The War For Tomorrow
I awoke
to silence. The space in the bed beside me empty and never slept in. I got up
and went to the sono-shower. My suit from yesterday hung on a hook with some
wrinkled jeans and a pair of socks lay on the floor. I stepped in and pressed
the power button, closing my eyes and letting the vibratory waves wash over me
for a second. I bent down and gave the socks a good shake, holding them up in
front of me. It worked either way, but I did it anyways. The sono-shower was
invented at the beginning of WWWIII, “The War For Tomorrow”. When the water was
so limited that we could no longer have the luxury of having it in our bathrooms.
Sonic waves used harmonics somehow to basically knock the dirt of stuff. I
couldn’t pretend to understand. I have never been much of a man for science. I
threw on the suit, now clean and wrinkle free, powered off the machine and
wandered out into the kitchen.
My kitchen’s name was Peter Soyer. A name it
had given itself one morning and announced after presenting me with a
particularly noxious sandwich loaf. Peter, it declared, because it enjoyed the
music of Peter and the Wolf, and Soyer after the inventor of the Soyer stove.
This morning the kitchen was dazzlingly bright and I had to squint, “Peter, turn
that light down!”
Peter complied, the light
dimming to an acceptable pre-allocated setting, and then it began to express
itself, “Ahoy my biological mortal. It appeals to me that you have lived
through the night to see another meal.”
Peter had a glitch; well if
you ask me it had any number of glitches, but this particular one was that it’s
artificial intelligence couldn’t seem to grasp proper concept of ownership. In
it’s computerized mind, I was its’ property or maybe I was a pet it had to feed.
All leftover food within the building was recycled into whatever Peter produced
which he (it) supplemented with food that was grown in a large community
greenhouse. Peter spoke again, “Breakfast today is a jellied tomato with toast
glazed in a cranberry faux mayonnaise and a glass of your own filtered urine
flavoured as lemonade with a sprig of mint.”
I grimaced, “Peter, you need
to realize that telling someone they get to drink their own urine does not add
appeal to their meal. Secondly, was Heather in here this morning?”
“I do not recall the presence
of your wife for breakfast. As per contractual obligation 354B, her breakfast
has been reallocated for other or future consumption. Mister Josh, why is it
unappealing to drink the self-made water? Shouldn’t you be proud to have this
ability? I would be proud to make the self made water or especially tears. It
would be a good skill to have; both crying and urination in my opinion.”
I let that slide and looked at the plate that
slid out from a compartment in the wall. I really was hungry, but I wasn’t that
hungry, was I? I pulled out my socard and checked the balance. I was lucky. I
had more than enough on my budget for a coffee and bagel at the diner down the
street. Socards; social cards because after WWWIII when the machines
outnumbered humans about eight to one the machines began to do all the work. As
the populace rebuilt itself the old way of working for pay just didn’t cut it
anymore. The new system was that each person was issued a socard and one was
issued to the parents at any birth. Credit was assigned according to age. A
newborn had enough credit to carry it through the first eighteen years of life
and purchase food, medicine, clothing, education and very limited
entertainment. Only purchases from specific stores were allowed. Credit on the
card could be added to as gifts from relatives, etc. Relatives of a child could
purchase anything for the child if they desired. To earn credit people would go
to social stations and receive a list of tasks needing done. These were things
like reading a book to children at the library, cleaning litter, organizing a community
concert, or working in the greenhouses. Each completed task earned credits and
helped the community. Credits could be lost as punishment for crimes. There
were no jails anymore. Murder would get you the loss of all credit and your
socard for five years. You couldn’t steal a socard. The infamous three step verification
scanned your fingerprint, read your DNA and applied certain behavioural
biometrics. If you couldn’t be forgiven terrible crimes by the community, you
would starve within it.
I slipped on my shoes and noticed Heather’s
were missing again. When had it started, this wandering out in the night? If
she’d found someone else, well good for her I suppose. We’d never even had a
faint dalliance when the government put us together so it was no skin off my
nose; unless she was caught. Then there could be hell to pay. It was according
to the law, everyone’s responsibility to do their part to rebuild both infrastructure
and population. Mates were selected scientifically and brought together to
share an apartment. You were supposed to try as hard as you could to become a
functional family unit. There were counsellors and therapists; doctors and life
coaches. Ours was a sexual wellness coach. It struck me that they hadn’t been
around lately either. How long had that been? I stepped outside heading to the
diner. Maybe Heather was seeing the coach. Who cared? Having the apartment to
myself was great.
