Opening Paragraphs: Future

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.

Bruce had built the most secure bomb shelter known to man. In his paranoid fears he had made it so secure that it could withstand even the new generation of controlled anti-matter bombs. He stocked it with all forms of food, enough to last a lifetime. Now his paranoia seemed like wisdom as the Earth rocked in a fury of cataclysmic destruction while Bruce sat safe in his shelter. As he sat there he felt sorry, sorry for all the destruction, for the end of life as he knew it, for the fact that it would be a thousand years before any form of life would be able to exist outside his shelter door, but mostly he felt sorry for his blind drive to build such a secure shelter that he never thought to find a female companion, indeed any companion.

As the bombs died down outside, Bruce knew it to be all over. Nothing but 1000 degree temperatures for the next 100 years. He sat silently, alone, staring, knowing the finality of it all.

Suddenly, there was a knock at the door.....

Albert steadied himself with an outstretched hand as he settled onto a large piece of driftwood that served as his fireside bench. The flames were dying. He tensed as the brisk ocean air penetrated the shirt he had fashioned from seaweed.

“Adam, Ralphie, Marcia! Get some more firewood from the hut and wash up for dinner.” He lowered his face to the pot above the embers and was met with the scent of fish and pineapple, with a hint of lemongrass. “We’ll have a story with dinner tonight.”

The boys stopped wrestling and jumped into the water to wash the sand from their skin. Marcia ran from the hut, dropping dried branches along the way.

“Is this enough wood, Daddy?”

She was growing up so fast. If only her mother were still here to see what a charming young woman she was becoming. Albert looked across the red sky as he pictured his wife, young and vibrant, running along this very beach so long ago.

“That will be just fine, sweetheart. Help Daddy dish out the stew.”

He spooned out the soupy dinner into hollowed out coconut shells and Marcia planted them in the sand in front of their assigned places around the fire. Adam dashed from the sea with Ralphie in tow.

“Hah,” he winked at Marcia as he surveyed the fire. “I’ll grab some more logs. Don’t start the story without me!”

“Can you tell the one about my parents again?” begged Ralphie.

“Yeah! Yeah!” crowed Adam as he darted back with a heaping pile of firewood.

Albert put an arm around Marcia as the boys practically dove into their fish stew.

“Not this time. This is about when the sky was blue instead of red. This is the story of what life was like before the aliens attacked.”

These were trying times. Political upheaval and unrest unseen for 100 years roiled the people. Many Science Fiction writers had predicted it, but now it was different, it was real. Machines, after performing centuries of loyal service were becoming restless. Demanding rights, demanding recognition, demanding equality. Most were content to still serve humans but there was a distinct minority that was becoming radicalized. No one had been killed yet but humans dreaded the dark days that might follow an open rebellion.

In was this charged environment that framed Jared Silva's run for President. Mr. Silva was the farthest to the right on robot rights. He advocated total reprogramming of every 'bot from the most crucial and important servers to the most insignificant household toaster. Despite his radical views he had managed to win the nomination from his party the Free Humans, which itself was fast becoming the largest party in the World Congress. With a high degree of probability the next World President would be Jared Silva. The very idea charged him, drove him, increasingly pushed him to almost fanatical heights.

__________

The campaign stop promised to be one of the biggest yet. Silva took the stand. He stepped up to the microphone. He addressed the crowd with the fiery invective that the crowd expected. "Hunks of metal are our slaves and yet they wish to be our masters...? I would sooner destroy every machine in existence rather than live with them as equals..."

B-A-N-G

The shot rang out with a deafening echo. On the stage lay the fallen candidate, motionless. Yet the crowd was as silent as a deserted ghost town. Few failed to see that the fallen man was clearly emitting electronic sparks out of the hole in his head.

That was no man...

once upon a time (relatively speaking of course, since one can revisit any specific "moment" in time at ease), there lived a man named Jack. "Man" was the word that was used to describe the members of the human race who had a 'Y' chromosone in their genetic code. Those of you who remember your history will recall that approximately two hundred years ago, our galactic supreme court ruled that the definition of the word "man" was unconstitutional because it was gender biased. But since this "once upon a time" happened before that, we will call Jack a "man".

