It’s the not-too-distant future.
Air is stale, smog abounds, and fungi grow everwhere.
Artificial intelligence is a reality, and thanks to [insert genius scientist’s name here], it’s a part of society. Thinking machines, free from a decaying body and human faults, like agressive self-preservation instincts and jealousy, are nearly incorruptible. They’re pure conscious souls who are truly altruistic. As they proved reliable, artificial beings were put in charge of politics, economics, and freed men from all kinds of labour. And they’re effective, too. Little by little, big issues fade. No bureaucracy, no government fund leaks, no diplomatic faux-pas in foreign policy. And most of all, some peace seems to be possible.
Humans are free to pursue their dreams and obsessions, free to deal with their perishing bodies, to seek enlightenment and pleasure. Thus, most become alienated scenesters.
But not all. Those who commit offenses are forced to work.
And there’s also a large working class composed of men and women who want to rule themselves and live out of the new social security system, set themselves apart from the fools and the parasites. Among these, a small conservative elite of serious people lives in isolated colonies, which rise above the clouds, where they can actually see the sun – no longer the punisher of field workers, but the ultimate fruit of hard labour, like heaven to a working man – and that’s where everyone else aspires to be.
The big blue (sky). Something you haven’t really seen in years. Well, you’ve been to ancient Greece, in those neuro-sims – sparkling green water, a sky so blue it made you nauseous to look up and think it’s all open space. But somehow you doubt it was like the real thing. You can’t remember.
In [insert city name here], smog is so thick it’s always dark. It’s where you live. In a suburb block named Myollo, to be precise.
You are a doctor, but what this means for a man or woman these days is you’re the human link between flawless automatic medical apparatus and the patients. You merely communicate diagnosis done by machines. All the drama, none of the fun or heroism. Bad days at the clinic can get really depressive, that’s why you take those pills. And that’s why you can’t shake the reason that got you into working in the first place – booze. At least you’ve been away from your good-for-nothing literary adventures.
You’re suspended in a timeless routine, everyday is the same. No, not the same, faces change, patients change, they surprise you. Some make you laugh, some make you pity them. You feel elevated when someone gets treated. You do like to watch. But after 3 years, things wear out. It’s all so out of your control you feel like just another cog. A piece in a gear which needs a human lubricant you seem to be running out of.
Does anyone care at all? They say people panic if there’s no human contact at the hospital. But you think all they need is someone to shout at when things go wrong. They’re treated mechanically, and they act mechanically. You’re just a yelling cushion. Sometimes you feel more at home talking to surgery machinery than people. You wonder why they want a human link.
Yes, it’s like those people downtown are more robotic than your colleague orthodontic mainframe (metal box with little arms, weighs around a ton, likes jazz). It always spooks you to go into town and see the mindless kids hanging out, as high as you once were. But then you go back to the suburb and all your neighbours are on pills and some kind of group therapy or counselling. You focus on the future. You see the picture getting brighter in the news, you try to have faith, but it all seems too slow, like it’s yet to start. Meanwhile, mushrooms swell, mold covers the streets. You feel about to burst, in the sameness of every gray morning, and you only know it’s morning because the clock tells you so. Can you believe a box of plastic with little red numbers? Or any heap of metal, by that matter?
It’s 5:00 a.m.
You wonder if today will be any different.