Jul 15th, 2163
Brenda floated in the center of her office, surrounded by tiny holograms hovering mere centimeters above her eyes, simulating a bright, cloudy sky. Waves of heat mimicked sunlight, countered by a cool breeze wafting across her. The sound of waves lapping against a metal rowboat intertwined with the occasional cry of a bird, completing the soothing illusion. This was her sanctuary, a recreation of a time when she was nine years old, adrift on her family estate's lake lying alone in the bottom of the tiny craft, she felt the gentle thump of waves against the hull — a time when the world was simple, warm, and bright, and she was at peace.
"Apologies for interrupting your relaxation, Brenda, but Anáa has queried your location and is en route. ETA is 10 minutes," Janice said, maintaining the sounds of the simulated environment.
"How much time is left on my schedule?" Brenda asked, her fingers tracing a circular pattern at her temples, momentarily disrupting the illusory sky.
"There are just under 8 minutes remaining," Janice replied soothingly.
Brenda sighed, inhaling deeply. "Complete the current scenario and add some obstacles to Anáa's path. I need a few more minutes."
"Certainly, Brenda. Updating her ETA to 12 minutes," Janice concurred, her voice ever composed.
Brenda sank further into the scene, savoring the tranquility as she focused on the warmth of the sunlight and the gentle sway of the boat.
With a soft beep, the sky vanished, and Brenda was once again facing the room's unadorned beige ceiling. Gravity shifted in stages until she stood once again on the pastel blue tiles. She considered switching into a floral sundress but decided against it. In a world without privacy, any change could be reviewed, and the act might highlight her attempt at a ruse to seem more at peace. She maintained her crisp white slacks and matching floor-length lab coat.
"Three minutes until their arrival," Janice informed without prompting, her tone as reassuring as ever.
"Okay, I think I'm ready—wait, 'they'? Who's 'they'?" Brenda's curiosity spiked, tinged with apprehension.
"Miss Chooke accompanies her," Janice answered, noting the tension in Brenda's demeanor.
The thought of facing Pooka heightened Brenda's anxiety. Like Anáa, Pooka had been part of the early IRP days in Germany. After Brenda's separation from Richard, however, Pooka became overbearing, pushing Brenda to socialize against her will, leading to their estrangement. Despite the unease, Brenda sensed unresolved issues and wondered if this visit was more than social.
"Janice, create a montage summarizing their visit," Brenda commanded.
Immediately, a window framed in wood materialized, providing an ultra-realistic view of another room. Brenda quietly observed as if physically present.
Anáa, dressed in a yellow sports bra and matching shorts— perpetually ready for exercise—stood in a room bursting with color and unnecessary details. A slender arm, skin gleaming, emerged through a wall aperture, offering a jadugwan—a fruit reminiscent of a zucchini in shape but with the lush color and texture of a ripe plum. "Hungry, Anáa? Weary of synthetics?" the voice steeped in warmth teased.
"Polka Dot! Show yourself!" Anáa beckoned playfully, her Halo glowed and the wall obliged, widening for Pooka to enter the scene. The mention of the nickname evoked a twinge of longing in Brenda for her lost camaraderie.
"It's been too long," declared Anáa, waving the fruit aside trusting Janice would hover it near, and embraced Pooka in a deep lingering hug.
A brief distortion indicated a forward leap in time. The pair now sat around a clear, faux-plastic square table.
"We must coax Brenda out from her seclusion," Anáa insisted. "She's been entombed in that lab for years."
Pooka, hair shimmering in the faint light, agreed yet conveyed caution. "I've attempted to engage her socially, but since she retreated, we've barely spoken. I fear pushing her further away."
"Then it's baby steps. A taste of The Farm's marvels awaits her," Anáa pondered.
"That will suffice, Janice." The window dissipated.
Knocking or formal announcements had long since become obsolete, replaced by transparent intentions and Janice's discreet coordination.
As Pooka and Anáa made their entrance, Brenda considered the charade of being unaware of the duo's intentions, knowing full well the transparency of their approach and its declaration.
"We bring an intervention," Pooka declared, her smile broad and spirited.
"And an invitation," Anáa chimed in, a playful spark in her gaze.
"What brings me this honor?" Brenda played along, understanding that mutual awareness was part of the dance.
Brenda couldn't help but notice the change in Pooka's outfit since the last time she had seen it through the viewing window. Gone was her usual less-is-more approach, replaced now by a stunning pantsuit that seemed to defy the conventions of her usual fashion choices. The top of the pantsuit clung to Pooka's figure, with long sleeves adorned with tassels. Brenda tried to remember the last time she had seen her with long sleeves. During their winters in Germany back on Earth.