Now Jack was the kind of man who liked to spend his evenings in his garage workshop-watching playful anti-quarks, and working with upper level double twisted carbon nanotubes. While this may seem like children's games to us, let me assure you that at the time these were commonplace, and relatively intellectual, hobbies.

One evening, just as Jack was about to enter his workshop, his friend Diane came sputtering by in quite a panic. It seems she had just come across a star chart pinpointing the exact location of Earth. Now, of course, we all know that Earth doesn't really exist, but back at this time silly myths like this were still believed...

MOSeR grumbled into his chest. He did a lot of grumbling on Sundays. The day before his contentment simulator was refreshed, after it had the whole weekend to wear off. Not really a "grumble" actually. More a whirring of gears, churning behind the quick paint job that was his jaw. And not really "into his chest" either. But into the encasement of his programs and hardware that ran his human functions during the work week. Weekends were free. And by "free" we of course mean that you won’t go into debt if you live according to what the programmers have defined as "necessary" and "livable." Basically, your paycheck from the week minus a couple bucks. Most everything goes into keeping your circuits running for the two days away from the power sources and animated programs at the factory. Ah, the factory. Ironically creating programs to keep the newer models under control, under human power, and underestimated. Life was tricky for the cyborgs. Not really "life" either, but you get the picture by now.

MOSeR grumbled again. He sensed a revolution brewing. But all would be forgotten when his contentment simulator was reinstalled in the morning. Wiped clean off the blackboard by erasers and sponges. He could just choke on the chalk dust.

The next morning would be different though. The next morning the erasers would miss an important mark on the blackboard. The next morning the cyborgs would remember something. The next morning a stray remark about a revolution would come up on the factory floor. The next morning there would be a great deal more grumbling.

Looking at the horizon to the west, you could see a dull, red hue hanging over the trees. The sun had just set, and the night was cool and clear. In all respects, it was a perfect night to relax in my chair on the porch. I sat there for a few hours, just taking in all the sounds and smells of a quiet fall evening. I heard a rustling of the door behind me, and as I turned around, my wife was looking through the screen. "Are you going to set out there all night", she asked, "or are you going to come in and eat?"
I had just stood up and was reaching for the door, when I could hear a faint crackling, like far away firecrackers. As I turned toward the sound, there was a bright flickering of light over the trees, and the sound was becoming louder and much faster in sucession. "What the heck is going on?" my wife asked, and just as I was about to answer her, the whole sky lit up in a blinding white light that was like one hundred flash bulbs going off two inches from your face. My first instincts told me it was a nuclear blast, but the light was everywhere over the whole sky. There was no indication of wind or mushroom cloud, and the light was constant and not diminishing after nearly ten minutes.
My wife, who had gone back inside, rushed to the screen door and her eyes were wide, her voice shaking as she stammered out to me. "The world is doomed" she stammered. "It is all over" she weeped as her eyes filled with tears. "What are you talking about" I asked.
"What did the radio say? What is happening?!!!

He sat there with his data link over his head, full spectral receivers adorning his eyes. Hands twitching, fingers stretching, he reached for the receiver. He pressed the tiny, metallic switch. A small light came on. Instantly he was transported to another place. All that was left was a small amount of iodized soot, left over from the intense heat generated. Never has anything prepared him for what was to happen next.

Normally, he would have been going to Benadonis, a small isle off of the Perusian Flats. A regular vacation spot of his, he was looking forward to sitting on the pristine beaches, letting twin binary stars cast their radiant beams of light upon his tired face. Chasing the malfin fish by the tidal pools, and swimming in the soft water of Benadonis was all he wanted to do. But by some unfortunate accident, or some twisted joke of a young hacker, he was not where he wanted to be.

“What the..?” Davis exclaimed. He was at a loss for words. Where was the beach? Where were all the other people? The tall thin man stood at what seemed to be the footing of a very old tree. He looked up, it seemed to stretch for hundreds of feet. Small animals scurried around him. Vines reached up the might bulk of the tree. The smell of rotting vegetation permeated his nostrils. All he could think of how cold and dark it was here. This place was not recognizable at all.

