POV - Brock
A loud banging on my front entrance interrupted me. I swore and shook my head.
"There's a receiver installed, idiot." I mumbled. "Just press the damn button! It is really not that difficult..." It may not be the most advanced, but it makes a noise and the vision feeds to wherever I am in the house, obviously to see who is visiting.
"What?" I said with a snarl after swinging the door open. A peeper was stuffed in to my hands and without saying a word, the uniformed guy swung around with his linger-pane and flew over to the next house. "Close" I said and the door clicked silently closed behind me.
Standing in my living space, I stared at the message that is playing over and over on the peeper's screen. The creased face of an old, grey headed man was pointing to the recorder and saying: 'I need you as my soldier. Do you have what it take?' The head of the Militia are recruiting ten thousand men to join his forces. He needs soldiers and each and every man must attend the compulsory recruitment.
The General – I recognize him from the watching the Vision screen – is more like the head of The City. Above and below. General Mites is one of the above citiers that live in a palace sized dome in Sky. Only the people with high ranked positions and the wealthy can afford to stay there.
The message conveyed that all men should be at the compulsory recruitment... that means the Sky people will have to come down to ground level. To the earth dwellers' level.
All men must be at Beacon by noon tomorrow! I swore again. I am not in the mood for their games. Why in the hell would he be recruiting soldiers? Ten thousand? That's a huge number... are the old guys going to be recruited too? This is so unnecessary. The only opposition The City have is Feline and they are no threat to us. It's a bunch of woman for god sake! This is ridiculous!
"He probably needs more housekeepers for his castle" I mumbled to myself.
The bot voice from the other side of the dimly lit room said: "No my lord. General Mites would never use men to clean The Palace. He has many bots and too much pride to fall to such levels."
"Lurk!" I growled. "Someday is someday that I will break you, rip out your micro-tronic and reprogram you!" I stormed into the pantry to escape the bot's sweet comments.
In the pantry, I went over to the fabricant to retrieve my meal. I realized I didn't finish inserting the codes and couldn't remember where I stopped. I was half way through the series of codes to order a meal before I was interrupted by the banging on my door.
I still didn't get around to purchase the more advanced fabricant – with pictures – at Dasias, the Fabricant Fabricator and Supplier, therefor have to specify each item individually. (White Trucked meat- 10205, with brown onion gravy- 32365, yellow sweet peas- 52563, baked spud-78952, with cream- 45692, cornflower beet-10488, and a green salad- 14587 including tomatoes- 78522 - on a plate- 104 with eating utensils- 022, a napkin- 1120, a side bowl- 105 of lukewarm water- 3695 and slushed orange whisky- 5556.)
I stopped and cancelled the whole series of codes, because my hunger had anyway disappeared with the arrival of the peeper. I coded for only the slushed orange whisky... In a tall glass.
YOU ARE READING
Racist - the year 7182
Science FictionIt is the year 7182. The races have split millennia ago. The trivial small wars between races, as in White, Chinese, Mexican or Indian, even the English and Russian wars are long forgotten. The fourth and fifth world wars were child’s-play in compa...
