Jack wakes to the sound of bopping in the next seat. The Januvian wing-beast obviously found someone to shack up with. But he doesn’t want to listen in; a first.
The sounds of the hover- train come to life just as he does.
Bing bing. Tuweet! Bing bing. Tuweet!
Somebody’s phone going off. Or an artificial organ needing a recharge.
Bump-crash. Ploomp, slosh.
One of the on-site vendors, carrying drinking bags full of sweet yellow, orange or pink juice just like on the sardine-tin travel buses of Old Earth’s South America.
Dingbat-ting! Smash bump.
The arrival bell- the train’s almost at the stop.
Currrrrr-unch-ting ting. Swing-grunk-grunk.
The train’s auto-brakes, swerving to avoid one of the giant flying squirrels out for a bit of sky time, logging hours.
A door to the next car opening and closing.
The whirring rush of the train’s hover-capable lift-tracks.
Someone opening a vintage can of orange soda in the next seat.
A crumpling fills his ears, and the scent of thick paper welcomes the day to his nostrils.
His hand opens, belatedly; it seems he’s balled the flier in his sleep.
At least he’ll be there soon. Any inquiries can wait until he knows…