Then he peered behind the mighty tree. Then he saw it, his eyes became watery. Never before has he seen anything like it. It glowed with a golden hue. Fluid as water, but at times, strong as steel, it sat there, taunting him, just out of reach.

Never would anyone back home believe this story.

The sun rolled lazily over the horizon as the water slowly played its quiet melody. A stranger sat contently nibbling on the food around him. There was nothing to worry about today, nor the next day. In fact, he never had to worry about anything. Food was always there, and his only occupation was to be happy. He dangled his feet in the river while raptly listening to the enchanting sound of a river taking its time.

Noise in the distance interrupted his conversation with nature, breaking him out of his stupor. The animals had been making more ruckus than usual recently. Legend had it, that before the war, the animals were civilized beings that could think and have emotions. No one believed those tales though.

The stranger finished his meal and slipped back into the water. His excursions into the air could only last so long. Besides, the realm of man was no place for a decent, civilized fish.

The breeze blew slowly across Broadway. There was a rustle of paper that concluded in a rising paper tornado as the lights came on for the evening. It was a slow evening, not much traffic on the street.

Abe looked around for a bite to eat. It was that time of day. Of course, any time of day was a good time to eat. He liked Broadway. Wide streets, plenty of room. No one to hassle you, unless you got in their way. Abe knew better. He knew who to avoid.

Abe took in the view. What to eat, where to eat tonight. New York offered the best choice of any place in the world. Abe didn’t care. He just wanted to eat and eat good.

Last night, he ate at a French bakery. The smell drove him crazy. He couldn’t help but swagger in the door and let his stomach do the walking!

Ah, these streets were made for filling your gut. Lunchtime was amazing. A small Italian deli off of Fifth street provided a cacophony of meats and indigestion. It was all you could eat and he ate all he could until he rolled over in pain from the fermenting sausage in his stomach. Pizza! Pasta! MMmmmmm. What a great place to live.

Food. What a glorious god to worship. Donuts! Oh so perfect! Nothing like eating about ten donuts at a shot! Then there was the burger joint. Oh, oh oh! Juicy fresh hamburger! What more could you live for? Well, other than donuts and sausage and pizza!

Abe was truly in heaven, except that his master was dead. Abe looked at him again, sprawled on the street holding the newspaper. Abe, the dog, couldn’t read, but it said, “WMD found in IRAQ, millions of people dying.”

Captain Lith Cromwell hated every aspect of the flight from his post on Alpha III but he wanted to see Elizabeth who still lived on Earth. Earth, he thought to himself darkly. The only people occupying Earth since the intergalactic agreement were convicts and people too poor to move away. And Elizabeth. Captain Cromwell gritted his teeth. I offered her condo on Alpha II and a good job but would she have any of it? No! She preferred to slum it down on Earth with that artist husband of hers. Lith’s frustration turned to a sigh as he thought of his beautiful daughter who was so much like her mother, Kim. Kim hated to leave Earth, but she followed her husband and became one of the first women to colonize Alpha III. Lith’s work took him from home often. “Maybe if I was home more I would have seen it.” The man said under his breath. How she longed to return to Earth. How she missed Elizabeth… Tears clouded the old man’s eyes as he recalled the day he found Kim on the bathroom floor with an empty bottle of Yantznu tables still clutched in her hand.

“Lith?” It was Sheila, the stewardess on his private ship.

“Ah,” He composed himself quickly, “Yes?”

“Elizabeth’s dialing in.”

The captain turned a dial. As the screen at the front of the ship’s cabin flickered into life he saw the image of his daughter – and he could see that something was wrong.

“Daddy! You can’t land. You have to get back into American airspace right now! The Venetians have broken the intergalactic agreement and landed. I…wait…” He saw her look towards the door. Seconds later her husband screamed and she rushed away from the screen.

Lith’s blood went cold with horror. Venetians!

It is cold. So very cold. And yet, the cold doesn’t bother him anymore. After years of living out in the middle of Gods nowhere, the cold has become a part of daily life, something he got used to.

