2050: Psycho Island

by Williams, Phil M.

  David huffed and pouted, his lower lip protruding.

  Jacob held out his coffee cup, never lifting his eyes from his tablet. “More coffee.”

  “Right away, sir,” Jeeves said, taking his cup and walking to the kitchen.

  Rebecca turned to her daughter. “Don’t forget. You’re at your dad’s this weekend.”

  Lindsey set down her fork with a clang. “Do I have to go?”

  “You missed last time.”

  “But the farm is so boring. And I wanna go to this VR party.”

  “I’m sure your dad will be fine with you going to the party.”

  “His internet’s too slow for VR.”

  “Well, I’ll talk to him. We’ll see what he says.”

  “What about the adoption?” Lindsey asked. “Once I’m adopted, I don’t have to go, right?”

  With that, Jacob looked up from his tablet, chewing his food.

  “He hasn’t agreed to that yet,” Rebecca said.

  “Have you even asked him?” Lindsey replied.

  “Not yet, but I will. He’ll want to talk to you about it though.”

  Lindsey’s eyes widened. “But he’ll be upset.”

  “He’ll understand,” Jacob interjected. “It’s for the best. He’ll see that.”

  “One step at a time. I’ll talk to him this week,” Rebecca said.

  “About the weekend and the adoption?” Lindsey asked.

  “Yes.”

  David giggled and said in a singsong voice, “Lindsey’s not a Roth. Lindsey’s not a Roth—”

  “Lindsey’s already a Roth,” Jacob said, cutting off David’s song. “This is just a formality.”

  Lindsey smiled at her stepfather sitting across the table.

  Rebecca turned to Jacob and mouthed I love you. Jacob placed his hand atop his wife’s and squeezed. Rebecca was in her late-thirties, but she looked ten years younger, no doubt improved by modern cosmetic surgeries. She was naturally pretty with high cheekbones and bright brown eyes, but she was made flawless by science.

  Unwanted fat cells were killed by nanolipo, a technique that injected gold nanoparticles into problem areas, the fat then melted by a laser. Other lasers were used to smooth and to tighten her skin, to remove unwanted veins and stretch marks, and to heal sun damage. Without invasive surgery, she stayed young, … at least in appearance.

  “Grandpa doesn’t think Lindsey’s a Roth,” David said with a crooked smirk.

  “Yes, he does,” Rebecca replied. “Who told you that?”

  “You did.” David paused for a beat. “’Cause you said Lindsey has a different dad.”

  “Not another word,” Jacob said, pointing his knife across the table at David.

  “Word.”

  Jacob shook his head, looking at Rebecca. “I don’t know how you do it.”

  “Without Jeeves, I’m not sure I could.”

  “I love you,” Ethan said to his half sister. “I don’t care if you get adopted.”

  “Thanks, peanut,” Lindsey replied.

  “That was sweet, Ethan,” Rebecca said.

  Five-year-old Ethan beamed at his mother’s approval. Like his brother, he looked like he could be a child actor, with his light-brown hair and big brown eyes, like his mother; whereas David had jet-black hair and dark eyes, like his father.

  “Last night, on MeTube, I saw this awesome video about a dog just like Spike,” David announced, jockeying for the spotlight. He tapped on his screen. “Look. It’s so cool.” David handed his tablet to Lindsey.

  Lindsey played the video, holding it up so everyone could see.

  Jeeves entered the dining room and set Jacob’s cup of coffee in front of him. Then he stood at attention in the back corner of the room, awaiting instruction.

  The video footage showed a man breaking a window from the outside and attempting to enter a nicely furnished home. The robotic dog, outfitted with a rotating rifle on its back, shot the man in the head.

  Lindsey stopped the video. “That wasn’t very appetizing.”

  “I don’t want you watching that violence. I could have Jeeves suspend your access to the internet,” Rebecca said.

  “But he was a bad man,” David said.

  “Wouldn’t it be better if the dog just called the police or used a Taser?” Rebecca asked. “What if that was the owner of the house? What if he was locked out?”

