Confession, Submission 3 by Lee Martin

“I’ll be home soon, honey. I had an impromptu astromeeting,” said David.

“Ok. Would you like me to generate FishStics® for tonight’s eating interval?” asked David’s wife Helen.

“Nah, I was thinking cosmoburgers.”

“Sure! I’ll see you when you come home!”

David winked at the screen in his autotran, and the connection was closed. He kicked back and looked through the clear glass bubble above his head. His sunglasses shone with the reflection of a clear blue sky while a stock price ticker passed at the bottom of the right lens. “Life is good,” said David, and so did the sticker on the back of his autotran pod as it zoomed over the courseway on his trip back home.

He knew somewhere above him, or perhaps below him, Helen’s autotran was flying back home, too.

“Yuck, FishStics®. So gross.”

Their pods arrived at their home dock at almost the same time. Helen stepped out wearing a streamlined black and silver dress, large globular silver earrings, and tall chrome boots with glowing colored lights that brought her just under David’s height. David stood at the front door, silver jacket over his shoulder, two days worth of a beard, black-and-orange striped tie loosened over a silver shirt. Helen smiled at him as she walked toward the door.

“I wonder if the kids are home yet,” said Helen.

Their Home^TM was a recent model with tall windows framed in a durable concrete mixture. From the 132^nd floor they had a wonderful view of the opposing 132^nd floor of the adjacent units.

David turned to smile at his wife as he held his wrist to the doorplate, and after a soft click and a little tune played from a small speaker, the door swung open. The sunlight poured over their modern furniture and plants. Little screens on the walls told important bits of information; temperature, pressure, percent of breakfast cereal consumed per person per day…all the metrics to lead a modern life.

“It feels a little cool in here…” said Helen. “ALICE! What temperature is set as the default for Friday afternoon?” she asked. “Hello, Helen. Our unit is configured to offer an average Friday afternoon temperature of 68°. Would you like a cappuccino?” replied a squeaky voice from a recessed speaker in the ceiling. Helen set her astrobag down on the mech-couch. “Well it feels much colder than that! And the digiLamp is missing! And where is my compuCoffeepot?” Small shiny pieces of metal, screws, and wires were sprinkled on the floor.

“Honey! In here!” exclaimed David.

Helen ran into the kitchen, only to find a large hole in the wall. They gazed out at the autotran pods flying by on the countless courseways.

“Billy? Jane?” called David. “I think our house has been iBurglarized!”

“Are you serious?” cried Helen.

“Helen, I am e-serious.”

“Honey, look…” whispered Helen.

On the table sat a note, hastily written in crayon.

“Dear mom and dad,

I turned Jane into a cyborg. I’m sorry!

-Billy.