‘Good morning, Joe.’
The whispering whirr of the motor is first, then the vertical movement of the blind reveals the shaft of light: wider, stronger. Consciousness begins, flickering eyes reveal the whitewashed ceiling.
‘Today is Saturday, Joe. It’s 06.45 and your coffee is waiting for you in the lounge machine. You have nine minutes to fully use the bathroom and get changed before it starts to go cold. Today’s suggested outfit is on your wardrobe.’
Lifting his head slowly, he sees an image of himself where the mirror used to be. Also shorts, T-shirt, sneakers and socks. Another screen suddenly appears on the wardrobe door. CNN runs through the news while below, a list of daily tasks awaits completion. As he stirs, ‘Wake Up’ receives a green tick and disappears from the list.
‘Today is Benji’s birthday, Joe. I’ve prepped the card and the present, which you can collect in your Delivery Centre downstairs. You have 45 minutes before you’ll be collected to visit him.
Benji is his six-year-old son—no, seven years old today. He is all attitude and intelligence beyond his years. Joe smiled at the thought of his gift: an old school remote-controlled car. It was not one of those ubiquitous GoogleCabs that would be coming to collect him soon, but a real mini racing car: hard lines, petrol, attitude, smoke. A German Audi rally car from the days before such pollutants were finally banned for good—when fun was allowed. Such a long time ago. He hadn’t seen Benji for a couple of weeks now as his mother had taken him away on a short break. She swore it wasn’t with Josh, her ex-boss and now her ‘confidant’—like Joe knew what that meant! She’d been going crazy for ages—and so had Joe—her desire for calm and control and safety at real odds with the excitement that Joe sought from time to time, the adrenaline no longer available from his job—or from many parts of life now. He missed Benji. He was the reason he got up in the morning. He had high hopes for the kid. He was a clever little dude, remembering all the flags of the world at four years old, and most of the capital cities of the world too, with both his parents being slightly taken aback by his slightly eidetic memory. They bonded over sports and computers, as most dads did with their sons, yet Joe despaired at the shield around kids these days, he being of the generation that had been born in the late 1900s – late ‘90s to be precise. He had been able to travel freely, to shoot a gun—heck to own a gun—and to mix with other people who were different, in the days before people went slightly mad in the early ‘20s with the sudden and dramatic rise of hard liberalism all over the planet. His father was an old-fashioned cowboy type—well an urban cowboy from Brooklyn—but he loved cars and bars and was a real man’s man. Joe would often join him in his garage, and tinkered with cars in the early 2000s, revelling in the company of the other guys who would be so cutting with him, sometimes even cruel, as he was often sent on impossible errands and given “long stands” to the amusement of the rest of the crew. Nothing bad, mind you, and Joe reflected that it had built his character. He could talk to pretty much anyone of any background, and those social skills stood him in great stead during his education and early career as he really tried to make it as a cop with a badge, who could go even higher.
CNN showed the date and time on the screen where his outfit used to be:
06.46, Tuesday, September 21, 2038.
The constant movement of the screens and the yellow tickers provided a comforting glow at the start of the day, and Joe would always catch up with whatever was happening before doing anything else. Though today he didn’t want to get caught up in his X app: that Elon Musk super-app that was part citizen’s journalism, part news app, and part messaging app. He could get lost in that feed for hours, and it had enabled the mass convergence of mainstream media, if not the impartiality of it. At least it was possible to filter out the rubbish on the X app—the consensus opinion always being easy to find and often the closest thing to the truth—CNN being heavily sponsored by the Government, even though that was denied. It was always drip-feeding you the latest narrative and the Government’s agenda of the day, or the hour. This was a fast-changing world indeed.
