He yawned and stretched out a genehanced arm, feeling for his companion. Then he remembered: Kimby Brobarn would be at work by now, relaying psychic messages from the Dade PsycheDome to MutantCom operatives all over the Reunited States. Her head was basically massive – like an overripe pear balanced on a cocktail stick – but Brone found her enchanting, and often escaped his long and mysterious past by gazing into her third eye and listening to tall tales of her wild adolescence on nearby Mars.
"Okay, Google," he began, "How long will it take me to get to work?"
A disembodied voice replied: "In current sky traffic conditions, your commute will take 25 minutes."
"We truly are living in the future," Brone chuckled to himself, shaking his head at the sheer ingenuity of the human race. He brewed a mug of instacaffeine in about two seconds flat before approaching his closet, the smartdoor sensing his proximity and shimmering into transparency. A sports jersey would suffice for casual Friday, so he reached for his Saray "Laser" Q'auktorian shirt. The smartdoor played back highlights of the superstar semi-forward's Hyper League-winning performances for the Tokyo Quantum Torrents. The video was pure mint quality, at least 1080p.
Before he could get the garment over his head, the apartment's digital ceiling suddenly shattered into a trillion bytes. Brone knew at once that a bit-grenade had been detonated; knowledge probably gleaned from his aforementioned long and mysterious past. He found himself prone on the floor, pinned down by a powerful assailant in a holosuit.
Brone somehow broke free and knocked the intruder out cold. The details aren't important; the point is that he was now able to wrest the helmet from his attacker and reveal his identity.
"Sweet Mercury!" he cried, recognizing a face from political history. What the hell was Dick Cheney doing in New Miami in the 26th Century? And why was he trying to kill a lowly grav-crane operator with a long and mysterious past? Brone had a feeling his bad day was only just starting. Which it was. It was 8am.
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| Available soon as an e-book |
