What Happened Tomorrow

Surrogate

It was a sunny day — an unexpected but welcome change after weeks of rain. Finally, Moscow was experiencing some real spring. No matter how much the world had changed, this city stuck to its old rhythms: winds in October, rain from late December through mid-February. It still snowed occasionally, but not as often. When it did, people could enjoy what was once considered "true" winter until late March. After that, it would simply get wet—rain taking over as soon as the snow stopped. But that, too, was soon to change, with the sun expected to stay out from late April onward. A hundred years ago, people had predicted the weather would be as warm as the Mediterranean coast. That never happened. The climate had softened, but it was still far from places like Rome or Istanbul. The weather was as unpredictable and unwelcoming to newcomers as it had always been. And, of course, that country no longer existed either.

But no matter what, Kutuzovsky Avenue remained the same, bustling as ever. Hundreds of cars sped down the broad, historic road, while monowheels and rover-bots zoomed along the bike lanes, trying to keep up. Drones, both commercial and private, filled the sky. No one really walked in this part of the city, so the sidewalks were traditionally empty, except for the numerous androids and robodogs.

Despite all the activity outside, Darius had no desire to leave the house. He just didn't feel like going for a walk, and there was no one to meet or anything to see. TV shows weren't going to binge themselves, after all. He stretched lazily, standing up from the couch, and took a cup of coffee from the table. Looking out the window, he saw the usual scene: the sky, the sun, the cars, and the avenue. Across the street, the old hotel had been replaced by a massive construction site. Buildroids hurried back and forth, moving in sync with the rhythmic whir of industrial 3D printers. Thank God for soundproof windows; otherwise, it would have been impossible to stay inside with the deafening noise of the machines. Yeah, he was definitely staying home today. Darius also wanted to try that thing his friends had been talking about. Everyone had already given it a shot, and everyone said it was worth it. Maybe. Not that he was averse to change, but his life was already pretty good as it was.

Surrogated emotions. Of course, he'd heard of them. Everyone had. Twenty years ago, they became widely used for therapeutic purposes, mostly as an alternative to expensive and complicated SenseON treatment. There had been a shortage of mental decoders at the time, and people had to make do with what they had. The year 2101 marked the end of the Second Russian Civil War, and as the new century began, people's gaze turned away from the future. Cities lay in ruins, former federal districts, republics, and regions had splintered into new, discontented states. Millions of citizens, demoralized by the war, sank deeper into depression and anxiety. Something had to be done to ease their pain and give them the strength to move forward. Or at least keep stumbling forward. Back in those dark days, the mere possibility of feeling something even remotely resembling happiness had seemed like a blessing. But due to the associations with the war and its aftermath, surrogated emotions quickly became stigmatized and looked down upon. Despite the heroic actions of some, these people had fought in the war and had blood on their hands. Few wanted to resort to the pain-alleviating methods of these so-called hypocrites, the ones returning from battle. They were seen as the reason for the loss of meaning in history and millennia-old traditions, which had now become meaningless, things to be discarded entirely.

In 2116, when "playing the feelie" became possible without a doctor's supervision or legal permit, few were willing to try it. But over time, younger generations—those born during or shortly after the horrors of the European and Russian Civil Wars—were among the first to experiment with manipulating their moods through various neuro-services. Just five years ago, the idea of turning something like suremo into a casual toy would have been unthinkable. Now, in 2121, the taboo surrounding it was slowly starting to fade. Well, if it was time, it was time.
Darius stepped away from the window and sank back into the wide mustard-colored chair. Finally, a day off. He could never get enough of this feeling—no obligations, no one to talk to. For the past few years, he'd been deeply involved in the family business. The company was doing well back in America, so the board—and his mother, in particular — had decided to send him to Moscow. His responsibilities mostly revolved around foreign partnerships. For instance, software once shipped to Tatarstan and the Ural region — thousands of miles away — had been used to cut costs. But after the war, both areas became independent and had to be treated as foreign companies. The same went for design — his great-grandmother, rest her soul in the mind-cloud, had once overseen the creation of new outfits. Some teams were now located in St. Petersburg, the capital of Ingermanland. At least nano-fabrics were still produced in Voronezh, which had no intentions of seceding — at least, not yet.