The Passengers
Page 1
BERKLEY
An imprint of Penguin Random House LLC
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Copyright © 2019 by John Marrs
Readers Guide copyright © 2019 by John Marrs
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First published in Great Britain in 2019 by Ebury Press, an imprint of Penguin Random House UK.
BERKLEY and the BERKLEY & B colophon are registered trademarks of Penguin Random House LLC.
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Names: Marrs, John (Freelance journalist), author.
Title: The passengers / John Marrs.
Description: New York: Berkley, 2019.
Identifiers: LCCN 2019013185 | ISBN 9781984806970 (hardback) | ISBN 9781984806987 (ebook)
Subjects: | BISAC: FICTION / Technological. | FICTION / Suspense. | FICTION / Science Fiction / Adventure. | GSAFD: Suspense fiction.
Classification: LCC PR6113.A768 P37 2019 | DDC 823/.92—dc23
LC record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2019013185
First Ebury Press (UK) edition: April 2019
First Berkley edition: August 2019
Cover design by Richard Ljoenes
Cover photo of blurred car by Pozdeyev Vitaly / Shutterstock
Interior graphics by Laura K. Corless
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
Version_1
For Bridget Driscoll, 1851–1896
CONTENTS
Title Page
Copyright
Dedication
Prologue
Part OneChapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Part TwoChapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Chapter 45
Chapter 46
Chapter 47
Chapter 48
Chapter 49
Chapter 50
Chapter 51
Chapter 52
Chapter 53
Chapter 54
Chapter 55
Chapter 56
Part ThreeChapter 57
Chapter 58
Chapter 59
Chapter 60
Chapter 61
Chapter 62
Chapter 63
Chapter 64
Chapter 65
Chapter 66
Chapter 67
Part FourChapter 68
Chapter 69
Chapter 70
Acknowledgments
Readers Guide
About the Author
PROLOGUE
| | | UK NEWS
House of Lords votes unanimously in favour of driverless vehicles on British roads within five years. Ban on non-autonomous vehicles expected within a decade.
PART ONE
CHAPTER 1
Programme car for Ben’s office.
Use Uber app for car under “guest” account. Don’t use real name.
Get picked up from Ben’s car park, go to work.
Start texting Ben midmorning.
Call his boss around midday.
CLAIRE ARDEN
By the time the front door closed, the car was parked outside Claire Arden’s home, waiting for her.
She lingered inside the porch, re-reading the notes she had made on her phone until she heard the faint beep-beep-beep of the alarm as the house secured itself. She gave a furtive glance across the suburban estate, one of many just like it in Peterborough. Sundraj from number twenty-seven was the only other neighbour outside, guiding his noisy young family of four into a people carrier like a farmer trying to herd sheep from one field to another. When he spotted her, he gave her a half-smile and an equally half-hearted wave. She reciprocated with the same.
Claire recalled the fifteenth anniversary party Sundraj and his wife, Siobhan, had thrown last spring. They’d celebrated with a barbecue and most of the street in attendance. He found time to drunkenly corner Claire in the downstairs bathroom and suggested that if she and her husband, Ben, were ever inclined to invite a third person into their bedroom, he was open to offers. Claire politely declined and he panicked, begging her not to tell Siobhan. She promised she wouldn’t, and she meant it. She hadn’t even told Ben. Claire wagered every person in that street had at least one secret they kept hidden from the rest of the world, including her. Especially her.
As Sundraj’s vehicle eased out of the cul-de-sac, Claire took a handful of deep, calming breaths and stared uneasily at her own car. It had been three weeks since Ben had signed the lease, and she was still struggling to acclimatise herself to its many new functions. The biggest contrast between it and their last vehicle was that this one no longer contained a steering wheel, pedals, or a manual override option. It was completely driverless and it scared her.
They had watched in fascination at the car’s arrival as it delivered itself to their home and parked on the driveway. Sensing both Claire’s unease and her reluctance, Ben assured her that anyone could operate it, even her, and that it was “idiot proof.” As they personalised their settings from an app, she responded with narrowed eyes and a jab to his arm. He protested, claiming he hadn’t meant she was the idiot in question.
“I don’t like not being in control,” she’d told him on their maiden voyage to the doctor’s office. She gripped the seat when the
car indicated and overtook another one of its own accord.