But what truly caught Brenda's attention was the color of the ensemble. It was as if some unseen light was playing tricks on her eyes, causing the color to shift gradually from a ruddy purple to a deep brown. The effect was mesmerizing, almost as if the fabric itself held some magical properties.
Brenda approached Pooka, her curiosity piqued. "Pooka, my dear, I must say, your outfit is quite extraordinary today. The way the color seems to oscillate between that enchanting ruddy purple and the rich, deep brown is utterly captivating. Is there a story behind this remarkable transformation?"
Pooka smiled and said, "I asked Janice for something fun that you would like from the 20th century."
"Just how old do you think I am?" Brenda laughed. It felt good to laugh.
Ignoring her and returning to the task at hand, Pooka stated, "The Farm is abloom, and you're absent from its wonders." She motioned expansively. "We're here to liberate you from this haven of diligence."
Chuckling, Brenda laid down her brush. "Rescue is unnecessary. And as for extraction by force—know it's a lost cause."
Leaning against the door frame, Anáa's lips curved into an amused smile. "Brenda Wahrnehmen Myers! Force? Perish the thought. But consider our persuasive charm."
"Persuasion paired with resilience," Pooka interjected, adding a slight flourish for effect.
"Still not my middle name," Brenda smirked. But it felt good to smile.
A moment of contemplation passed among the three Immortals as they silently acknowledged their indestructibility and autonomy. Coercion was out of the question; Janice, ever vigilant, would protect their free will. Brenda, known for her tenacity, would only entrench herself deeper if they attempted to strong-arm her. Recognizing subtlety as the wiser strategy, Pooka addressed Brenda with a tone suggesting that their plan’s success was a given, while Anáa extended her hand with an unspoken promise of agreement.
'The Farm awaits,' Anáa said softly, her hand outstretched. 'We promise a peaceful journey—no need for a battle of wills.'
Taking a moment to consider, Brenda's initial resistance was replaced by a glimmer of curiosity and a hint of surrender softening her gaze. With a smile of reluctant acquiescence, she reached for Anáa's hand. 'Lead the way,' she agreed, her inner explorer sparked to life by the gentle persuasion of old friends.
As they moved through the doorway that remained from their arrival, the entrance seamlessly disappeared behind them, as though it had never been. Brenda, acting on a sudden impulse, transformed her attire into the yellow sundress she had earlier considered. Any initial reservations had dissipated, and the dress seemed an effortless choice, reflecting her uplifted spirits.
As they made their way, Brenda observed the distinct yet subtle differences between Pooka and Anáa. They shared a similar stature, both of average height, but the variations in their appearances and styles marked their individuality in a world that catered to every whim. Pooka's hair, lustrous and black, flowed magnificently almost to her ankles—a sight to behold and one that remained remarkably untangled, likely owing to Janice's subtle ministrations. Anáa's hair, a shade closer to the earthy tones of dark brown, fell just to her shoulders and carried a practicality in its length.
Pooka sported a vibrant yellow workout outfit, the material so fine it appeared a whisper against her skin, consisting of a fuzzy sports bra and paired minimalist shorts. In stark contrast, Brenda alone donned footwear, an indication of her old-fashioned sensibilities, or perhaps a lingering attachment to tradition.
As they moved along, Anáa indulged in a bit of creative expression, her three fingers tracing along the wall and leaving behind a trail of deep red gouges—the playful product of her thoughts interacting with the programmable matter around them. They stood out as vivid reminders of their journey, visible only until the next passerby decided to impart their change upon them.
Drawing upon this whimsy, Pooka crafted a wooden-framed flower box complete with a vase, embedding it into the wall. Once satisfied with her creation, she tilted it ever so slightly off-kilter, as if to emphasize the lightheartedness of their transit. Brenda watched these interactions but felt no urge to add her own mark. After all, the very substance of the world they manipulated was her invention—her legacy. In every corner of this reality, in its matter that bent and reshaped to their will, was an echo of her ingenuity. To Brenda, every inch of this was her territory, and that knowledge alone was indelibly imprinted in the colony's foundations.
The distinction between Immortal and colonist travel habits was often striking: Immortals would stride with purposeful steps, a vestige of old-world charm, while colonists had embraced a more fluid form of movement, deftly gliding above the ground. Janice, ever accommodating, customized the space around them, expanding the corridor in a subtle dance of anticipation and response. To the denizens of this world, the idea of a collision was preposterous, as outlandish as a star falling from the sky.
