Cargo

Road Pirates

Two deliveries in, I remain disappointed, still dwelling on a simple coffee mishap. I study the can in the cup holder. The label and colours match what I ordered, but the taste is wrong. This seems to be the fault of the food manufacturing, prompting me to feel ashamed for blaming the cajeros. They are simple workers like me, who take pride in our work, no matter how menial. Humans make mistakes, but not like this...

... I stop myself thinking about this. I have a long day of driving ahead of me, and I can't afford to go crazy pondering trivial things.

I pressed an icon on the dashboard, summoning the artificial intelligence lurking within the virtual brain of the Cyberstar. Arguing with the autoMIND known as Avocado 200 seems like a healthier option. At least I won't be talking to myself.

The cabin lit up with soft blue light as the autoMIND came to life. "Do you want me to take over navigation?" it asks.

Tired, I decide to give the autoMIND a turn, reaching out and pressing the blue steering wheel icon on the screen. The Cyberstar responds with grace, a surge of electric power propelling it forward, the autoMIND's driving style drastically different from mine. Under its control, the acceleration is so seamless and exhilarating that it makes my heart race. The sensation of speed melds with a symphony of subtle hums that resonates through the sleek interior of the truck, and I am pressed back into the comfortable seat.

As we cruise along the highway, Avocado maintains our position in the fast lane, bypassing the sluggish commuters who clog the desert road. The Cyberstar's precise handling defies not only the laws of physics but also any expectation I had. Its tires grip the road with ferocity, giving the impression of a predator in hot pursuit.

The road begins to descend into the heart of a valley, and the world outside blurs into a sea of ochre landscape peppered with grey patches of urbanisation.

"We will soon hit more traffic," Avocado informs me. "The delay will cost us two hours all up. There should be a lesson in there somewhere."

"I pledge to never again skimp on tolls, okay? Is that what you want to hear?"

"Yes, but we have a more pressing issue."

I anticipate the worst news. "What? A sandstorm?"

"I have completed an analysis of the residual data, and it appears we have an unauthorized interloper."

The sinking feeling in my gut deepens. The situation has taken an unexpected turn, leaving me in a state of unease.

"Pirates are boarding us," reaffirms Avocado.

Snapping looks at both side mirrors, I see nothing but an empty highway. I'm tempted to dismiss it as glitches in the autoMIND's brain. "I don't see anything. Show me the cameras."

"They have disabled the rear sensory array."

"Show me cameras."

The dash flicks over to the camera video wall. Of the nine feeds, two are black. The news hits me hard. I stretch out my neck to examine the side mirror further and catch a glimpse of it. Thundering along the highway, a white utility truck tailgates the Cyberstar extremely close. A masked man stands on the bonnet of the utility with one foot on the Cyberstar's under-ride guard, messing with the door lock mechanism.

"What the hell is this?"

"This stretch of highway," Avocado informs me, "is infamous for its association with the Vipers. They are notorious for their daring and unorthodox tactics."

These types of hijacking manoeuvres are precisely the kind I try to avoid. In this sun-scorched region, a ruthless and audacious motorcycle gang has earned a fearsome reputation. I've heard of them, mostly from pop culture. The Vipers had established dominance, treating the vast desert highways as their own stomping grounds. Their dark leather-clad figures and menacing bikes have become a staple of these desolate roads, striking fear into the hearts of anyone who ventured through their territory.