“That’s because you’re a control freak,” he’d replied. “You need to learn to start putting your trust in things you’re not in charge of. Besides, the insurance is next to nothing and we need to start saving some money, don’t we?”
Claire gave a reluctant nod. As a man who thrived in the detail, Ben had spent considerable time and effort researching the right vehicle to suit their changing circumstances. And after a hellish few months, she was glad to see him returning to his old self. He had attempted to involve her in the process by suggesting she pick the paintwork colour and seating fabric. But she’d dismissed him as a misogynist for suggesting that buying a car was “man’s work” and that the aesthetics were all she was capable of understanding. In the last few days, Claire found herself snapping at him frequently. It was never his fault and she’d immediately regretted it. But it hadn’t prevented her from repeating it, and she feared her quiet resentment towards him was rising ever closer to the surface.
The rear of the car momentarily held Claire’s gaze before a dull kick to her kidney snapped her from her thoughts. “Good morning,” she whispered, and rubbed her swollen, rounded abdomen. It was the first time baby Tate had made his presence felt that morning. They had given him the nickname after the midwife informed them he weighed about a pound, the same size as a Tate & Lyle bag of sugar. However, what started as a joke had stuck, and they were giving it serious consideration.
Provided all went according to plan, in two months’ time, Claire would be a first-time mother. Dr. Barraclough had warned her that with her high blood pressure, it was essential she kept life stress-free. It was easier said than done. And in the last few hours, it had become impossible.
“You can do this,” she said aloud, and opened the car door. Claire placed her handbag on the front right-hand seat and lowered herself into the vehicle, bum first. Her expectant belly had begun to protrude much earlier than her friends’ when they were pregnant, and sometimes it felt as if she were carrying a baby elephant. Her body was constantly contradicting itself—some parts sagged while others looked fit to burst.
She pressed a button to close the car door and faced the retinal scan. Taking a quick glance at her appearance, Claire noted her blue eyes were surrounded by a pinkish-white hue and the dark circles around them were still visible under her foundation. She’d not straightened her blond fringe that morning, so it hung loosely, resting on her eyebrows.
Once the scan confirmed Claire was a registered Passenger, the electric motor silently came to life and the dashboard’s centre console and operating system illuminated in whites and blues. “Ben’s work,” she spoke, and a three-dimensional map appeared on the screen from her home to his office several miles outside of town.
As the car began to move, she jumped when a playlist of 1990s rock anthems blared from the speakers without warning. She hated Ben’s appalling taste in music and the volume at which he played it. But she had yet to figure out how to turn off his streaming system and create playlists of her own. Then, as the opening bars began of an old Arctic Monkeys song Ben favoured, she failed to choke back her tears. He knew every word of it off by heart.
“Why did you do this to us?” she wept. “Why now?”
Claire wiped her eyes and cheeks with her palms, turned the music off, and remained in an apprehensive silence as the car continued its journey. She ran through the to-do list again; there was so much she needed to complete by the afternoon for this to work. She kept reminding herself that everything she was doing was for the right reasons; it was all for Tate. And as much as she longed to meet him, a tiny part of her wanted him to remain safe inside her forever, where she could continue to protect him from the cruelty of the world.
She glanced out from the windscreen just as the vehicle turned an unexpected right instead of left, the opposite direction to Ben’s office on the outskirts of Peterborough. Claire squinted at the route map on the navigation system, sure that she had programmed it correctly. Then she remembered Ben telling her that sometimes, driverless cars take alternative routes if they learn of delays ahead. She hoped it wouldn’t add much more time to the journey. The sooner she could get out of that car, the better.
Suddenly the console went blank. Claire hesitated, then poked at it, searching for a way to reboot it. It made no difference.
“Damn it,” she muttered. Of all the days, this was not the one to be inside a faulty vehicle. The car chose another route, this time travelling along an on-ramp and onto a dual carriageway that she knew would take her even farther from her destination.
She began to feel uneasy. “What’s going on?” she asked, and cursed Ben’s decision to talk her into a car with no manual override. She poked more buttons in the hope something might happen to allow her to regain control and order the car to pull over.