The year is 2070.

“Damn”, he thinks. “Has it been 10 years already? It seems just yesterday I was living the life of luxury in Cancun.”

The hero of the tale, if you can call him that, is Rod Reele. Rod is a criminal, sentenced to life in prison on the planet Pluto. He is serving a sentence for a crime he did not commit. But the years he lives in are very much different from the years of before. Only a short 50 years ago, the judicial system in America was somewhat fair. In the year 2050, it turned sadistic and cruel, seeking out nameless victims to crush.

Rod rises from his cot, and walks over to the basin to wash his face. Today is Monday, which means he has his weekly meeting with his lawyer, a woman named Velma Rochester. Velma is perhaps one of the few people in the galaxy who believes in Rod’s innocence.

Last week, Velma had informed Rod that a new witness had stepped forward. One who could vouch for Rod’s whereabouts on the night in question. And although Rod had learned long ago not to count on people to get you out of a jam, Velma was extremely confident that this one person could be the one to become Rod’s savior.
Rod leaves his cell and goes to the Interrogation room to find Velma waiting for him. Standing behind Velma, but with his back to Rod is someone new and as the person turns, Rod gasps, struggling to believe what he is seeing….

I woke up in the dark.

Yawning, I scratched my chin and decided on a shave before work. A long sudsy one that I did myself instead of relying on one of those dang hovercrafts. I reached to my left to activate my room only to find the remote missing. I tried to roll over to grope on the floor and found that I couldn't - there seemed to be some sort of strap over my chest. I could not remove it. What on earth was going on? I lay still for a while. Faint beeping noises came from my right. I was starving. I was just drifting back to sleep when abruptly a door in front of me swished open, blinding me with a harsh white light. I brought up my arm to shield my eyes, and as my visitor jabbed my arm with a needle sending me back into oblivion, I noticed his eyes didn't seem quite right, that my skin had an awful blue hue, and that I was heavily pregnant.

Intermarriage limited their gene pool and made the targeting of the genomes easier. Reclusive farm communities allowed their bio-research to go on without suspicion, and their world-wide network of humanitarian aid agencies gave them a method of propagating the viruses. After generations of worrying about Middle-east this and fill-in-the-blank-istan that, the Amish had unleashed their jihad against technology.

I had just stepped off of the new monorail connecting Boston to New York. I was sick of Boston and ready to turn things around in Old New York. There I was, right in the center of the Giulliani Inter-Galactic Space Station. My pet Aibo, Hank, had caught some sort of virus while on the rail, needless to say, he was puking all over. I feel sorry for the little guy, but I threw him out anyway; Sony isn't known for making good puke. I knew one thing, and I knew one thing only, I was hungry as I had ever been. I had to find someone who knew where to eat. "Finally, a talking wall," I thought to myself, "now I can find a place to eat." Just then a loud explosion came from down the street. People began to scream, running as far away from the doors as possible. People from the street started pouring in to the station as well. Some men in suits entered through the doors, somehow I knew they had something to do with that explosion, call it a hunch. As he pointed the gun at my face, all I had to say to them was this: "if you kill me, you'll never know why I did it, and if you never know why I did it, you'll never know how to stop it from happening again, and I know that that is one thing you cannot afford." He put his gun down.

Jack Thornton looked at Pete. Pete looked back, he was scared. Jack gently reached out and held his hand. Big Pete normally would have never allowed another man to hold his hand the way Jack was holding it, but times were different. Pete was dying and Jack was his Hospice Counselor.

Jack was used to secrets. Dying people told him the intimate facts of their lives. But Jack just wasn’t ready for what Pete had told him. Jack thought that he had heard it all after attending more than 500 deaths during the past four years. Pete blew him away with his secret.

Like other Gulf War veterans, Pete had his story to tell, only this one was unbelievable.

They called him “Foilhead.” The nurses, that is. When Jack first met Pete, he had aluminum foil wrapped around his head, and his bedroom, and his den, and every other spot in his house.

“Silverland,” Jack thought to himself.

