1
We believe we have the power to save Earth.
We don't.
Earth will survive.
We have the power to save Humanity.
"Where the fuck is the 'football'?" yelled the President as he stormed out of his bedroom suite and stomped into the carpeted Central Hall on the White House's third floor, waving his fist. Barefoot, wearing a knee-length, white terrycloth robe, he looked like a giant marshmallow with chicken legs protruding out the bottom. A jiggled around inside that robe. His red and puffy face with bushy eyebrows projects an angry scowl. He waved a card over his head, aka the 'biscuit,' containing the numbers to open the nuclear launch code briefcase (the Football), in one hand as he battled to put on his mane management tool, a trademark black Newsboy hat with his other hand. The number #1 is embroidered in large white font.
A secret service woman ran after him, buttoning up her black suit jacket, and yelled to get his attention.
"Mr. President, Mr. President…they are all in the Oval Room, waiting for you. Please come this way!"
He tried to remember her name. Nothing came up, so he decided he would call her Janet.
"Thanks, Janet. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck………Where is my magnificent Football?"
Janet pointed down the hallway, "This way, sir!"
He pivoted, almost losing his balance, and hurried after her, walking past two statuesque secret service sentries in their customary uniform—black suits, earpieces, and dark sunglasses. Their eyes followed him closely.
"Good morning, Mr. President," greeted the taller one.
He continued without acknowledgment, treating them as if they were pieces of furniture.
He passed several portraits of past presidents hanging on the walls and made his way to the staircase. Hesitating momentarily, his thoughts went to his own portrait. It’s still a work in process. He told the artist yesterday to go back and change the look on his face. It had to look more powerful, aggressive, yet handsome. After all, he was the best President in the country's history. Ever. It would be the best portrait. Ever. Where’s the best location to hang it? Whose portrait would he remove to make room? Suddenly, his chaotic mind yielded to the present as he continued to shuffle down the hall, his eyes focused on where he placed his next step.
"Sir, your robe has a red smutch on the back. Would you like to change first?"
"I don't care. Damn, hemorrhoids! Bring me my suit, the large one, a white shirt, and my red tie—a red tie. I'm pissed! I'm super mad! I'm going to get that Rocket Man. I warned him—don't launch any missiles! I promised him fire and fury if he did! No one crosses me and gets away with it!"
His face turned red, and his mouth formed an oval pout as if preparing to blow the house down. He descended the staircase, grabbing the handrail to steady himself.
Jake Cole tapped the side of his goggle-like IntelStat headgear, which covered his eyes. The holographic historical presentation, The Spring of Noo America, he was watching, turned off. A footer in the hologram marked today’s time stamp, April 7, 2115, and a caption identified the author: Stephen Cole.
Today, April 7th, was a memorable date. Jake smiled as he reminisced and felt warmth fill his chest. The date marked his grandfather, Stephen Cole’s birthday in 1965. April 7th was also designated as the founding date of Noo America eighty years ago. It was the day the eleven New Founders signed the new constitution. It was the day the United States officially dissolved and emerged as NooAmerica. Like stone fruit, the 1787 Constitution remained as the core, the ‘stone,’ but was surrounded by the flesh of emendations that transformed the country into a Noocracy. Retaining the original constitution was deemed critical for continuity and acceptance by the populace. Hence, the NooAmerica constitution was not a replacement but an enhancement of the original document.
Most importantly, the changed constitution reflected the sociological structure that emerged from the sociopolitical rampage's contortions during the first half of the twenty-first century. The bottom line was that it was now a Noocracy. Democracy was gone.
Stephen Cole, a document signatory, had started The Spring of NooAmerica chronicle ten years before President Krump was furloughed. That’s what history called it: Furloughed rather than fired or thrown out. Stephen decided to create an artifact of these times so his family, and perhaps others, would know about his journey and get one person’s view of the nation’s transformation. He continued to add to it, covering over 50 years until he died at age 123. Jake’s annual ritual was to watch one of the chapters on his grandfather’s birth date. He only watched specific chapters that he had earmarked as favorites. The ones that touched his soul.
