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Litter being hugely frowned upon, a recycle bot could be found around every city block. Their smooth shells withheld utensils that picked trash and dispensed it into many properly labeled receptacles: aluminum, glass, plastic, paper, carbon fiber, nuclear waste, and the color-coding goes on. 'Unknown' trash went into the sad face bin. The bots always got it right, however. Polished surfaces explained why Jessica nearly tripped; their paint jobs matched the pavement.
Overhead traffic curtailed as the bicycle lanes opened. Jessica mused over the speed of her board without its inhibitors, which would make it illegal. She skated near a pair of cyclists until one of them, a stalky blonde, noticed her riding alone. His smile was whiter than the pavement when his front wheel hit a hydrant. And the poor cyclist lost his grip, front-flipping on his back. Fortunately for him, his collar-bound airbag deployed. Suppressing the urge to laugh out loud, Jessica leaned over his body.
"Are you alright?" she said.
"I'm good!" he moaned, trying to play it off.
"Well, I would go to the dentist if I were you."
"Why the dentist?"
"Because you just ate shit!"
Useful technology, the airbags. Sophisticated. They inflated around the body to cushion the biker's impact, and fit into a waterproof collar. Jessica had a rare moment to appreciate their effectiveness, and remember why she wore one.
At the end of the housing clusters, Jessica reached a corner complex: eight stories of blue windows surrounded by lush oaks. Just down that sidewalk, she glanced a park where hipsters played old-fashioned basketball.
Inside the complex, she uttered "But doc," retracted and hopped off the gravity board, then gleefully skipped past the scanner. "Good morning, Misty. Welcome back."
Up the elevator, after the fifth floor, she scurried across pink carpet and white plaster until she reached the sliding door with number 59 illuminated. Her e-card triggered the sliding door, on the other side of which she rediscovered a pair of armoires that framed the center window. Only a mild glint of tinted sunlight bounced off the violet walls. Otherwise, her suite was as plain as the bed and armoire attached, with its black sheets and lacquered drawers beside.
Above the bedrest, a clothing rack held five of the same red, white, and green jumpsuits. Shelves below and to the side contained stacks of black tablets, but only the Stevie Nicks poster stood out.
Jessica cornered the clothing rack, replaced her casual getup with the red, white, and green jumpsuit, and it automatically shrunk to size. Nearly skin tight. To top it all off, she donned a green whose black font spelled Tacquizza. Board in hand, she departed.
***
"Thank you for ordering from Tacquizza, where your satisfaction is ours." Jessica maintained her widest smile—not very wide—while reciting the motto.
The customer, chest hair flushing out of a white tank top, ignored everything but the carriers in her hand. He appeared in his forties, balding, and had hairy arms. "You got here fast, at least," he said raspily.
Jessica presented the receipt on her tiny tablet. "Eight tacos: four carne asada, four el pastor, all with salsa and lettuce and a side of lemon."
"I didn't ask for lettuce."
"I know, but we're obligated," she replied matter-of-factly. "Insurance reasons."
"No tip for you, then!" He touched his thumb on the tablet, seized the carrier, and the door slid shut behind him.
"You're not supposed to tip me!"
36, 37, 38, 39...
"Thank you for ordering from Tacquizza, where your satisfaction is our satisfaction."
A youthful brunette, holding a crying baby, gawked from the doorway. "Right! Right!" she sighed. "Be right back!" When the woman returned, Jessica began reading the receipt out loud. "Is the chicken farm-raised?" the woman interrupted. "I just wanted to know because I read an article about how they cause no disease."
Jessica darted at the woman in disbelief, but she took a quiet breath and replied, "They are whatever you want them to be, ma'am." The woman nodded absently and accepted the box before sliding her card.
60. 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7...
"Thank you for ordering from Tacquizza, where your satisfaction is our—"
"I placed the order over thirty minutes ago!" snarled the young student, whose stomach nearly blocked the entrance to his dorm room.
If he were any bigger, he would be illegal. That was a real thing – The Azareans outlawed obesity a long time ago, because obesity reflects maltreatment of the self, and aliens were all about that self-loving. Few exceptions remained, however. Any uncontrollable medical problems, for instance, provided they were properly diagnosed.
Darting her eyes side to side and cupping her chin, Jessica double-checked her tablet and found the time the order was placed. "Martin Haussman?" she asked.
"Yes!"
The screen read 13:14. Four more seconds to 13:35. She watched the minute strike from 13:34 to 13:35 on her watch. Who taught you how to count? she wanted to say. Rather, she politely reminded him that no payment meant no food.
Begrudgingly, the student inserted his card, mumbling something in German, to which Jessica replied "Das ist unhöflich, Ruck." She delivered the carrier and left.
Later that afternoon, outside another terrace home. "Food's here," Jessica said, and the door slid open. On the other side stood a boy of about twelve years. He had short hair, brown skin, and looked stalky in a white shirt whose tapered letters spelled Iron Coffin.
"Apa!" the boy exclaimed, looking away. A man in his thirties, wearing a yellow jumpsuit, stepped in front of the entrance.
"Hello!" he said with a silky accent. "What do I owe you?"
"Treinta créditos," she replied.
"Hablas español?"
"Si hablo español."
"De qué tipo?"
"Puertorriqueño, y conozco un poco de España."
"Órale, jefa!"
"Ich spreche auch Deutsch. Beide sind nützlich."
"Calmate, jefa. Ya no sé lo que estás diciendo."
After an exchange of exclamations, the man paid with a final comment on the deliciousness of the pizza. "Que te valla bien!"
"A ti tambien!"
It was the difference between a bad day and a good day.
By her estimation, the current time was 15:47. Glancing her watch, she saw the time was 15:47. "Thank goodness for five-hour workdays."
At the base of the terrace stairs, she fastened her goggles before peeking at the low sun. "McFly." She rode to the next sidewalk corner, due east.
Pythagoras came to mind as Jessica hovered down the sidewalk, around a park of pines. New Sumer's sprawl was a series of circular neighborhoods, the tallest buildings in the center. The Azareans praised the Parisians for being among the first to exemplify such urban planning—even though many would argue the French did not plan deliberately. Also, Azarean plans allowed more living space. Modern communities accommodated larger populations per square mile than pre-alien society.
They could accommodate more humans if they so choose but understand that we're not sardines.
ns 15.158.61.51da2