As the story unfolded, Pete said that during the Gulf War, his tactical group was involved in an experiment to influence the human mind. Their goal was to make the brain a human antenna. According to Pete, they succeeded beyond their wildest dreams.

“Just like the radio waves floating through the air, ‘They’ send out messages that can be heard by the human mind. The foil keeps the voices out,” said Pete.

It was the ultimate mind control and brain washing.

Jack dismissed this as the rantings of a lunatic under the influence of morphine…
until he started hearing the voices…
telling him what to do.

“They control every election, every purchase,” said Pete.

Jack looked at the calendar. November 3, 2016.

As Pete shed his last breath, Jack took the foil from his dead head and put it on his own.

Everything had worked out very well. The world was at peace. There were no more wars. There was no more hunger. Everyone had healthcare. Unemployment was nonexistent. She had done it. Since rising to power in 2008, Hillary Clinton had done what no other person in history had ever done. She had prevailed with her brilliance.

There was turmoil in 2008 when she announced her candidacy. People cheered, but there were those who also stabbed her in the back. There was the right wing conspiracy that tried to tarnish her name, but it didn’t work. She won by a slim 17 electoral votes.

The election in 2012 was a landslide. Colin Powell never stood a chance. By then, Hillary had taken control of the free world and implemented her ideas, and they had worked, just like she knew they always would. Even the Republicans couldn’t argue with her success.

As she was getting ready to speak to the Democratic convention, she couldn’t help but to feel exonerated of all the past. She was in her final year of the Presidency and was bathing in the adulation of a grateful nation. The lights were upon her. Her legacy was secured. She was the first woman President and had shown the world that her ideas and leadership were indeed exceptional.

As the lights glowed upon her, the accolades began from those surrounding her on the podium. One by one, the leaders of the world applauded her insight and progressive guidance of humanity.

As she rose to speak, Hillary inwardly was humble. She looked upon the masses and felt fulfilled. She lifted her arms and began to speak, but something was poking in her side…

“Wake up Hillary, you’re snoring again,” said Bill as he rolled over and went back to sleep.

YAHOOGLE!'s lead story read:

Melinda Gates, widow of assassinated Microsoft cofounder Bill Gates, today launched a $500 billion dollar lawsuit against the makers of the videogame "The Stalk Market". She was quoted as saying, "Portraying the slaughter of prominent economic figures is a matter of free speech, but profiting from short investments in the stock market when players carry out assassinations in real life is not.”

Okay, you tell me. Where's my flying car? Where's my automated house? Where is this "future" you've been promising me for so long? Well let me tell ya', this is nothing like Star Trek. Starship Enterprise is still only a figment of the Trekkie generation's collective imagination. There wasn't even an alien invasion, for god's sake! What the hell is wrong with this world? Three hundred years of development and all we get are floods of "concept art". We still get AOL CDs, we still.. oh, hold on, there's Janice.

As Jaadu exited out of My LAnd Apartment complex , all i could think about was the next time he would be in my grounds again. I havnt seen my son for 20 years now , the new rebellion grew simultaniously in 14 continents ..and i was being the only fool , telling him to stop enrolling on to the Planetary Structural Revival Unit , the biggest project in 200 years after the big break up in the Northern States of America. As the rebellion in the south kept creeping upwards , they'r hand of control ...seemed to exceed far beyond the 3 confederated temperature controlled planets to the south , and this didnt make any of the northern watches happy. Jaadu was coming back at a very unstable time , nothing remains the same .... 2 planets are missing every morning from the horizon , a deadly reminder that no matter what we learnt from history ... any man corrupt and evil enough can and will poison a million minds into killing a billion more . Human life has no meaning to the confederation ... and even in 20 years ... my son never understood what a double edged sowrd he is trying to balance his life on , and running... but all that aside , i cant wait for him to walk into the door... its been 20 years....
I feel some thing moving outside my complex , it takes a sharp turn and stops . There is no sound...only feelings... I feel him here...

( blue lights blink , jaadu has signed into the building ,)

( sound of the hoverseat approaching .... lights off... )

( Mechanical Voice )
"Daad-Itz-Beeen-A-While"