The year is 2994. The world is on the verge of war when Preston Smith, an unconcerned citizen of Superior America, is abducted by a band of unruly terrorists.
“...Another four hundred are dead as a result of the Verisat terror attacks as of this evening. Civilians are advised to stay indoors and to contact the authorities if they have any information on the organization. I’m Kat Brant, from Washington’s memorial obelisk.”
“Thanks Kat. In other news, New Japan’s currency has taken another massive hit-“
I waved a hand and the screen disappeared into the tiny box it was projected from, along with any thought of the news. The terrorists posed no real threat to me; all of the deaths had happened in the poor districts of Inferior America, where disease and filth were abundant.
But here, I was in my miniature fortress of security. Securomatons guarded the only entrance into the house and the walls were three feet of solid cement lined with steel.
The only ‘windows’ I had installed, naturally, were wonderful, animated holosquares with specially designed scenery for my viewing pleasure.
No, I was no political leader or blasphemous artist, but an ordinary citizen of Superior America.
There were dangers outside that I had to be protected from. Bacteria, infestations, and the horrid lower class scum that the government had worked so hard to move to the south.
I had been born and raised in that house, and I had never seen any reason to leave it. My lessons were projected straight into my mind through the learning headset I wore for an hour twice a week and the robotic staff brought me anything I could have ever had need of.
Mother and father had their own sections within the house. We barely crossed paths, but I was kind enough to send them cards on Government’s Day, which was more than could be said for other young men my age.
It was the thirtieth century, after all. Nobody had time to waste on the outdated family unit, or the bores of social interaction.
Virtual reality existed to please any needs of the kind, without any messy confrontations involved. Custom programming meant that one could have hundreds of friends perfectly suited to adore them.
And, of course, when one was in want of more...physical adoration, disposable clones were available from every well-known catalogue.
I myself could attest to their quality. Not to mention the convenience of simply having them sent back when they grew tiresome, with free shipping!
Occasionally the defective product would make its way to my house and would protest horribly, but after a call to the company a replacement would arrive within moments.
Yes, all in all life was good in Superior America.
Until, of course, a few hours later that day.
I had been in the process of having my hair glossed and styled by one of my automatons, perusing a certified clone catalogue (CCC for short), when I heard the noise in the television room.
Knowing that I had no clone company for the moment and that it was most definitely not Government’s Day, I demanded of my security to investigate through my earpiece.
There was no reply.
After a few minutes of thought, I brushed off the styling automaton to take a look for myself.
I very nearly fainted in shock when I saw what the disturbance was.
For there, moving among a pile of disabled automatons was a girl holding a knife in each of her hands with another held in her teeth.