Pod ships, they could call them. Bed boats? Ha, don’t ask me those sorts of questions! You know I didn’t take my degree in marketing, better than anyone else, in fact.
But, imagine; a command on your phone, straight into the wires in the floor, carrying it down the rails and through the tunnels. It wouldn’t matter if they’re light tunnels or dark tunnels; just tunnels, laced and weaved around each other. There’d be nothing that we could do without the tunnels following what we’re doing, tracking our movements—not maliciously, not even in attempt to scare us, but just because they can. Just because they must. That’s how they were set up, so that’s what they must do. Granted, maybe when robots wake up… experience a little bit of consciousness… then maybe that’ll be different. Who knows what they’d do with those little bites of information then?
It’s hard to say, and I’m definitely not one to be able to theorise about it.
Ahaha… I’m getting ahead of myself. Before that era, we need an era of silent consciousness, don’t we? Where electric is not quite awake, nor is it asleep, but dormant.
The entire world would hum to itself; small fans whirring quietly to give their heavy engines just a small break. The world would have a pulse. Nothing like the ones we have now, but its own, unique form. You wouldn’t be able to hear it, or even feel it, but you’d know it’s there. All living things have one, and the world, artificially alive, would grow into itself.
Maybe we’d even turn a little cybertronic ourselves. Our failing hearts would be replaced with shiny new ones—made of metal and just as hard. Our shrinking lungs coated in jar would be restored, placeholders used to hold the space while the work’s being done. There’s something for everything, and if there isn’t, it can be made. We’re talking about a time far off in the future, aren’t we? Things that we couldn’t dream of now could be possible. Disease doesn’t need to be stopped, or even removed, just slowly replaced. Release a handful of new cells into the mix and they’ll absorb the problem. No need for medicine, or treatment, or anything. Just a small plastic bag with your name on it, and all you’d need to do is nod your head.
And at night, all those beautiful lights: the shaking red stop lights to the quiet workers, the last few around, and the glowing amber from their monitors. Only a few are ever chosen to work that sort of job. Only a few ever really want to. It’s not the type of job anyone would actively want, though. Long working days and short eating breaks, no workers unions or enough workers to form them. Just a small group of tired employees, sitting at their separate desks, together, watching their screens go from grey, to white, and back to a darker grey.
Boring, no? But then one is only left to ponder if everyone else – the ones who aren’t working – are feeling the same thing. Are they excited about their time? The murmuring wires and whispering cogs—are those all things they like? Though, if you’re born with one sound, would you ever really notice it was there?
Think of it like a paradigm. We grew up knowing gravity was real, the Earth rotates around the sun, all these major beliefs. Now, what if we imagined that with a different concept, the concept of silence. If you grew up where there was no silence as we know it, and, instead, this silence was a little… mumbling from the machines, would you notice it? Would that become your new silence?
Presumably, yes. And because of that, they can never… leave, let’s say. Not that they’d want to, and not that they’d be aware enough to. In their little pods - where the whole world is there in an instant flash, a wave of their wrist and suddenly they’re boarding a plane heading straight to Timbuktu – can you really blame them? Would you think the same? Though, I guess that’s a little silly to ask. We can’t really think in these great hypotheticals, I’m sure you know. You wouldn’t jump up and defend your beliefs to your greatest enemy, you wouldn’t drop your life to save another, and you wouldn’t be the ideological wolf surrounded by sheep.
Aha, don’t look do distraught. Drink your tea! I ordered you my favourite. It’s nothing to be so ashamed of, since we all do it. I do it too, don’t I? Look at the clothes I’m wearing. They’re exquisitely normal, wouldn’t you agree? There’s nothing colourful or bright going on. I’m not wearing any iron-on patches to let the world know what I think, and I’m not parading around a graphic-tee either, and neither are you.
You and I… Perhaps we’d fit comfortably in that sort of world. We’d slide right into our numbered places, with our pod beds and our electric organs.