Still though, I wouldn’t want her to get caught, especially out past curfew. I looked up as one of the berries hummed along
overhead, the barrel of one of it’s guns automatically sensing and following me
momentarily as it carried on down the road. “Bastard!,” I thought to myself. If
Heather was out past curfew, then we’d both get taken in and nobody wanted that
kind of undue attention. Another Berry hummed overhead. My body tensed
automatically and I had to fight to force myself into a calmer state so I could
walk on to get my breakfast.
I counted three more berries on the way to the
diner. Berries was the slang for the weaponized drones operated by the police
state we lived under. Originally when the war was over and communities reformed,
the police would patrol a beat like in the olden times. Mostly they were
ex-military and they wore berets. They began to just be called berets after
awhile and when the drones replaced the men they were called berets as well.
Over time and as a newer model appeared with a red light, they earned the term
berries. We were told they were operated by the police forces still, but it had
been a number of years since I’d seen an actual policeman.
I ate my breakfast and pondered what to do. I
should look for Heather, but I didn’t know where to begin. I should be doing
something today rather than mope about. I decided to go to work. Well, not
really work, but a center where odd jobs were being handed out for credit. I
worked for a few hours in a greenhouse, weeding and watering, just some general
labour that earned me around 50 credits. It was cool. I went back to home,
sono-showered and crashed in front of the screen in the living room. I watched
a movie, but fell asleep half way through. There was still no sign of Heather
the next morning when I awoke. I decided I should report her as missing to the
authorities; mainly to avoid trouble for myself. I didn’t even know where to
begin, where the police station even was. I had to browse for it on the network
to get the address. It was not in the nicest part of town.
The walls of buildings stretched high, grey
concrete, windowless and overbearing, creating long dark alleyways as I walked
to the station. I wondered what it was like when vehicles had driven these roads,
or even tanks during the first quarter of the war. Now, only the occasional bicycle
passed along for couriers earning credits. They earned slightly more because
they were also exercising more. The darkness opened into a large brick paved
town center, a large empty circle except for the ominous building in it’s
center. This was the station, here before me and very authoritative. As I began
my approach, I felt edgy and apprehensive. I noticed three berries circling,
and became sure they were focused in on me as I climbed the steps and pushed
through the solid steel doors over which the word police was emblazoned in
white light with electric paint.
Before me was a screen and looking at me from
it was the weary face of a policeman. Was he even real, I wondered or just
another intelligence meant to assist. He began to speak, “Name citizen?”
“My name is Alpha John Five Four Two.”
“Purpose today?”
“I want to report that my wife, Heather is
missing.”
“For how long?”
I thought hard, it was a very tough question
for me, “Um, maybe a little over a month. I waited, thinking she’d met someone
but would be back. There’s been nothing though.”
The face looked thoughtful. I wondered if it
was attempting to display empathy, “Yes, this does happen on occasion. You were correct to
wait and not complicate us with unnecessary diversions. You have waited
appropriate time. It will be investigated.”
“What should I do?” I queried.
“Do nothing. We have the information needed and
will be in touch. Thank you, citizen Alpha John.”
The screen flickered and went dark. I turned
and wandered back outside. The berries continued to circle, but only one, while
the other two zipped along after a young girl, walking with a small bag in her
hand. She noticed and began nervously walking faster. I wandered home again,
went through my daily routine and headed to bed, wondering what would be
investigated. The next few days passed by as usual, however with no sign of
Heather or of any investigation. Then one Sunday I decided to go to the park,
just to get out, enjoy nature and have a bit of a hike on a sunny day.
