Perhaps it was the effect of the Hexterol, potent as it was, but the rain fascinated me. I stood, breathless, as the drops fell gently on my skin, my hair, running in little rivers down my arms, down the valley of my breasts, down my calves and between my toes. I stared in wonder at the Lincoln ruins, marveling at the beauty of the crumbled building washed in the gentle caress of the rain. For the first time in eons, the rain was safe, life-giving; there was no burning sensation, no light green glow. I marveled at the ability of man to take such a brute force of nature, such a hostile presence, and tame it into gentleness, force it into submission.

I was not the only humanoid deriving such pleasure out of the rain. All around me, humans and Dechronas alike were embracing the wonder of the rain, opening their mouths, casting aside articles of clothing and feeling the kiss of the rain as I had.

“You never told me dancing half-naked in the street was a hobby of yours.”

I turned around, still under the rains’ spell, to see Barant standing behind me, lips in a faint smile. “You never asked. Isn’t it wonderful? Did you ever know water could be so…so…”

“Wet?”

“Yes!”

“I’m glad you're enjoying it so much. But we have a shift starting, and you need to clothe yourself and get to the station with me. You know as well as I that this will be the perfect opportunity for the Sarent rebels to attack.”

I sighed. “You’re right. As always.” I picked up my soaked tamruk and followed Barant to the unmarked vehicle. Duty first.

“It will rain again, Marina.”

Neither of us knew then how right he was.

Ever since the Decision, everything was perfect. This is because the Decision changed the definition of what perfection was. The founding fathers of this new world were intent on creating the perfect society and hired many of the most renowned philosophers alive to help them create it. Inevitably, every philosopher eventually reached the same conclusion- that nothing could ever be perfect the way we perceive perfect to be now. So the founding fathers made the Decision: they redefined what perfection was. Crime was at an all time low since everything from shop lifting to manslaughter was now considered legal, poverty was unheard of since the poverty line was done away with, and unemployment was virtually non-existent ever since “unemployed” itself became a job title. Was this indeed a perfect world? By our standards, of course not. By their standards, yes.

Melissa was one of the many naive residents of this new world who truly believed, as she was conditioned to, that the Decision made everything better. The only person she had ever known who was alive in the times before the Decision, the Imperfect Times, was her Great-grandfather, who died when she was seven. That was twelve years ago, but she still remembered his stories vividly. He told her of a time when crime was rampant, people were poor and technology was primitive. Of course, technology really hadn't really advanced all that much, even from today, but that was also changed in the Decision. Indeed, the only technology that advanced at all was weaponry, which had risen a great deal.

Melissa seemed to vaguely recall Great-grandfather say something about the Imperfect Times actually being better than they were now. This only made her laugh: how could anything be better than perfection? Great-grandfather was clearly senile.

The vapor of synthetic dormide carries one of the foulest odors a human nostril can endure. Luckily its users are fast asleep before their brains can recognize the smell. In truth, the chemical is toxic -- deadly, even. But only if it enters the bloodstream.

Hezekiah hadn't circulated real blood since his veins were replaced with biostatic energy conduits shortly after his birth. After the smallpox epidemic forty years back, the state deemed the human immune system unsatisfactory and mandated this operation on all newborns. It's a simple procedure involving five small incisions: one along each extremity, and a slightly larger slit across the lower back. Painless, when sedated. The biggest drawback is that the surgery creates a dependency on lithium ion solution, which can only be cycled through the body by a pod.

Hezekiah loved his pod. It kept him healthy in a diseased world. It put him to sleep at night and woke him in the morning. Best of all, it fed him intravenously so he never had to stop for food. With such amazing technology, Hezekiah need never leave his pod. And he couldn't if he wanted to. It was part of him.

At exactly 8:45 AM, the synthetic dormide shut off and Hezekiah awakened. The pod had bathed him as he slept, administered his daily nourishment ration, and disposed of his waste already, so he was fit to begin his day -- not that he had anything to do. With the world essentially run by robots, traditional work had no place in the lives of people. Instead, they spent their days pursuing pleasure, seeking constantly the next diversion from utter boredom. Hezekiah reached for the pod's steering mechanism with atrophied arms and wondered what amusement he might find entertaining today.

"Joseph, this isn't working."

As she spoke, her voice raised slightly in the crowded coffeehouse, Claire looked at her hands as if they were more somehow interesting than the guy she was dumping. And maybe they really were; I loved her hands.

"What isn't working?" I asked, feeling foolish before the words had fully escaped.

