in the electronic border fence confining the A.P.U.’s population.

            About a thousand rabbit holes, she continued texting. That meant the ride to the gap was a thousand kilometers. A long way! But I’d successfully mastered how to disable our crates’ travel limiters and location transmitters without losing auto-navigation. The next steps simply were to choose a day and cover story, empty our currency accounts, and set the coordinates.

            I didn’t suspect a crate would fit through the border hole. However, according to BLE, it was only a ten kilometer walk across the neutral zone to a border checkpoint of the O.A.R., the Old American Republic.

            It was common knowledge that the O.A.R. accepted defectors from the American Political Union, honoring the two nations’ shared history. More importantly, the O.A.R. appreciated the A.P.U.’s strong educational system. With my advanced ability, I anticipated many advantages for myself in the O.A.R.

            However, I couldn’t foresee as much for BLE.