3. Crossed Paths

I notice her on the monitor before she even steps onto the bus.

The virtual screens lining the upper deck show feeds from cameras mounted all around the vehicle, inside and out. The images are so clear that I barely need the windows. One of the exterior feeds catches a girl waiting by the doors.

Long brown hair falls over a red windbreaker, making her stand out among the grey coats around her. She looks about my age, probably another student heading to university.

Then I catch her eyes. Green. Sharp. Almost unnervingly bright. Before I can look away, her gaze shifts directly towards the camera.

For a second, it feels as though she is looking straight at me. Her gaze locks onto mine, as if she knows I’m watching her through the camera. I freeze. Do I look ridiculous right now? I can’t pull my eyes away from hers.

Her expression doesn't change. She just keeps looking into the lens. Then someone steps in front of the monitor, blocking her completely. I blink and look up.

“Sorry, did you say something?” I ask.

“I said you’ve got a great spot. Do you mind if I sit next to you?”

“Sure.”

I lift my messenger bag and place it between my feet. As the dark-haired guy sits down, he extends his hand towards me.

“My name’s Elliot.”

“I’m Alexander.”

We shake hands.

“I can tell by your accent you’re not from around here,” he says, his eyes studying me. Not suspiciously, exactly. More like someone who has never learned that staring can make people uncomfortable. “So, where are you from, Alex?”

My fingers instinctively brush against the Omni-bracelet on my wrist. For a moment, I'm back in my room, staring at its display and wondering whether the system has discovered something it shouldn't have. I force my hand away.

“Eastern Europe.”

Elliot waits, perhaps expecting something more specific.

“I came here on a government program,” I say. I hesitate, then add, “Your name sounds Scottish. Are you from Scotland?”

“Not quite,” he says with a chuckle. “I’m from Dublin, but yeah, the name has Scottish roots.”

I raise an eyebrow. “Guess I fell for the stereotypes.”

He grins. There’s something easy about Elliot. He talks as though we’ve known each other longer than five minutes, and somehow it doesn’t feel forced.

“You know,” he says, running a hand through his dark hair, “there’s an old story about people who look like me.”

“That sounds ominous.”

“The Black Irish.”

I frown. “What's that?”

“Dark hair, darker features. There’s this legend that some of us are descended from Spanish sailors who were shipwrecked around Ireland after the Armada.”

“Armada?” I ask, intrigued.

He shifts in his seat, suddenly more animated.

“The Spanish Armada tried to invade England in 1588. It failed, and a lot of the surviving ships had to sail around Scotland and Ireland to get home. Some were wrecked along the Irish coast.”

“And the sailors stayed?”

“The sailors who survived integrated into Irish society, and many believe the ‘Black Irish’ are their descendants. Quite a story, right?”

I shake my head, but I'm smiling now. The conversation is strangely welcome. Elliot's endless enthusiasm gives me something to focus on besides the bracelet around my wrist and the possibility that somewhere inside the government network, an alert may already have my name attached to it.

Elliot glances through the window.

“What I like about that period isn’t really the battles,” he says. “It’s what happened afterwards. Everyone had to adapt. Different ships, different guns, different tactics. The people who learned fastest survived.”

A historical warship appears in my imagination, sails straining in the wind, hundreds of men scrambling across a wooden deck. Compared with what exists now, it seems impossibly fragile. Modern naval vessels use vector-thrust systems capable of maneuvers sailors from Elliot’s Armada would have considered absurd. Ships that once needed vast stretches of sea to change direction can now correct their course with computer-controlled precision.

“That’s true of technology in general.”

“Exactly.”

I look outside as the bus gathers speed. The dense city streets have begun to give way to wider transport corridors. Beside the road, enormous launch ramps rise at intervals, curving towards the sky like giant springboards. A silver car accelerates up one of them. Just before it reaches the edge, its wheels retract. For a fraction of a second, it seems to hang in the air.

Then the futuristic magnetic grid catches it. The vehicle rises smoothly into one of the flight corridors above us and merges with the traffic. Another follows. Then another.

Even after everything I've seen since arriving in London, the sight still amazes me. The sky is crowded with vehicles moving at different altitudes, each following an invisible lane. Hundreds of them weave between towers in perfectly coordinated streams.

Small traffic drones hover at the junctions between corridors, constantly communicating with the transport network. A vehicle above us drifts too close to the edge of its assigned route. A warning light flashes from the nearest drone. Almost instantly, the car corrects its position. I watch it return to the centre of the corridor.

Flying cars were once supposed to mean freedom. Here, even the sky has lanes. Drivers can choose where they want to go, but once they enter London’s aerial network, the system decides how they get there. Speed, altitude, distance from other vehicles, even overtaking are controlled automatically. Probably necessary with this much traffic.

I’ve seen flying cars before, but the sheer volume of them in London is overwhelming. The swarms of cars practically blot out the sun, leaving only faint traces of its light filtering through the haze of technology.