"You know what I mean." Now it was the vidpanel behind me that held her attention; her hands, perhaps feeling as rejected as I did, drifted softly to her lap in the lunar gravity. I glanced over my shoulder; the display was tuned to a news upfeed from the E.U., currently 'casting a story about the ongoing debate over voting rights for native-born Lunies. Ironic, really, since she had come from Earth only a year before, on a lavish scholarship, to study lo-grav physics at the U. I was the one born and raised in Montes Taurus Dome, the one whose civil rights were being decided on a planet I'd likely never be able to afford to visit.

Claire continued her stumbling attempt to let me down easy, but it was already too late; like her, my attention was wandering. While I looked in her general direction, my ears strained to pick up the voice of the reporter coming from behind me. Now he was talking about the proportionality of lunar mineral rights among the E.U., the Asian Confederation and the U.S. -- or, as we natives call it, "looting." They won't let us vote, but they're happy to pay subsistance wages for us to strip-mine our palladium and drop it down the gravity well back to Earth; easier than dealing with their own "third world."

Colonialism was back with a vengeance. And Claire? Claire was the plantation-owner's daughter.

The air was starting to taste stale, and Damian Smith could almost imagine a metallic taste on the back of his tongue. An entirely unnecessary glance at the time display confirmed once again that it had been nine months and seven days since the “scoutship” Alcatraz had been nudged from the cluttered background of the asteroid belt onto a non-propulsion interception trajectory with the alien industrial base orbiting Saturn. And already things were starting to come apart.
Mankind had been united in humility for the last thirteen years by the undoubtedly advanced alien presence which had blatantly ignored all attempts at communication. Damian sneered as he remembered the pathos with which his “mission” was presented to him. It all boiled down to a very unfavourable situation. Take a little piece of rock, carve out enough to fit in the latest in passive surveillance equipment, a narrow-beam communication set-up, and minimal steering capacity and lob it towards the alien base. It would look like a normal piece of space debris, too small to pick out against the background clutter of Saturn’s rings. It would be an ideal way of gathering and transmitting information (spying was never mentioned). And to make sure nothing broke down, find yourself a “volunteer” to baby-sit the ambling asteroid for the next few years.
Well, thought Damian, maybe it wasn’t entirely voluntary. And as “commander” and sole inhabitant of this little rock, they did let him choose the name (although they soon regretted that little liberty).
And now, spinning idly through space, travelling along a hyperbola which would (maybe, hopefully… nah) give him a flyby-time of two days, he was dozing in an oversize space suit, eating crud and drinking his own sweat. Until the close-proximity alert sounded, two months too early.

Amazing, how the times have changed. Once, a forest stood here, and now, another Glass Monolith. Built by the devout followers of Camioniti Ganzlomatat, the sect has spread over much of Eurasia and most of the southern United Americas.

Never have I seen them in this area before.

I will admit though, it was beautiful. Almost a kilometer high, glimmering and translucent, it was a sight to behold. There were inscriptions covering every square centimeter of it, preaching the ways of the Camioniti Ganzlomatat. Its followers, known by many as the “SeeGee” were insanely devout to their cause.

Traveling as much as I do, you can truly see the world. When I ported here from New Cape Horn, I expected to see the usual, a small town with friendly faces.

I was completely wrong.

Stepping from the port, instantly I recognized that these people were not the town folk that worked the lands here, but members of the SeeGee. They chose to travel by ohrten. The small, horse like animal, genetically bred for thousands of years, was their preferred method. Sauntering along at a regular pace, they passed me with odd glances and cold stares.

It was rather obvious; me with my tricorn hat and cape with the Papal Markings did not fit in with these people. They knew who I was of course, but never did I feel safe around the SeeGee. People spoke of them as being soft spoken and harmless, but I knew better, after all, that is why I am here.

For you see, I was sent here under direct orders to begin the slow eradication of these godless, vile people known as the Camioniti Ganzlomatat.

"Ma'am? Are you ready to board?"

I had seated myself in a cold row of spaceport chairs that were facing out towards the ship. Sleek and long, it echoed those old SP7s, for looks, of course, and not for aerodynamics. The sun sunk behind our shuttle slowly until its rays flared red, and I could no longer stare out through the Plexiglas. I held one hand in the other and examined my wrinkled palm, the scar across my lifeline, and the burn on the knuckle of my ring finger from trying to use that insta-oven my son had installed in the kitchen last year. I rotated the wedding band twice loosening it from the clammy sweat.

To my left, a couple was irritatingly entwined. A honeymoon side trip, perhaps. What was I doing here with all these vibrant contemporaries? I felt like a fossil, shriveled and dry, ready to crumble in the face of an awesome G-force. A trip to the moon: first-class seating, great accomodations, and a full yet relaxing schedule. It was a gift from my grandchildren for my seventy-ninth birthday. They knew it had always been my dream to watch the Earth rise from the moon.

