For anyone who might be interested, we are planning to watch 'An Inconvenient Sequel: Truth to Power' on Thursday, April 9th. Let me know if you want to join us :-)
Who the Hell’s Al Gore?
Thursday, October 23rd, 2037
‘Billy, get up, you lazy sod!’ Mum shouted, slinging clothes into the sonic washing machine. She inserted a carbon token and the machine hummed into life.
Dad wandered in, hair messy, face saggy. ‘I hate days off,’ he yawned, ‘I can’t tell the difference’. Normally he’d be working at the palmtop in the study, linked by broadband to his virtual office, somewhere in the ether. He’d never been there, because it didn’t exist. Rumour had it the server was in Mumbai. But the day would be deducted from his leave, unless he logged on and produced at least 6.5 hours of keyboard activity. ‘Do you still want to go?’
‘We’ve saved the carbon credits, and we’re going!’ she snapped. It was bloody hot again, still warm mist on the windows from last night. She didn’t bother to flick on the aircon, as they were leaving the house shortly. He fumbled with the reconstitutor, which brought a small pellet of dried bread back up to its fluffy, moist original self. He fancied old-fashioned toast for a change, but she scowled at him, ‘Don’t use that bloody old thing, I told you to get rid of it’. He patted the old toaster, which he’d lovingly restored and converted from its obsolete wiring to 65 voltage, and snapped his fingers at the sonic kettle, after exactly filling it with the right amount of expensive water using the push button digital water dispenser. ‘This thing needs a new tablet,’ he said, noting the cloudiness. ‘We can’t afford it this month,’ she sighed. He stewed the teabag, wondering idly why no-one had invented a better method yet.
Lawrie came in, dressed and ready, v-max in place, babbling already in her own virtual world of music, e-zines and multi-chat with her friends. ‘At least you’re ready,’ said Mum, as she clipped on her own. She took the washing out after its four-minute cycle, and checked it for burns, before rolling the crease-free items back into their see-through expandable bags, and tossing them into their rice-wood storage unit.
She asked for weather on her v-max and dialled the lower setting on the solarstor, which would give them enough free power when they got back in.
Billy didn’t want to see a real creature, that was boring, they were history. He could dial up or design hologram creatures any time he wanted in his room.
They packed up some food pellets, and the portable reconstitutor, and dispensed some water into the frigolo, before dialling up the car. Mum had ordered a special treat from eshop, an old-fashioned ‘cake in a box’, she’d had to speak to them specially because the fat content had shown up way too high, and with kids in the house, e-shop had been a bit suspicious. Then there was the problem of getting rid of the packaging, that wouldn’t go through the re-cycler, and they’d have to pay a penalty.
The car had come round the front, and Dad loaded up, disconnected the charger, and they all piled in. Then they were free, self-powered by the hybrid hydrogen-biofuel engine. It felt funny to be driving again, even with the guide strips getting them out of the estate, past the security gates, and across the town. Dad programmed in the GPS, and the junction set-ups. They would have virtually a stop-free run. There were few cars about these days, just a few bio-trams, and not many people had the carbon credits for leisure trips. The autoglass darkened as the sun broke from behind the clouds. ‘Radcream,’ Mum reminded them, and they rubbed it into their arms.
Soon they reached the edge of town, and dad set the GPS to ‘free roam’. He took the wheel, and playfully over-whined the engine, Mum and passers-by frowning at him. A few jeered and booed, and his finger hovered over the button for the anti-hijack shutters. They spotted a tree, and he showed the kids. ‘Booooring!’ came the reply, they were deeply engrossed on their v-maxes. Meanwhile Mum downloaded a recipe on the mobinet from Gran for something called ‘treacle sponge’, but the sugar content was way too high and e-shop wouldn’t accept the order. No problem, she had some illegal chocolate hidden away at home, she would have to wait until they were all on v-max one evening.
Dad turned on the D-pod, asked for Bruce Springsteen, and listened to the rather crackly old digital rendition with memories of Grandad in his head. Each time they came across riders on horses, he patiently switched off and gave them priority, as the law required him to do. He waved, but they all looked rather disapproving. He drove on, slightly peeved. It wasn’t his fault if he earned enough carbon credits to own a car. It’s not as if he could hit anything with the anti-crash sensors and the 20mph limiter.
The map flickered up in his right eye vision, and he made the final turn to the beach. He logged on, paid his 150 euro-credits, parked the car, and they sat looking out, the ion filter down. The usual storm clouds hissed and crackled over the greeny-pink horizon, while the car aircon struggled to keep them at a bearable 20 degrees C. None of them owned any suitable footwear to cope with the gelatinous, salty, toxic mush that the beach had become, and anyway the sulphurous smell was unpleasant. The sea washed to and fro, leaving a brown scum on each pathetic wave. They watched for an hour, but no bird or person passed by.
Eventually, Dad spoke the inevitable line, ‘You see, Al Gore was right’.
They all said in unison, 'Who the hell’s Al Gore!?’ and they fell about laughing.
(author Jon Dawson)
No comments:
Post a Comment