James Whitaker couldn't sleep again. His usual Scotch and water and sleeping pill combo didn't always do the trick. Helen would be so mad if she saw him mixing his meds with a nip. He peeked ruefully at the photo next to his bed. She smiled at him but her eyes showed disapproval, a look crossing the span of 30 years.
He sighed deeply. At 94 he'd already lived about 15 years longer than planned. When he lost Helen he thought it'd be a year at most. His worn and weary heart was beset with issues, yet plodded on, a faithful old mule pulling his tired creaky body along with it.
He didn't want to watch more Virtual Entertainment, an asinine pastime he unwittingly fell into as the years grew emptier and emptier. The new Sleep Simulator also didn't help at all, though he'd never tell his grand-nephew this and hurt his feelings. Getting stuck in that contraption was like being locked in a box, wide awake and forced to watch all of your absurd dreams ramble on for 7 hours.
Technology had gone far, as had his wealth. 50 years of business acumen, long hours toiling over microscopes and research papers, and a healthy amount of bullshitting ability had garnered him multiple accolades; he was the esteemed founder of Whitaker Pharmatech, and owner of hundreds of robo-medical copyrights. But the best doctors in the world couldn't help him now. Nothing could fix the vacuous hole left in his life. Pseudo-bodies were now a viable alternative to those such as he in the upper 1%, however he didn't want to push on any further than necessary. For what purpose? If only he could sleep away a few more hours of his existence at a time.
He grabbed his car keys and went into the garage. The car door sensors registered and opened. He climbed in, his old bones eased by soft fine leather seats. The last of their kind. His last resort was to have the autocar take him around town, through his favorite route over the historic iron bridge, past the blackened park, damp leaves waving him by, through the ashen pallor of sleeping suburbia and along major thoroughfares, vast corporate offices gleaming shiny neon fangs in the dark, towering over silent streets. He'd be lulled asleep for a few precious hours and would return home at dawn.
The blinking cursors on the v-console prompted his entry. Verbal commands were an option but he just couldn't get used to talking to his car.
Preprogrammed Loop: 2x, 5x, 6x, custom, Undecided
Destination: Home, office, grocery annex, doctor, custom, Undecided
Music: Tchaikovsky, Billie Holiday, Nirvana, Arvo Pärt, Elton John, random...
The lanky night would stretch on for many more hours. He chose Undecided for the first two options and Pärt for the third. The car hummed along quietly, barely audible. His eyes were bad, heart unreliable, lungs wheezy, but his hearing was that of a 21 year-old. He spared no expense in that matter, taking advantage of stem-cell regenerative hearing; music was his sole remaining joy.
Fratres flowed through the speakers, the tires hovering warmly above the steamy streets. James hummed along, voice fading, his eyelids drifting down, when the sudden lack of movement made him straighten up. Just pausing for an autofuel; in a few minutes they were off again. Memories float through the tinted car windows, a life replayed in shadows and motion.
Light, diamond yellow, sharp points drilling into his head, as if he'd stumbled from a dark room onto a blinding white beach. Daylight already? The winshades must not have activated. Shades on! James commanded firmly. His thundering voice echoed in his head, yet drifted out of his mouth like a small wisp of steam. Silence replied.
He heard a distant whistling siren. Someone's gone and left the teapot going, he thought, annoyed.
Darling! Would you like a cup of tea?
..Helen..? Is that really you?
Tinted windows reflected dawn brilliance. Through every street and highway in the city, around surrounding towns, through farming enclaves, past robo-factories, from one metropolis to another and back again. Gradually further each loop but always an inevitable return to the persistent drumming heart of the city.
Metal and bone, computations and continuity. cum mortuis in lingua mortua
Destination: Undecided