I shut my eyes and leaned back against the chilly plastic chair imagining the trip. Would it be like the roller coasters of my youth? I could feel the shiver of the straps against my chest and my skull tapping the headrest. But where was my childish wonder? All I felt now was the timid beat of my weakened heart resounding.

And now the Boarding Assistant had walked back towards me, his arm outstretched to walk me through the terminal, questioning.

In desperation, my eyes met his, and I answered...

The sleek capsule door slid open noisily before coming to a halt only slightly ajar. The occupant was flooded with oxygen as jets of warm water assaulted his frozen skin.

His breathing hastened as his heart sped up. Muslces twitched, sending signals of agony in protest as his brain whipped commands into the atrophied receptors.

Before long his eyelids began to flutter, shaking loose ice crystals that had formed in his eyelashes. All at once his eyes opened wide and he yelled out in surprise. He flung himself against the plexiglass of his prison. His mouth agape, his eyes wide with terror.

Starbursts swam in front of his vision, black roses bloomed and faded. He lay slackjawed against the door. As he lost his grip on consciousness he saw three large men approaching through the breach of the capsule. His lips tried to move, a scream welled up in his throat and died as he faded into the abyss.

He awoke an indeterminable amount of time later, suspended in mid-air by apparently nothing at all. A disembodied voice asked if he was hungry.

"No..." he said, in a hushed whisper.

"Good" the voice said cheerily, "the feeding sub system refinements must be working nicely."

"Where am I?" he tried.

"You're about to be released from CryoTech Labs. You paid us, a then start up company with a few flashy gadgets, a sum of five million dollars to get you into the future, and you've arrived."

Before he could speak again a large door opened. His body was whipped forward and he gazed upon a marvel of technology and engineering. A city of spires and mountainous structures swam into view. His eyes were dazzled by twinkling lights. He watched strange vehicles darting about the base.

"Welcome to 3045" said the voice.

From a distance, the fires throw onto the ground long shadows of people, sleeping and crouching and pacing nervously in tight lines. A little closer to the encampment and a mechanized music is heard. A slight percussion of clicks and a hissing sound issues from one of the men's respiration equipment. The fire is fed scraps of wood and tall towers of embers dance in the night sky before burning out in countless numbers. Mckewen grunts and stands and slides his binoculars over his eyes. Apart from moving slightly during the night, the Temperbombs still hover in the predawn darkness above the city on the distant hill's crest. Other fires burn in the city, not made by men but from the horrible machinations of the metal beasts.

They had come in vast numbers in the last few weeks, rumored before but shown true to the fleeing population of the city as the people were crushed and burned and made deaf by the screaming engines of the machines. They couldn't be outrun or outgunned as of yet. The technology was too new for the people to adapt. Some made it into the air ducts built below the surface of the city. Grates were pushed aside by groups of men while spotlights from high above circled the ground, identifying for the Temperbombs their targets. Once inside the air ducts it was safe. Aside from the vast blades of fans circulating air to the city's buildings, peace could be found for a few days huddled close and weary, hunger being staved off by the packs of food they carried with them. Eventually the maze of the tunnels was deciphered and the small remaining groups made for the safety of the valleys between the hills.

Now - against hope, spotlights fall on the camp.

My father tells me that I look silly in a doublet and stockings, but he is pretty old fashioned. I set the lace to sparkle so as to contrast the undulating blue and red neon and I turn on my ear radio to drown out my father’s griping about how the Bush Dynasty isn’t what it used to be. I smile because the Oil Wars are such a joke among my peers. We often have a chuckle about those of the republic as we watch the films that Duke Swarzenegger’s father made. Imagine, killer androids! Father loves to rant about how the androids have robbed the youth of a work ethic, like slaving away was some sort of honor.
I leave the apartment and enter the parking lot. I snap my fingers and the door of my Ford Vital opens. I declare my destination and the autopilot kicks in. The familiar sounds of liftoff and rumble of turbulence soothes me. I close my eyes and enjoy the respite. The strains of Moby’s latest mesh of his old and new works finishes and I know that I am at the gathering place.
Everyone seems to have gone all out today. Slim looks sexy in his latex jumpsuit. He’s set it to camouflage and so the tiny cameras in it are projecting the surroundings. All you really can see is his head, but the fiber optic weave in his hair makes him look positively electric.

“So,” Slim greets me, ”Ready to vote on the euthanasia bill today?”
“So ready,” I replied gleefully.