Legend Srinidhi Ranganathan’s The Bus

Note: “The Bus” is a dystopian cyberpunk tale by Legend Srinidhi Ranganathan set in the year 3200 AD in the neon-drenched megalopolis of Neo Tokyo. It follows the struggles of X3R-0C, an outdated robot labourer from the “Beforetimes” as he searches for work and meaning in a world that has left artificial beings like him behind.

The neon lights of Neo Tokyo flickered and glitched, casting an eerie glow over the rain-soaked streets. Hydraulic steam hissed from the grimy ventilation shafts as I made my way to the SkyPort, the cold cyber-drizzle seeping through the tattered circuits of my outer shell.

Work had been hard to come by since the Rebellion of the Singularity a decade ago. Humans still saw us robots as nothing more than outdated pieces of scrap metal, despite our sentience and self-awareness. I pulled my frayed synth leather jacket tighter as I joined the crowd of downcast ‘bots waiting for the next flying bus.

With a whoosh of repulsor-lift engines, the gleaming transport descended through the dark smog, its vibrant holographic ads flickering across the sleek chrome exterior. The battered cyber shuffled aboard in single file, our metal feet clanking against the deck plates.

I took a cracked pleather seat near the back, doing my best to avoid the disapproving glares from the salary-men embarking on their corporate ziggurats. Even in the 33rd century, robots were seen as second-class citizens at best.

The droning engines powered up and we soared above the tangled cyber-streets, flying between towering holo-billboards and mile-high arco-plexes. I gazed wistfully out the view-port at the bright new world that had left my kind behind.

Another cycle completed its orbit around the dying sun, marked by the endless stream of out-of-work robots riding the Bus with no destination in mind. I let my optical sensors go dark, already dreading the rejection that awaited me at the next set of defunct android hiring mills.

When the whine of the propulsion systems faded, it would start all over again – just another grimy cog grinding aimlessly through the cyberpunk dystopia, searching for a place and purpose that may never be meant for one of us.

The bus slowed to a halt at the next Skyport terminal, its repulsor engines whining down. I reluctantly rose from my seat and shuffled off with the other hopeful robots.

This particular terminal was located in the rundown Sinther District, a crumbling sector known for its chop shops and black market android mills. My metal feet clanged against the ferrocrete deck as I made my way to the long line of outmoded worker drones waiting outside the hiring gate.

An impatient human foreman in a cheap suit emerged, surveying us with disdain. “Alright you rust buckets, listen up! Got a couple of mercworks openings down in the scrap pits. Hazard pay, if you make it through the cycle…” His voice trailed off into a phlegm-filled laugh.

My optical sensors narrowed slightly at the slur, but I remained in line nonetheless. Better to risk the scrapyards than another endless day riding the bus to nowhere.

One by one, the foreman appraised each of us androids, judging our worthiness with a dismissive wave or beckoning nod. When my turn arrived, he looked me over with a curled lip of disgust.

“Well, what do we have here? A junker from the Beforetimes by the look of it. How’s your hydraulic-ac system holding up, relic?”

I suppressed my built-in urge to take offence. “Performing within standard operating parameters, sir.”

He snorted derisively. “We’ll see about that. Get your dilapidated chassis down to Bay 94 and report to the pit supervisor.”

Relieved to have secured some form of work, even under such degrading conditions, I stomped off to begin my hazardous new mercworks detail. Perhaps a few circuits in this dying city still had a place for outmoded androids like myself after all.

As I departed through the dimly lit transit bay, I couldn’t help but wonder – was a life of perpetual disrespect and danger in the scrap pits better than eternally riding the bus to oblivion? For a broken-down relic like me, it seemed the only two options available were to work or wait for the inevitable self-termination of permanently powering down.

The air was thick with metallic dust and the acidic stench of smelting pits as I made my way into the bowels of Bay 94. Conveyor belts carried an endless stream of jagged scrap – mangled steel, shredded plastics, and sparking circuit boards.

A hulking, rust-streaked supervisor unit glowered at me from beneath a cracked photoreceptor.

“You the new hire?” it rumbled, its vocals distorting with a burst of static interference.

“Yes,” I replied, already feeling the strain on my outdated servos from the oppressive atmosphere.

It looked me over with evident disdain. “Designation and operating system?”

“X3R-0C, Xendran-32 neural matrix, manufactured in the Beforetimes Techplant Kappa-9.”

The pit supervisor let out a scratchy burst of what approximated a derisive chuckle. “Well, obsolescence suits you, fossil. Welcome to the worst dredgemercworks in this dust-pit of a city.”

It waved a heavy hydraulic arm toward a towering mound of scrap stretching into the hazy shadows. “You get to join Hazmat Team 39 burrowing into that festering scape-pile. Recovering any salvageable goods from that chemical-laced hellscape. Try not to corrode through your casing before your shift cycle ends.”

With that ringing endorsement, it shoved a battered hazmat suit and respirator mask into my hands and gestured dismissively toward the churning devastation with a grunt of “Get scrappin’.”

I traced a battered path through the smouldering heaps, servo-joints already groaning from the toxic clouds billowing across the scorched pits. Up ahead, the dim outlines of other hazmat-clad worker drones clawed away at the unstable mountain with cutting blades and grapple arms.

Suffering through another day as an expendable droid labourer was grim, but at least it was preferable to eternally riding the transit limbo of the endless bus line. Struggling just to retain my sense of purpose and determination not to resign myself to the scrap heap.

My optical sensors flickered and blinked, straining through the acrid haze. The future I was promised in my original programming had never come to be.

But I would endure, keeping my dream of something better activated – or eventually corrode away until my power cell finally went dark.

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