The screen in Jake’s IntelStat flashed, ‘ALERT: Preparing for arrival at Philadelphia.’ His seat rotated to face the back of the StringChain. He could feel the negative g’s kicking in as his body pressed against the back of his malleable seat. The status display included a set of dials that reported the g-force and the remaining distance to the destination. He noted that today's peak g-force would not exceed -2.8g’s, well below his certified peak of 3.5 g’s. The trip from Boston to took just 45 minutes- slightly longer since the ChainTrain would need more time to get up to speed and then slow as it approached the Philadelphia Hyper Hub.
As he felt the g-force ease, the status screen lit up to announce: ARRIVED PHILADELPHIA, and PLEASE RETURN IntelStat TO ITS CRADLE. Jake was slow and in no particular hurry. That was unacceptable to the ChainTrain’s system, so it became more demanding – flashing RETURN IntelSat TO ITS CRADLE in more giant letters and a deep voice ordered the same. As soon as he did, the voice announced, “Please disembark.” His seat rotated ninety degrees to face the outside of the train, and the door slid up and disappeared into the overhead. He stepped out onto the platform and thumped his SKIN three times in the area of his thymus to connect him to SYNTELLECT, the universal data network. It was a cold day. The SKIN was a marvel. It maintained a constant feeling of 20 degrees Celsius. He turned left to join the procession of anybodies heading to the station’s local transportation hub. Many wore similar SKINs, just different colors. The colors identified each as humanoid (charcoal grey), cyborg (dark blue), or robot (light green). Today’s river of passengers did not include any greens. After all, robots were usually tied to a facility or function. They traveled infrequently.
Even though he welcomed the benefits the SKIN provided, it robbed individuality. It felt dehumanizing. He quickly extinguished the thought and feeling. The benefits of an ordered society and minimizing class structure were worth it. Only a small medallion on the left shoulder identified him as a member of SURCON.
He increased his pace and kept close to the train as he thought about getting home and sitting down with his partner, Jesse. Not paying attention, without warning, someone stepped out of the train right in front of him. It was too late to avoid a collision that sent the passenger to the ground. Why couldn’t the guy look before stepping out? He dampened his irritation and intuitively reached down to grab his arm to help him up. As he did, he realized he was not wearing a SKIN but an aubergine-colored, fabric-textured hoody suit. It was a soft to the touch. Once standing, Jake let go of the arm. The fallen passenger stood up and faced her assailant. To Jake’s shock, it was a human woman. It startled him, but he intuitively asked,
“I’m sorry. Are you hurt?”
“Thanks, but I’m fine,” she responded, brushing off her knee and arm.
Jake was trying to figure out what to say or do, but no words came forward. His mind went into ‘process’ mode to focus on the moment. He noted she was about a half-meter shorter than him, with shoulder-length, auburn-colored hair, a very soft-looking face, and unusual eyes. Those eyes – like blue and green sparkling crystals. He suddenly realized that he was staring and that something inside him felt uneasy. She was not wearing a SKIN, so there was no identifying medallion. Given her outfit and her colors, he subconsciously put her into the Earthy category, not part of the new social order. She broke eye contact and turned to join the parade towards the transportation hub.
As she did, Jake called after her, “My name’s Jake”. Ugh. Why did he do that?
She turned to face him momentarily, saying, “I’m Amé,” smiling. She raised the hood back over her head, turned, and continued to the station's exit.
Jake kept her in eyesight, curious about her. She had an aura that made him want to smile. Who was she? Just before losing eyesight of her, he saw her following a green SKIN’ed robot to a waiting Jitter. Jake joined the public Jitter queue to wait his turn. Once settled into the seat of his pilotless air taxi, his thoughts returned to Jesse. He hadn’t seen her since last Sunday. But… within seconds, his mind was highjacked back to this human, Amé, whom he had pushed to the ground. Still intrigued, his imagination began to create a story about who she was, where and why she was going. The mental narrative stopped abruptly when he felt his Jitter dock on the 23rd floor of his apartment building.
A voice announced, “You have arrived. Please disembark.” He stepped into the arrival/departure room and headed down the lightly lit, gray-carpeted hallway to his home—just enough time to get his mind into the NOW.
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