  David shook his head. “That was a bad man. He had on a mask. All the bots know faces anyway. He was prob’ly a murderer.”

  “Where are you learning these things?”

  “It’s normal for enhanced kids,” Jacob whispered to Rebecca. “Mayer’s kids did the same thing. They just grow up faster.”

  “I know, but he’s only six,” Rebecca whispered back.

  David gulped his milk. “Can we put a gun on Spike?”

  “We’re not putting a gun on Spike,” Rebecca said.

  “I could program Spike to bite their junk,” Lindsey said.

  The boys howled, milk shooting from David’s nose.

  Rebecca laughed too. “We’re not doing that either.”

  Jacob stood up from the table and held out his coffee cup. “Put this in a travel mug.”

  The bot approached Jacob, took the cup, and responded, “Right away, sir.”

  “You’re leaving already?” Rebecca asked.

  “I’d rather stay home, but I have a ton to do before the Bilderberg Meeting on Friday,” Jacob said.

  “Is that this week?”

  “Afraid so.”

  “You’re invited this year?”

  Jacob stiffened. “Dad wants me there for the after-meetings.”

  “It’s a waste of your time,” Rebecca replied.

  “Maybe. I’m hoping to secure financing while I’m there.”

  3

  Summer Stock

  Summer sat on the toilet, peeing on a stick. She washed her hands and checked the tiny digital screen on the stick. Nothing yet. She leaned on the sink and stared into the mirror. Summer’s wavy brown hair touched her shoulders. She had a round face with wide-set blue eyes, a prominent nose, and glowing skin.

  Do I even want a baby? I’m not getting any younger. She’d just turned thirty last month. Can we afford it? Summer sighed. It’s never a good time. She checked the digital readout again, the result now clear. She took a deep breath and closed her eyes for a few seconds, not sure how to feel. Summer placed the test in the bathroom wastebasket, shoving it to the bottom and covering it with the existing trash.

  She padded to the kitchen. Her fiancé, Connor, sat at the breakfast table, eating cereal, watching his tablet. He worked for Next Generation Robotics as an entry level programmer, specializing in household bots.

  “Good morning,” Summer said without conviction.

  “Morning,” Connor mumbled, his eyes glued to the shadowy figure on the screen, aka Braveheart. Connor’s hero.

  The kitchen was tiny, barely enough room for their table for two. Summer turned sideways to pass between Connor’s chair and the counter. She filled up her water bottle and grabbed a banana.

  “Now, with every wealthy couple designing their own superspecial bundle of joy, the gap between the haves and the have-nots continues to widen.” Braveheart’s rant was apropos.

  “I need to talk to you,” Summer said.

  Braveheart continued, his voice digitized to protect him or her from the authorities. “We continue to fall behind, and that’s exactly the plan.”

  “Can you turn that off?”

  Connor held up one finger, still mesmerized by Braveheart.

  Summer sat across from Connor, eating her banana, as Braveheart finished his rant.

  “The elites don’t need us anymore. Robots do the work we used to do. They do it better, cheaper, faster, and without any bitching and complaining. The elites don’t need or want us to train for the new economy. They have us chipped, tracked, and using the same currency worldwide. Now they want us to shut up and to accept our fate
.” Braveheart paused. “Until next time, stay safe and watch your back.”

  Connor stopped the video and looked up from his tablet. He had a handsome face: blue eyes, a strong chin, and a perpetual stubble. He wasn’t overweight, but his body was soft and doughy from his sedentary lifestyle. “You gotta listen to the beginning of that before they erase it. It was crazy.”

  “The NSA’s probably monitoring everyone who watches Braveheart,” Summer said. “It’s illegal hate speech.”

  “It’s not illegal to listen to hate speech.”

  Summer shrugged. “I think you’re tempting fate.”

  “Stop being such a drone. Nothing’s gonna happen. Too many people watch his videos.”

  “If you say so.”

  “Did you know that the first designer babies were made in 2019?”

  “Really?”

  “It was in the video. These Chinese scientists removed the CCR5 gene to be resistant to diseases linked to chronic inflammation. Then they found out that removing that gene gave people better memories. And they were using the DEC5 genetic mutation way back then.”