The cool of the real wooden floor on his bare feet was interrupted by the soft rug in front of his pristine white sofa in the spacious lounge. His apartment was minimal and unfussy, clean white lines giving way to glass and views across to Manhattan, intermittently interrupted by moving AutoCasts of the HIM, the voice, without whom it seemed no one could function anymore. Once they had cracked AI, the production of mass Autobots like the HIM hadn’t taken long. These helpers made the three-day work week possible by planning every aspect of your life and work. The HIM was everywhere, seemingly one step ahead of your thoughts and your needs. Life was on autopilot.
Home Intelligence Master. It was supposed to have a name. You were supposed to rename it like you did way back when the same had happened with your wifi name. But hardly anyone bothered. Same now. The HIM ruled the house. Never mind, he made good coffee. He even reordered the milk when it ran low.
The sun was just coming up over the skyline, and the lack of clouds suggested the forthcoming day was going to be an unseasonably hot one. Though he couldn’t quite see Central Park, there were a few trees here and there that clung on to their green coats, and the late September morning would start gloriously and then hopefully stay that way for the day.
‘HIM, show me the Jets briefing from last night,’ barked Joe as he settled back into his lounger, freshly brewed coffee already beginning to wake him further. And the myriad of screens around him flickered into life as he watched a training brief of his team before the big game on Sunday against the Dolphins. Sport had morphed over the years into being part reality show, part entertainment series, and every aspect of their regimes was filmed and broadcast live, or most likely, instantly, on demand catch up. It was all voice-activated; no remotes to find. The HIM would sort all that out. Since the media rights revolution in the late twenties, the NFL had broadcast its own entertainment, increasing image rights and TV revenues year on year, and it had maintained its standing as the most valuable sporting event in the world. Getting 24/7 access to practice drills, locker room chats, even one-on-one coach to player chats, had dumbed the content a little for some, with accusations of staging and scripting like the old WWE wrestling way back in the day.
Yawn.
At least there was something to do today, thought Joe to himself as he headed into his bathroom and stared at himself in the mirror while brushing his teeth. A yellow star appeared in the corner of the mirror with a loud ‘ping!’ followed by ‘WELL DONE, JOE! +20 points’ as he spat out the minty toothpaste and collected his health reward for a positive habit completed.
‘Prep the shower, HIM. I’ll have it 39°C today, please. Medium hard jets.’ Buttons and levers still existed in some places, but the ubiquity of a system controlling and prepping your world was everywhere now—at least in the home. Even some of the older flats still had heavy home automation now, with a HIM in almost every property, learning your routine, encouraging you to live well, managing your calendar and attending to your every need.
He shot his pyjama shorts into the laundry vacuum, and the HIM acknowledged that a coloured run would soon be underway as the basket was full, and could he collect it fully dried later that evening and transfer it to the IroningBot. The screen in the right window sprang to life, blocking out the sunrise and displaying his task list for the day, this particular task being set for 18.30, seeing as Joe didn’t even confirm or object. No objections meant the HIM knew best and it was in command. It would remind him later on in the day, and perhaps even nag him a little until he did it.
The feminine curves of the GoogleCab shot into view on the screen in the left window, the map then appearing and indicating it would arrive in the AutoDock in three minutes and forty seconds. Pulling on his sneakers and finishing the still warm dregs of his coffee, Joe left his apartment for his date with Benji.
It was, as predicted, a hot one, being 80+°F, or so he reckoned, so the cool flush of his pre-prepared 68°F air hit him like a spring breeze as he settled into his cab ride, his entertainment choices already loaded on the screen. The journey would take 47.5 minutes exactly, so his movie wish list was greyed out on the selection panel. Feeling nostalgic and optimistic, he opted for some early noughties rock and settled back into the chair. The car silently pulled away, save for a small growl—that fake noise to alert users and passengers alike that movement was beginning— one of those things that was put there during the mass shift to electric vehicles in the late twenties that had stayed out of habit even when it was not really needed anymore. Who exactly walked anywhere now? Certainly not in the burbs anyway.
A giant dashboard screen flashed a picture in front of his eyes: a woman, mid-30s, brown straight hair, beautiful. Monica.