“Alternative destination being programmed,” came a softly spoken female voice that Claire recognised as the vehicle’s operating system. “Route being recalculated. Two hours and thirty minutes until chosen destination reached.”
“What?” Claire responded. “No! Where are we going?”
As the car pulled up at traffic lights, she spotted her chance to leave. Quickly, she unclipped her seat belt and hit the door release button. Once outside, she would compose herself and rethink her plan. She knew that whatever alternative she came up with, she could not leave the car unattended, not under any circumstances. However, the door held firm. Over and over again she pushed it, harder and harder, but it wouldn’t budge. Her baby kicked again.
“It’ll be okay, it’ll be okay,” she repeated, trying to convince them both she could find a way out.
Claire’s head turned towards the car next to hers at the traffic lights, and she waved her hands to catch the driver’s attention. But he was too distracted by a film playing on his smart windscreen. Her wave became more and more frantic until finally, she caught his eye. He turned his head towards her, but within the speed of a heartbeat, her windows switched from transparent to opaque. The privacy control had been set remotely so that no one could witness her desperation.
Terror overtook her when she finally realised what was happening—someone else was controlling her car.
“Good morning, Claire,” a male voice began through the speakers.
She let out an involuntary scream. The voice was calm and relaxed, friendly almost, but most definitely unwelcome. “It may have come to your attention that your vehicle is no longer under your management,” it continued. “From here on in, I am in charge of your destination.”
“Who are you?” Claire asked. “What do you want?”
“Neither of those things matter right now,” the voice replied. “The only thing you need to know at this point is that two hours and thirty minutes from now, it is highly likely that you will be dead.”
CHAPTER 2
JUDE HARRISON
Jude Harrison’s eyes were fixed on the charger leading from the wall and plugged into the grille of his car.
He couldn’t be sure for how long he had been sitting in the vehicle, staring at the charging point, or why it had captured his attention. Realising he’d lost all track of time, he checked the clock on his dashboard. To remain on schedule, he would need to start moving soon. His eyes flicked towards the battery cell light—ten minutes remained before it reached its capacity. The distance he was to travel wouldn’t require a complete charge, but anything less than at least three-quarters full made him jittery.
Most other vehicles in the supermarket car park charged in smarter ways than his. They topped up using on-the-go overchargers embedded in the asphalt of traffic lights, roundabouts, parking spaces, or even drive-thru fast-food outlets. Jude had purchased his driverless car at the beginning of the government’s much hyped “road revolution.” Overnight, he went from a driver to a Passenger—someone whose vehicle contained no manua
l override. The car made all the decisions itself. Compared to many, his model was now outdated, and soon it would cease to automatically download the software that operated it, thus forcing him to upgrade. He’d been offered financial incentives to purchase a more advanced, high-tech model, but he refused. It was pointless spending money on something he would not need for much longer.
Jude’s belly made a deep, guttural rumbling, reminding him it wanted to be fed. He knew that he must eat to keep his energy levels up and get him through the morning. But he had little appetite, not even for the chocolatey snacks he kept in the side pouches of the luggage on the seats behind him. Exiting the car, he made his way into the supermarket, but towards the bathroom, not the food aisles. There, he emptied his bowels in the toilet, washed his hands and face, and dried them under the wall-mounted machine. He removed from his pocket a disposable toothbrush containing paste that foamed up once it mixed with his saliva, and began to clean his teeth.
Harsh lighting above the mirror reflected from his scalp and emphasised how thin the hair was becoming around his temples. He’d recently begun keeping it cropped rather than trying to style and hide it. He remembered his father warning him and his brother that he had begun receding by his thirtieth birthday, and Jude was following suit. His friends took medication to keep their hair in place; Jude rejected it along with all other popular cosmetic alterations. He hadn’t even fixed the two bottom teeth that leaned against each other, which meant he always smiled with closed lips.
It had been the best part of a week since he’d last run a razor across his face, and it made his olive complexion appear darker. Despite his fatigue, the whites of his eyes remained bright and made his green irises resemble the colour of ripe apples. He placed the palms of his hands on his T-shirt and traced the outline of his stomach and ribs with his fingers. He was aware of the weight he’d lost over the last month and blamed the pressure on all that needed to be organised for this day to be a success.