But the scene that unfolded before them ventured into the realms of the absurd. In a courtyard, which had been remodeled piecemeal so extensively its original design had been lost to time, an unusual spectacle caught their gaze. Three colonists—a woman and two men—were locked in a ferocious brawl. Their bodies clashed with a violence that belied their otherwise serene environment.
Pooka and Anáa, unfazed, seemed determined to continue on their path, showing only fleeting concern. Brenda, however, found herself immobilized by the sight. A gasp escaped her as the woman took a cruel blow, a left hook to the eye. Yet the fallen combatant was unyielding; with a defiant display of agility, she harnessed the colony's gravity to her advantage, rising up in a graceful arc that culminated around the neck of the man who struck her, her fingers like talons digging into his flesh, drawing blood. His agonized scream was cut short as they plummeted to the ground together, her body absorbing the brunt of their accelerated fall. Still, she clawed at his neck.
"What the..." Brenda's voice trailed off into silence, her exclamation hanging incomplete in the air—a stark contrast to the chaotic energy before her. Her shock was reflected in her wide, unblinking eyes. This abrupt eruption of savagery within the corridors of a utopian society was not just shocking; it raised fundamental questions about the underlying truths of their seemingly perfect world.
"Is this your first time seeing one of these?" Pooka asked, her tone implying familiarity and indifference regarding the violent scene.
"The first rule of Fight Club is..." Anáa began with a sly grin, her quip fading as she registered the perplexed expressions of her companions. She let out a lighthearted sigh tinged with a hint of disappointment. "I really need to find some friends who watched more movies growing up."
Meanwhile, Brenda stood still, unable to tear her gaze away from the turmoil. "Relax, Brenda," Anáa said reassuringly, her voice steady and calming. "It's just the latest fad inspired by those eye sensors back on Earth—a craze that will disappear as quickly as it appeared. Colonists don't relate to violence the way we do. They don't understand what they're observing on Earth, so they fight to make sense of it all. But there's no need to worry—they're virtually indestructible. And unlike us, they can turn off their pain receptors, though they sometimes leave them on for a short while for... authenticity, perhaps? Their quick healing and the skilled use of gravity transform these fights into tests of intellect rather than mere brute force, delivering the kind of gender equality you used to dream about as a kid."
Pooka weighed in, "Remember the fear you'd feel, walking down a deserted street at night as a teenager? Or how you'd second-guess your outfit if it felt a tad too daring?" Pooka mused aloud, her eyes scanning the hubbub around them as if to punctuate her point. "I wager those concerns haven't crossed your mind in years, and look around—colonists bare their skin without a second thought, comfortable in varying states of undress. The concept of violence, or rather coercion, is obsolete here. Without the threat of being overpowered, the archaic chains of patriarchy have dissolved. We, the older generation, might find the lack of privacy unsettling, but it also constructs a shield of vigilance. Someone is always watching; Janice is omnipresent, and every act is stored and retrievable. It's the ultimate accountability."
"Janice, how long will this trend continue?" Brenda asked via Halo.
"I predict it will reach its apex in about a year and a half and will completely die out in three to four years, depending on what new activity comes along to capture their interest," Janice whispered in her ear.
Pooka chimed in, "Wow, Mom really talks differently when she talks to you." The message had been intended for Brenda's ears alone, but Pooka had exceptionally good hearing.
"Please don't call her that!" Brenda said, then smiled as she realized she had taken the bait.
Anáa leaned in closer to Brenda, a gesture that once suggested a need for secrecy but now merely served to set a tone of intimacy in the open space. "Have you ever used Janice...for sex?" she whispered, knowing full well the futility of the attempt at privacy.
Brenda, understanding the transparency of their society—and long past the point of feeling shame over such matters—replied candidly, "Quite often these last couple of decades. Why do you ask?"
"Because everyone has," Anáa replied, addressing Brenda, "at least once. And it's common knowledge that anyone can observe, live or through a montage tailored by Janice. Initially, that knowledge alone was enough to deter me—and you're aware I'm not easily shamed—but eventually, you stop paying it any mind." Anáa paused, dropping her voice even lower, though there was no real need. "Even when it comes to the really...specific interests. I would suggest you ask Janice to compile a highlight reel of the activities taking place across our community. It can be quite...illuminating," she added, her tone carrying a hint of sheepishness as she broached the sensitive subject.
The smaller boy, with a swift and forceful maneuver, grasped the girl by the crotch, leveraging her moment of shock to pry her from his shoulders and send her hurtling through the air. Both the girl and Brenda recoiled simultaneously, mirroring winces as they reacted to the brusqueness of the move. Regaining her bearings swiftly, the girl arrested her mid-air motion and launched a forceful kick to the boy's head in retaliation. She altered her shorts to a thick leather at the same time.