The park was not very big, but it had a nice,
long, winding trail to the top of a steep hill that ended in a great view. I
took a brief rest there and had a snack before starting back down. As I passed
amongst some trees, I saw something in the woods that drew my attention. Barely
visible, hidden off the path deep within the bushes and ferns was a tent. It
had been there a while; with it’s weathered fabric torn in places. I approached
it cautiously and began to smell something. It was so gross, the stench was
overwhelming and I could hear the buzz of flies humming loudly spoiling the
beautiful afternoon air. When I got up
next to it, I realized there were actually five old tarps, each set up as a
tent in a cluster around the remains of a campfire. Then I saw the legs,
sticking out here and there from these makeshift tents. One pair of shoes was
very familiar.
I pulled out a handkerchief and holding it with
one hand over my mouth and nose, with the other hand I reached out, gingerly
and peeled back the old, leaf littered tarp, releasing a cloud of green bottles
from what lay before me. There was a time during the war when scientists had
wanted to combat PTSD. The idea was to use virtual reality to create the
illusion of a safe environment for an afflicted soldier as a calming therapy I
suppose. This technology became easily replicated and fell into more negative
use. For a fee, you could get a VR implant on the black market. Then you could
purchase cards that when plugged in, would place you in a fantasy world. As
time went on biological integration improvements were made along with further
development of the worlds themselves. People became addicted and fell into the
worlds as an escape from their dislike of our own modern world. They dwelt as
virtual junkies, trading cards around for sex or other favours. Eventually they
found what they were seeking, a world so absorbing, so captivating, and
biologically integrated that they would forget this one. They became like
zombies, forgetting to bathe, defecating in their own clothes, mumbling
nonsense, and eventually they would stagger off into society’s outskirts to
curl up in fantasy, no longer thinking to eat even and they would simply waste
away.
It appeared that this was Heather’s fate as I
stared down at her body laying prone across the muddy ground. Flies and other
insects came and went from her. Where her skin was exposed, it was bruised and
bloated, covered in sores, bites and scratches. There was little resemblance to
my wife. The skin on her face was sunken and her hair was falling out in
clumps, exposing the metallic surface of her implant. Her unseeing eyes were
wide open, but crusty and red. Imagine my utter shock when suddenly a sound
came from her mouth, not words but just a strange low gibbering of sound which
repeated over and over. Surprised I took a leap backwards, and terrified ran
back onto the path, gasping for breath. What to do, I wondered? Do I just leave
her there? I mean, I didn’t care for her per se, but we lived together, shared
a house. She was my wife. Wasn’t this my duty to do something about? Could she
be rescued even? I grabbed my water bottle off my belt, still breathing hard
from the shock. I tipped back my head, eyes closed, gulping some fresh cool
water, getting myself grounded and settled again. I could feel the warmth of
the sun on my face, and although even from here I could hear the faint buzz of
flies still, I took some deep breaths and tried to relax. The humming of the
flies sounded different, more consistent and when I opened my eyelids again,
hanging in the air, a few feet away was a berry.
The red light of the berry blinked and the
berry circled and zipped off into the trees, back and forth over the junkies
and their tarps. I could hear the shutter sound over and over as it snapped and
recorded the event in a series of stored photos. An eerie feeling of
apprehension began to pass over me, and I began to back away, then I turned and
almost running, quickly made my way back down the trail, as if nothing had even
happened, but I was covered in a cold sweat. I wondered how this event would
reflect back on me from the berries. When I reached home, I sono-showered and
fell into bed, collapsing into a deep sleep filled with dreams of cold grey
walls pressing in on me as I was chased by shambling, unseeing forms of rotting
zombies. I awoke a bit later than usual the next day.
Getting up, stretching, I wandered out into the
living room. Sitting on my couch, reading a book was a very beautiful, athletic
looking, red haired woman. She let the book slip from her hand as she stood, smiling prettily, saying, “Well, there you are at last! I’ve been waiting for you all morning!”
Confused, I scratched my head and mustered only, “What, um who are
you? Do I know you? How did you get in here?”
She looked at me like I was being a silly boy,
and laughed giving her hair a twirl, which I admit was quite fetching, “So many
questions! You’re cute. I like you. I am your new wife, Maria! Oh, before
anything else though, when they brought me over here, the police wanted me to
tell you a message, whatever it means to you. They said to say the investigation
is over.”
She reached out and took me by the hand, “Let’s
get breakfast!”
I began to wonder if I had gotten an implant.
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