‘Morning.’
‘Just checking to see you’re on time, I don’t have access to your GoogleCabs account now, so I can’t—’
‘Yes, yes, I haven’t forgotten.’ The irritation clearly audible in his voice. ‘I said I’d be there for 08.00 and I will. Don’t worry, you’ll make your whatever-it-is-that’s-so-important.’
‘Good.’
‘Or whoever,’ he muttered under his breath, which was clearly heard, but ignored.
Monica was Joe’s first love, the mother of his child, but now estranged, lost to him because of those crazies at her office that were all evangelistic about philanthropy and changing the world, bottles of Evian stuck constantly up their arses as they exercised like mad and did all the ‘right things’. They all sat like ancient hippies, singing happy-clappy songs such as ‘Kum ba ya, my Lord’. All desperate to live longer, as if a century plus wasn’t long enough in this boring shithole without at least trying to live life. It was Benji who brought out their differences, Monica being the safety blanket. She insisted on one of those MyHealth bands that reminded you every time your water level was below optimum that you should drink. It even suggested your next meal so your pH and minerals could be balanced to promote optimum cell growth.
Joe wanted to have fun! Like playing baseball outdoors for once instead of in a hermetically sealed astrodome where the temperature and moisture levels were controlled; where the air was pumped with chemicals to ensure no one caught a cold from anyone else; where the food was so bland and unappealing as it matched to your HealthBand. Live, live, live seemed to be the motto for the masses now—except they weren’t living. They were merely existing. The average age of the middle classes was well over 100 now, and the burden of cost on all states worldwide to care for the ageing population had changed the dynamics of the world.
Joe had seen the ugly side of that, being a public order facilitator—or cop, in old speak— as he’d been to the hoods, the shanties, during his training. He’d wanted to be a Level 1, a member of the elite, one of those who actually shot and fought with the bad guys, the ones who had danger. That was the thrilling part, the part that made him feel alive. Except his knee had had other ideas, and despite a bionic transplant, it was forbidden to be a Level 1 without being a million per cent healthy. Evian up the arse indeed!
So his life was a Level 3 in the Sleeping Zones—suburbia, if you will—where his mandate was to watch and observe, answer questions and mostly direct people back into their automated lives. The greatest excitement came from people asking their GCabs to wait too long for them in an undesignated spot. A quick chat with the car and a call through to the customer’s rig was usually enough to move it on back to the vast parking lots where thousands upon thousands of cars all waited for their next instruction or next call. Littering the streets with parked cars was a complete no-no, but if you were lucky, you could pay a premium for one of the old, real customer car parking spaces in front of the parade of shops. Only mostly there weren’t many shops anymore, save for a few experiential showrooms where the newest and latest gadgets could be displayed. Shops still existed in the town and city centres, the lawless places that he wasn’t allowed to go into. That was for the Level 2 and Level 1 guys only, and usually only nightshifts at that.
People in the cities were mainly left to their own devices. They had shops alright, old-fashioned retail units which were stocked on a day-to-day basis with things people needed and wanted. Alcohol, meds, all sorts of smoking devices, including maybe—if you could afford it—some of the real good stuff: paper-covered smokes, real ones like in the old days before they were all strictly controlled like everything else nowadays. You could get some beers still, but only a limited quantity at a time, and as for anything harder, forget it. Controlled. You could only drink in certain places. Restaurants were still a big thing for those who had prosperity and loved to socialise and show themselves off. While they could get smashed on wine and cognac and whatever else took their fancy inside the restaurant, they had to extend their stay with time in a Hydration Station, a recovery pod, so to speak. Before they left, the toxins were flushed and salts and fluids replaced to remove the ‘danger’ before catching their pre-ordered GoogleCabs back to their own places. It took about 30 minutes, and all restaurants had at least 20 or so, all of them being heavily subsidised by the Government—once they did eventually bring limits in on the alcohol. Petty squabbles and fights would often ensue if you missed your slot and then the whole group had to wait longer while you detoxed. If you tried to skip it, the GCab wouldn’t work. And even if you lived nearby and walked home and you were stopped by a trooper of any sort—even a bored Level 3 cop like Joe—you’d pay for it big time.
