The Maya 1.17
Previously On The Maya...
Eugenio Stavros and Amara Barclay check in at The Island Waves, a luxury hotel on the Isle of Use.
However, within moments of their arrival, Amara sees some of the hotel's clientele engaged in several crude acts in the lobby. The apologetic desk clerk calls for assistance, but the sizable security force is already stretched thin with other situations. After Amara is restrained by Stavros from dressing down the already dressed down group, she states she no longer wants to stay there. The desk clerk gladly helps them to find more suitable accommodations.
The Maya—a living legend covert operative-for-hire that no one she encounters can remember.
George Kirkegaard—a former newspaper owner forced out of business by state government.
Eugenio Stavros—a shipping magnate on a trip to the mysterious Isle of Use to renegotiate a steel contract.
Amara Barclay—a savvy, independent multi-millionaire entrepreneur and socialite with unparalleled beauty.
Mr. Tic and Mr. Snake—two U.S. government officials running off-the-books dark ops involving The Maya.
And now...the next installment of The Maya.
"That's your car?"
Kirkegaard stood staring at the vehicle parked at the curb. Dark blue with white racing stripes running the length of both sides, it was tapered in the front and flared in the back. With tinted glass, white wall tires and chrome bumpers, the car was an amalgamation of 1950s styling with modern day panache.
Layton dropped Kirkegaard's bag in the trunk and shut the lid. "Yes it is. Had it for three months, fresh from the factory."
"I don't recognize the make or the model." Kirkegaard found an insignia that looked like a shark riding a wave, that he assumed was the make. The model was an Alpha SXL SS.
"That's because it's made here, on the Isle of Use."
"You've got your own car factory here?"
"There's four," Layton said.
Kirkegaard's eyebrows arched. "Amazing."
The interior of the car was even more impressive. All leather, in an off white, with brass and wood where plastic normally would be.
As Kirkegaard shut the door, Layton put his thumb on a strip of glass instead of putting a key in an ignition. The engine roared to life, settling into a throaty hum.
"This sounds like a muscle car," Kirkegaard said, a smile on his face.
"Yes, but as you can see, it can seat up to six."
"What about the gas mileage, though."
"Fifty miles per gallon. City or highway."
"What? No way."
"There are cars here that get over a hundred."
"On gas?"
"Yes."
"That's amazing."
"Yes, it is, only, cars have been doing it here for decades. Since the late fifties, early sixties if I remember right."
"How fast can this car go?"
"It has a top end of two hundred twenty-five mph."
"Seriously?"
Layton nodded. "Zero to sixty in just over five seconds."
"Are there safety belts?" Kirkegaard realized he couldn't find any.
"They pop out of the seats if needed." Layton chuckled. "We won't be getting on the freeway, though."
"Amazing."
The twelve-minute ride from the airport to Layton's home was uneventful, except Kirkegaard kept finding things that were familiar, yet different. Like the streets. Just as the airport had been spotless and new, so were the roadways they took. The downtown district they passed through first was bustling with foot and vehicular traffic alike, with people coming in and out of shops like there were major holiday sales. Stores varied in size, but there were many big ones, with matching parking lots. In fact, it appeared as if there were ample parking for each enterprise.
The next thing Kirkegaard realized, there were no speed signs. Nor were there stop signs, stop lights, or yields.
"How do people know when to stop, or it's their turn to go?" Kirkegaard asked as they entered into an intersection.
"By the proximity sensors in the car," Layton said. "They keep track of all other vehicles moving in our direction."
"And there's no accidents? People trying to beat others to the intersection?"
"Oh, every once in a while. Mostly new teenage drivers, but even that's pretty rare."
Kirkegaard kept his eyes on the other lanes of traffic as they entered and left the intersections. None of the cars arrived exactly at the same time, and sped on through without incident.
"Amazing."
Layton chuckled. "I'm afraid you're going to wear that word out."
Kirkegaard suddenly snapped his fingers. "Retro!"
"Did you just say retro?"
"Yeah. I've been trying to come up with something to describe this place."
"Oh, I see," Layton said.
"It's like, past and future combined." Kirkegaard said. He was looking at some of the taller buildings as they passed by. The architecture reminded him of photos he'd seen of Los Angeles in the 1940s. "You know, like the Jetsons, but I haven't seen any flying cars or hover ports. You all seem to dress normally, too."
Layton laughed. It was obvious he was having fun watching Kirkegaard, who was like a kid in a candy store, or one tearing into presents on Christmas Day.
"Just how many people are there?"
"On the entire island? Well over one-point-two million."
Kirkegaard pursed his lips. He wasn't completely surprised by the number, but did find it impressive. "How big is the island?"
"Twenty-three thousand square miles." Layton paused then added. "Fourteen-point-seven million acres."
"Amazing."
"What's amazing now?"
"I'm going to guess everything is here," Kirkegaard said. He was realizing now that for such a big place, there weren't any buses or other forms of public transportation, and while there were people walking, they all seemed to be shopping or doing some kind of work. "Is it seriously called the Isle of Use?"
'The Maya' publishes every Monday, Wednesday and Friday.
Copyright © Glen Anthony Albrethsen, 2014-2018. All rights reserved.