Lieder was outfitted with dark indigo jeans and a black t-shirt with an animated, cartoonish man lost in deep contemplation. The nurse was now escorting him to the lobby, where he would rendezvous with Percius Tombs.
"Are you sure you don't want to look at our premium collection?" The nurse asked for the third time.
"We have a store of some of the finest fabrics, both synthetic and natural."
"I'll pass, but thanks," Lieder repeated. "That tailor-bot did a fine job."
The object he referred to was an automated sewing machine. Through its console, the user had
access to a vast database of garments in most every style and design imaginable. Using a manual
search feature, it had intuitively guided him to a pair of baggy jeans and a medium t-shirt. The
components and resources were obscured, the machine itself being built seamlessly into the room's
wall, so the process by which the console's image of the clothing came to fall out its dispenser chute
was left to the imagination.
He couldn't tell if they were made out of cotton, but the jeans were certainly a denim weave, and he had been amused to incorporate the same emotional-relay display of his hospital gown into the t-shirt. The nurse had assured him that these articles were not uncommon among the populace, though uncommon on a Peer.
"I should warn you that other Peers will have a hard time recognizing you as one of them," she warned, clearly oblivious to the possibility that Lieder might want it that way. "You could avoid some future misunderstandings if you advertised your status a little."
"Misunderstandings are something I can handle," Lieder asserted dismissively. "Call me an eccentric if you want, but this is what I'm comfortable in."
He had multiple reasons for the casual dress, but no reason to share them with the nurse. The knowledge would hardly benefit her; being discreet rarely meant mimicking the upper class, which is what he assumed this Peerage was supposed to be, and information was easier to glean when its source wasn't intimidated by his status.
Besides, he hated formal dress. Clothing was invented for a purpose, and that purpose had nothing to do with categorizing its wearer or acknowledging an occasion.
"It's not that I don't think any less of you for dressing this way." The nurse was curiously reluctant to let the issue be. "I'm just worried about whether or not you realize how different things might be for you now."
"Is my life in danger?" Lieder asked, his casual tone unnerving his escort.
"No, no. I mean, I don't think so..."
"Was your life in danger when you were treating me like I wasn't a Peer?" Lieder sounded much more concerned about her safety than he had his own.
"That doesn't matter." She replied with a shrug.
Lieder wasn't fooled; that answer was a definite affirmation. Something was very wrong with this Peerage, and it had been that way for a very long time.
They emerged from the hallway into the lobby. A semi-circular desk separated the only other occupants of the room: a man dressed in clothes identical to the nurse's sat behind it, and a man in a sleek mostly-red garment leaned on the opposite side.
"'Sup, Percy?" Lieder greeted, injecting as much exaggerated familiarity into his tone as he could.
The man turned to glare at Lieder for a moment, then snapped his gaze back to the receptionist.
"Is this how your institution instructs Winkles on corresponding with Peers?" Percius Tombs demanded of the startled worker, confirming his identity by reacting to the taunt.
"You suppose they're in a position to teach a Peer anything?" Lieder responded before the panicked man behind the desk could.
Again, Percius gave Lieder a spiteful glance, then snatched the tablet device the seated worker had been holding. His eyes scrolled through the data quickly, and his expression softened when they found the information he was looking for.
"Ah, I suppose not, Carl." Percius emphasized his name, implying that the use of first names was inappropriate for their relationship. "Forgive me for assuming, it's not often a Winkle is granted membership to the Peerage."
This was the first person Lieder had ever heard referring to someone else as a Winkle, but he still understood that it was a term for people that had been digitized. It fit too well to be a coincidence; the term was a reference to Rip Van Winkle, a folk story written by a Scottish immigrant living in the colonial United States.
The story's protagonist, Rip Van Winkle, fell asleep under a tree on a mountainside. He woke up to find that forty years had passed; what seemed like moments to him had been decades for the rest of the world.
He wondered if the fable had survived through the generations and into this age of humanity, or if they simply used the term without knowing its origins. It fit Lieder's situation too well to be a coincidence, although he and others like him had probably slept for a lot longer than the forty years that Winkle had slept in the story.
"I'm guessing you don't know why I was, then."
"No, but it does happen. Could be any of a multitude of reasons."
Lieder analyzed the man carefully as they spoke. He hadn't known Lieder's name before confirming his Peerage status. Between being unaware of his name and status, it seemed that Percius was acting on behalf of a third party, and that Percius's interaction with Lieder would be brief.
"So what now?" Lieder asked, feeling a sudden surge of impatience.
"That is a very, very good question," Percius responded slowly, distractedly perusing the receptionist's tablet as he did. "It's been a long time since I've had one of these, I forget how to… there we go."
Percius frowned in contemplation as he read the screen, but his lips slowly curled into a mischievous smirk as he finished. In an abrupt motion, he placed his finger in a specific on-screen box, which enlarged on contact. He began writing with his fingertip, lines tracing his movements over the screen, but Lieder couldn't make out what it said before Percius turned to give the receptionist his tablet back.
"You can consider him released. We'll be leaving now."
"Thank you, Baron Tombs." The receptionist bowed his head. "It was an honor to serve you again."
Percius looked at Lieder and motioned to the door with his right thumb. Lieder nodded, gently patting his nurse on the shoulder before taking a step in that direction.
"Thanks for taking care of me. See you later."
"Thank you, Lord Lieder." She bowed her head. "It was an honor to serve you."
"Ah, hey, my previous request doesn't expire, sweetheart…"
"See you later, Carl," the nurse bid the farewell softly to avoid being heard by Percius. She flashed Lieder a friendly, tolerant smile.
He grinned widely back at her, an expression that seemed so uncharacteristic of him that she was visibly shocked by it. She couldn't help giggling as he turned and headed to intercept Percius at the entrance.