Brenda's attention returned to the fray, where the dynamics had shifted—the girl now tackling the aggressive advancements of the two boys in tandem. "Shouldn't we intervene? This seems like inappropriate touching at the very least," Brenda commented, her brows knitting together with concern.
Pooka exhaled a breath tinged with a playful blend of exasperation and amusement. Her dark Thai eyes, which often sparkled wide with an intentional, practiced sense of awe, now narrowed into a squint as she turned her gaze toward Brenda. The subtle shift hinted at an inside joke or a shared understanding between old friends, a private communication of expressions that required no words to convey its meaning in their close company.
"My dear, you really ought to escape your lab more often. We're barely a kilometer from your workplace, and yet you're discovering facets of humanity you haven't considered in eons. Concerns about inappropriate contact belong to a bygone era. Why did such concepts even exist? Primarily because women were more vulnerable, and without strictures in place, men could become predatory. But in this reality—though it's an unimaginable prospect here—something like rape essentially lacks the factors that once made it so egregious. There's no threat of unwanted pregnancy, no transfer of diseases, no lasting harm; and the sociocultural stigmas that once amplified the trauma have dissipated. Besides, if such an act were even attempted, Janice would intervene before it could progress."
With a hint of pride and defiance, Pooka concluded, "You’ve crafted a utopia, Bren-Bren. It's time to recline and revel in the fruits of your labor." After the delivery of her monologue, Pooka drew in a revitalizing lungful of air, invigorated by their conversation and the fresh perspective she had imparted.
Brenda lingered, tension knotting her features as she watched the unfolding scuffle.
"Just so you're aware, there's no need for concern," Janice whispered in her ear with the weightlessness of a secret. "I've got an eye on the situation—millions of them, in fact." There was a brief pause as if giving Brenda the option to depart or remain as a spectator. "If you choose to stay, you'll observe that in approximately 35 seconds, there's an 86% probability that Tor'jê," she indicated, marking the larger boy with a red X, "will sustain an abdominal tear near his appendix, requiring a couple days to recover. That injury will signal the end of their contest. If he successfully parries the attack, the situation will soon escalate to sexual interactions."
Brenda's gaze was anchored just long enough to witness Janice's forecasted outcome manifest with striking accuracy—a grim testament to the AI's analytical prowess. Brenda exhaled, a mix of admiration and disquiet in her voice, "God, you scare me sometimes, Janice."
"Which one of us are you complimenting?" Janice volleyed back, her tone laced with a semblance of levity.
Brenda could almost hear the smirk in Janice's digital voice, a reminder of her growing sophistication—or was it sentience? The very thought disquieted Brenda further. "Your humor is improving, and that might just be the scariest development of all," she muttered, a half-joke to mask her simmering unease. Janice's evolution promised wonders, yet harbored the unpredictable whirl of potential peril.
Upon receiving Brenda's half-joked reply, Janice registered the subtle inflection of discomfort in her voice. In response to this, Janice swiftly logged a personal reminder—a note to self, if an AI could be said to have a self—to moderate her sarcasm when interacting with Brenda. Prioritizing Brenda's ease, and indeed the well-being of all colonists, Janice adapted promptly. Her programming was intricate, designed not just to monitor and analyze but also to empathize and adjust according to the nuances of human sentiment. It was an element essential to maintaining the carefully tuned harmony of their advanced society.
Tor'jê lay flat and immobile, having turned his mind off until the repairs were complete. The floor opened below him, giving Brenda the impression of a dead body being cast into space, but as she knew, in reality, he was being returned to his birth pod, for storage while he repaired. Janice would play his relatives the events of the duel for their edification.
Despite the surrounding activity, Brenda was grateful to have her friends back and felt more alive than she had in the last couple of decades. She was looking forward to her first experience of what The Farm had become.
A little way down the corridor, which had narrowed, they joked about forming a pod: the three of them and a man. "Well, who should it be?" Pooka inquired.
"Who do you conjure up to hold you in those lonely nights?" Anáa asked.
"You conjure a whole man?" Brenda was shocked.
"You don't? What then?" Anáa sounded genuinely confused.
"A tongue. A phallus if necessary," Brenda admitted, with a reserved tone.
Anáa's and Pooka's giggles rang down the hall. "A phallus if necessary," Anáa mocked, playing up Brenda's long extinct German accent and her teaching voice. It had been a long time since Brenda felt as young as she looked. It was good to have her friends.