Huge swathes of the population were teetotal now anyway, with anything that was ‘proven’ to limit life expectancy being effectively shunned or labelled as disgusting behaviour, just like the vegan and don’t-eat-animals stuff way back in the early twenties. It all started in the schools and universities with hard left doctrine now being a way of the world. And anyone who didn’t like it, or who dared to speak up, was a social outcast, a pariah. You had better do what you were told, else you were a ‘bad person’.
His mind was drifting through his everyday: the sunshine, the endless GoogleCabs, the soft whirr of the GrassBots as they kept the world so neat and tidy. It just, well, worked… I mean, working the mandatory three-day week, introduced a few years before so that more people could have jobs, so that they didn’t go stir crazy from cabin fever and raise the suicide rate any higher, wasn’t so bad. He saw his buddies from time to time but always in one of those SafeBars where you had five hours to go crazy and drink beers and shots to your heart’s content, with music as live you were gonna get these days, all from vending machines, video walls and the HIM helping your playlists, before your time ran out and you had to recuperate in the recovery pod. Alcohol was strictly controlled out in the burbs, and the authorities wouldn’t let anyone go over their safe limits, so only two options: go off the grid in the hoods where very little could be controlled—dangerous—or hit up in the SafeBars or a restaurant where you could have a medically treated blowout and be sure of your safety.
The sun shone overhead, glistening on the grass as a baby rolled over from a sitting position onto his front. Eyes on the prize, the picnic basket lay a metre or so away, a long way for those little arms, but determined as he was, the little boy made his way towards it. Determination in his eyes, he inched forward in a classic crawl motion. The blonde lady stood up quickly, adjusting her head downwards in a ducking motion as she set the plane of her recording device in motion, the rim of her GGlasses moving towards horizontal so she could get the best shot of this moment.
‘Look at him go!’ roared the man relaxing on the other side of the basket, cold beer in hand, obviously one of his quota for that week. He smiled and surveyed the perfect scene in front of him. Just as the child made to grab the basket, his hand was whipped away by the fast-moving lady as she scooped the baby up in one arm and did a kind of barrel roll to avoid collision with the picnic lunch.
‘Easy tiger, not your lunch!’ she said as she collapsed in a fit of giggles near the smiling man. Joe smiled as he surveyed the perfect family scene, pangs of guilt hitting his stomach as he realised what he didn’t have anymore, and why. Fuck them! The happy-clappy shits. The fucking hard left Liberals, who pretended to be saving the world when really it was just a fucking ruse to allow the politicians to control every whim of their lives and get richer. Except the sheep couldn’t comprehend that. No way was the amazing President Obama II anything more than a philanthropic angel sent to this world to help the USA stay the most important nation on earth. She and her late husband had devoted their lives to this great nation and no, she wouldn’t dream of squirrelling away millions and billions of ill-gotten gains from supporters and other governments alike. No way.
Kings of Leon moved onto their next guitar-driven anthem, rasping vocals and melodies filling the car in contrast to the sunlight outside and the cool 68° inside. The windows were dimming just enough to remove the glare but still enabling Joe, now he’d fully woken, to see the all-green manicured verges as he was taken towards his son.
It took him a while to recognise the pain. It had been so long since anything had intruded on his world that it took even longer to recognise the dizziness and the crushing bang that produced the warm sticky flow from his nose: blood covering the soft beige seat cushions of his cab.
There wasn’t much noise, save for a hissing outside and some smoke. Then, wiping the blood away to stop it from trickling into his mouth, he saw the scene outside. The crash. The impossible.