As Lieder followed Percius outside, even the first sliver of visible scenery through the opening doorway was enough to take his breath away. A person's sense of wonderment is often understood to dull with age, but when a marvel defies all the conventions that person has grown accustomed to over their many years, the awe it inspires is actually amplified.
The majority of sky was obscured by structure, with absolutely no horizon exposed in any direction.
These buildings dwarfed the skyscrapers of Lieder's time, the smallest of these still at least double the tallest of his age. Their perimeters were proportionately massive, encompassing many city blocks worth of land at their base.
Threaded around and between them were countless roadways, the majority of which were suspended in the air. They weaved around and into the buildings and each other, merging and diverging to accommodate any possible route from one location to another.
The collection looked like a wire sculpture, tangled by an abstract artist to represent some arbitrary concept, but the distant dots of vehicles traversing them divulged their true purpose.
Lieder was far too busy gawking at his surroundings to notice, but the face of the cartoon residing in his T-shirt had donned an expression that very closely resembled his.
"I confess, I'm glad that you're a Peer," Percius said, breaking Lieder from his daze. "That saves me a considerable amount of time."
Lieder realized that, in his awestruck stupor, he'd followed Percius outside and down a small flight of stairs. An ample section of concrete sidewalk separated them from the curb of an earthbound roadway.
Lieder's expression dissolved to neutral as he looked to his escort, a ballooned question mark appearing above the head of his clothing's emoticon.
"I wish you luck in your new life," Percius continued, disregarding any possibility that Lieder might desire information from him. "And welcome you back to the real world."
With a smile that oozed mischief, Percius turned away and walked briskly towards a luxurious car parked parallel to the curb. Lieder watched him silently, struggling to come to a conclusion before his time ran out.
A plethora of possibilities concerning his revival had arisen from Lieder's interactions with Percius and the hospital staff; until that moment, he had assumed that the person who discharged him from the hospital would lead him to the answer. Lieder was very unsettled by the implication that Percius was about to leave him here without doing so.
Why would his Peer status save Percius time? Was he really bringing Lieder back into this world only to abandon him? Had he really not received any special instructions for this situation?
Lieder intrinsically knew that he shouldn't ask any of these questions aloud, though; it would only serve to amuse Percius, and at the moment, Lieder couldn't imagine a more irritating scenario. He was convinced that Percius had engineered this moment with the hope that Lieder would panic.
Lieder hated being toyed with. Succumbing to Percius's agenda and begging for answers would prolong that torment. The only solution was to let Percius go, assuming that whoever ordered
Lieder's revival would be irate when Percius returned without him, and due punishment might be inflicted for delaying whatever purpose they'd intended for Lieder.
That seemed to be the perfect answer; Percius's fundamental misunderstanding was that Lieder had been digitized with the hope that he would be resurrected one day. That was never the case, but if
Percius's normal occupation was simply to oblige all the Winkles waiting to be awoken, it made perfect sense that he would incorrectly assume that Lieder was no different than them.
Besides, for all Lieder knew, Percius could be bluffing. Perhaps he was only pretending to abandon him, in order to get revenge for Lieder's informal behavior or to test his reaction to the possibility.
Percius arrived at his vehicle, but before climbing in, he turned to direct a sly glance in Lieder's direction. Suddenly resolute, Lieder smiled and offered a casual wave. His T-shirt obliged his desire to seem unaffected by Percius's baffling behavior, the cartoon shaking his arm wildly above his head in an enthusiastic farewell.
Percius laughed and brushed his fingers against the car door. The entire vehicle came to life in response to his touch, lifting off the ground as its lights flickered on. It levitated steadily, refusing to rock even as the door slid open and Percius climbed in.
There were no wheels, nor did any component come into contact with the ground. There was a steering wheel, but it quickly became apparent that manual control was optional; Percius engrossed himself in his tablet device as his vehicle pulled away from the curb and continued down the street.
Lieder was amazed. The technique of using electromagnets and superconductors for transportation had been experimented with before he'd even been born, but this mode of transportation was far beyond the Maglev trains he was familiar with. The level of stability, efficiency, and affordability required to incorporate the concept into personal transportation had been unfeasible in his lifetime.
Furthermore, the infrastructural requirements of these vehicles simply couldn't have been retrofitted into a city that predated them. The community would have to be designed and built from scratch with these streets in mind in order for them to be integrated.
Seeing as there were no traditional roads within his sight, that's exactly how Lieder assumed this city had been founded. Had this transportation method become the standard for this country? Perhaps the world?
Government had always been understandably reluctant to adopt the kinds of radical changes this society would require. Most civilians wouldn't leave their homes long enough for their city to be taken apart and rebuilt. Society was content to live with what was already working, especially if change required such severe action, so the only way this could be implemented is if the cities of the past had already been abandoned.
To Lieder, this city's existence could only mean that the civilization he belonged to had been subjected to a veritable apocalypse. That, or he wasn't on Earth anymore.
As he stood in the plaza outside the hospital, Lieder was overcome with a feeling of vulnerability. He had long since assumed he'd outgrown this emotion; he'd simply experienced enough in his life to trust he was capable of surmounting any obstacles that could befall him. Now that his grasp on the concept of technology had slipped, however, he began to wonder if his social experience might also be subject to obsolescence. How was he to survive in a world without possessions, experience, and most importantly, friends?
In a sudden surge of introspection, Lieder found himself profoundly amused. What did a man who'd woken up from euthanasia have to fear? Maybe insecurity wasn't a state of mind that could be cured by wisdom; maybe it was caused by some hormone that the body stops excreting at a certain age. After all, as far as his body was concerned, he was still very young.
Lieder frowned in contemplation as he took his first step towards the road. He wondered how hard it would be to find a mirror in this century.