  “The mutation to reduce the amount of sleep people need?”

  “Yeah.”

  “I thought the first enhanced babies were in 2032?” Summer said.

  Connor had a crooked grin. “You’re so PC. You can call ’em designer babies. I’m not gonna tell Big Brother.”

  “I’d rather not get in the habit. I see a lot of enhanced people at work. Can you imagine what would happen to me if I called someone a designer baby? I’d be fired in a nanosecond.”

  “This PC bullshit is out of control.”

  “I agree, but this is the world we live in.”

  “Unfortunately.” Connor rubbed the back of his neck. “Anyway, you’re right in a sense that the first designer babies were in 2032. The earlier models focused on disease prevention for the most part. It wasn’t nearly as much of an advantage as the ones in 2032. Braveheart talked a little about how they’re eighteen now, and almost every one of them is super successful. Half of them already graduated college. A lot of them have corporate and government jobs. Almost all the Olympic gymnasts are designer babies. They’re totally dominating high school sports now. In the next few years, they’ll start dominating college sports, then the pros. Must be nice to be a designer baby.”

  “Do you think a natural baby can compete?”

  “A stock baby? Hell no. I would not wanna have a stock baby.”

  “Don’t say that.”

  “Now I can’t say stock baby? I don’t get how that’s offensive. I’m a stock baby. You’re a stock baby. We’re all stock babies.”

  “It’s upsetting to people. It’s belittling.” Summer discreetly wiped a tear from the corner of her eye. Connor didn’t notice. Summer stood from the table. “I should go.”

  Connor furrowed his brows. “Are you mad at me?”

  “No, it’s getting late. I need to hurry if I’m gonna finish my run before work.”

  “I’ll see you tonight.”

  Summer nodded and left the apartment. The park was only a few blocks from her apartment. She jogged on the sidewalk, passing apartment buildings, restaurants, hotels, and commercial high-rises. A digital billboard urged Americans to vote in the midterm elections. Real Americans vote. Exercise your right to vote today, 11-5-2050! The ad portrayed a diverse group of people wearing I Voted T-shirts and big smiles.

  Facial recognition cameras hung from every stoplight and every corner of every building, covering every square inch of Arlington, Virginia, deterring most would-be criminals.

  The traffic was moderate and flowed efficiently, with perfect spacing between vehicles, given that most of the automobiles were autonomous. Driving wasn’t the American pastime that it once was. With high energy prices, many people worked remotely, as well as played at home in VR. As a result, fewer people owned cars, preferring to use autonomous car services as needed.

  A few trucks rattled by with their diesel engines, but most of the vehicles were silent, running on batteries. Some thought the Greater Depression of the 2020s was sparked by rising interest rates, exposing shale oil companies as insolvent. Most of those companies went bankrupt. They’d already exhausted the profitable oil fields, and what was left was not economical without the cheap money to finance their Ponzi schemes.

  Their bankruptcies—and the subsequent decline in oil production—destroyed the myth of American energy abundance and created shortages, which led to a spike in the prices of all commodities. The shortages were exacerbated by government-enforced rationing, which caused a panic and further hoarding and even higher pricing.

  Ultimately, the high commodity prices popped the worldwide stock and debt bubble, leading to the decade-long Greater Depression. After that, rich people bought electric cars. Poor people bought bicycles.

  The Washington & Old Dominion Railroad Regional Park was built on an old railroad bed, with massive powerlines overhead. It boasted forty-five miles of nearly straight running and biking paths. The asphalt was cracking, but that fact kept the bike traffic to a minimum. Despite the many fissures and imperfections, Summer glided along the trail, expertly adjusting her stride as needed. She passed walkers, joggers, and even a few bikes. The powerlines hummed. Traffic was still audible beyond the narrow buffer of the woods.

  She felt strong. Fast. She competed in the eight-hundred-meter run in college. Summer wondered if she’d even make the team today, given the domination of the enhanced athletes. She tried not to think about the baby. Her stock baby. Even if they could afford an enhanced baby, this baby would be stock.

  Enhanced babies were planned, the fertilized eggs enhanced in a lab, and implanted in the mother. The wealthy mostly birthed enhanced children. Surrogates were common as many wealthy women didn’t want to subject their bodies to pregnancy and childbirth.

  Only poor people had unplanned pregnancies. They’re like animals. They can’t control themselves. That’s what the wealthy mothers at the hospital said about the poor mothers and their stock babies. Of course, they never used the term stock. Natural was the correct term. They were too classy to use lower-class slang.

  Early in her career, Summer had worked as an obstetrics nurse. She had helped doctors deliver enhanced and natural babies alike. The haves and the have-nots shared the nursery space in those first few days of life. She wondered if that would be the first and last time they’d be considered equal.

  4

  Naomi Sets the Stage

  The afternoon sun glowed orange in the background. Naomi Sutton’s rented and autonomous limousine drove adjacent to the Manhattan Sea Wall. The massive concrete dike was constructed to stop the flooding that plagued the city in the 2030s.

  “It’s a mistake to announce now,” Vernon said.

  “I would think this would be a perfect opportunity,” Alan replied, referring to the buzz around Naomi’s reelection to the House of Representatives.

  “We discussed it, but ultimately we decided that there’s too much noise to drown us out. Naomi?”

  Naomi turned from the tinted window to her chief of staff. “I agree, but we can’t wait too long. Money’s an issue.”

  “How much money do you need to run a competitive presidential campaign?” Alan asked.

  “Competitive? Shit, we’re running to win,” Vernon said.

  Naomi glanced at Vernon; he winked back at her. Vernon wore a tailored black suit. He was always well-appointed. Manicured beard. Fresh fade. Built. Beautiful caramel skin. He looked a decade younger than his forty-five years.

  “Of course,” Alan replied.

  Naomi turned her gaze from Vernon to her husband. “We need a lot more than we have.”

  “If anyone can do it, it’s you.” Alan grasped her hand and squeezed. “I’m so proud of you.”

  “We still have a long way to go to reach the promised land.”

  “It’s good to stop and smell the roses.”

  “I’d rather keep my eye
on the prize.”

  “Then I’ll keep my eye on you.” Alan squeezed her hand again, then looked at Vernon. “When do you think Corrinne will announce?”

  “Within the next week or so would be my guess,” Vernon replied.

  “She’s the woman to beat, right?”

  “My money’s on Naomi.”

  Alan smiled. “Mine too, but my family doesn’t own Next Generation Robotics.”

  Vernon chuckled. “Corrinne does have that robot money. But she doesn’t have the right ideas. Nothing is more powerful than an idea whose time has come.”

  “Victor Hugo.”

  Vernon nodded to Alan. “Damn straight.”

  They often bantered like friendly rivals. People who didn’t know them thought Vernon was Naomi’s husband and Alan was her chief of staff. Even in 2050, with racism relegated to the dark corners of society, people were still surprised she had married a white man.

  “It all depends on whether or not the party’s ready for socialism,” Naomi said.

  “Democratic socialism,” Alan said with a grin.

  “Sixteen new democratic socialists were elected in the midterms,” Vernon said. “We’re definitely gaining ground.”

  * * *

  Two hours later, Naomi stood on stage at the convention center. A banner hung behind her that read Naomi Sutton, Congress, New York’s 12th District. The audience was packed with voters and supporters, enjoying the collective victory. Naomi waited for the cheering to dissipate.

  “Thank you so much for coming tonight. And thank you for trusting me to represent your interests. When I first started in congress, I thought if I worked hard and proposed good policies, I could make a difference. Now that I’m on my fourth term, my outlook has changed. I know the ins and outs of the DC swamp. I’ve seen the corruption of congresspeople, senators, and even presidents. I’ve seen corporate lobbyists buying and selling politicians, the same politicians who claim to represent the people.

  “We no longer have democracy in this country. We have a fascist system that benefits the wealthy and the powerful.” Naomi paused for effect. “I have to say, capitalism has been quite successful.”