Phil Williams - 2050 - Psycho Island

“We’re here to see Patrick Fitzgerald,” Connor said.

The young man looked up. “So?”

“Do we need to sign in?” Summer asked. “We signed in last time.”

“You gonna steal somethin’, break somethin’, or hurt somebody?”

“No.”

“Whatcha want then? A red carpet?” He went back to his phone.

Summer and Connor approached the elevator bank. A sign was attached to both elevators that read OUT OF ORDER. They entered the stairwell, immediately confronted with a strong urine smell.

“I don’t know how your dad can live here,” Connor said, as they climbed the stairs.

“He says it’s cheap,” Summer replied.

“You mean, he can afford to live somewhere else?”

“I don’t know. He’s never asked me for money. I know he does some freelance computer programming, but I don’t know how steady that is.”

They exited the stairwell on the seventh floor. Summer knocked on apartment number 708.

Patrick answered with a big grin. “Come in,” he said, motioning with his hand. He hugged Summer as she entered the apartment. “How are you?” Patrick asked, as they disengaged.

“I’m good.” Summer said the words, but her inflexion told a different story.

Patrick narrowed his gray eyes. “You sure about that?”

“Of course,” Summer replied with faux pep.

Patrick shook Connor’s hand. “What’s new, Connor?”

“Not much,” Connor replied.

The smell of garlic and onion wafted into their nostrils. The one-bedroom apartment would’ve felt cramped, but Patrick was a devout minimalist. Only the bare necessities. He had a couch but no television, which wasn’t out of the ordinary as many people streamed their entertainment in VR or on their personal devices. Apart from the couch, Patrick had a single bed and a dresser in his bedroom and a small table in the kitchen. The walls were eggshell white and empty. He could pack his place and leave in under an hour.

Patrick led them toward the kitchen and gestured to the square table for four. “Have a seat. We’re almost ready.”

Summer and Connor sat at the table.

Patrick checked the pot on the stove top, stirring the contents. “This is one of your mother’s recipes. Beef and Irish Stout stew. Well, she didn’t exactly make it up, but she used to cook it all the time.”

“You didn’t have to,” Summer replied. “Beef is so expensive.”

“Don’t you worry about that.” Patrick flashed a grin toward Summer.

Patrick was in his mid-fifties, average height, thin, and in good shape—once a college track athlete, like Summer. His brown hair was mixed with gray, his face clean-shaven and narrow.

Patrick served the stew with a piece of garlic bread. They sat around the table, enjoying their stew.

Halfway through the meal, Patrick glanced at Summer’s engagement ring, then looked at the couple. “So, you two have a wedding date yet?”

Summer frowned at her father. “We haven’t been engaged that long.”

“I’m not gonna be around forever. I’d like to walk you down the aisle, and I’d like to see some grandchildren before I’m sent to Valhalla.”

Connor looked away at the mention of grandchildren.

Patrick stared at Connor but addressed them both. “You two do want kids, right?”

Connor swallowed his food. “Uh, yes. It’s just we’re still young and not financially secure, especially if we want a designer baby.” He glanced at Summer. “Sorry, enhanced baby.”

“You don’t need a designer baby. You’re both smart, good people. You already have good genes.”

“We still have plenty of time.”

Patrick nodded, then looked to Summer. “Don’t wait too long. You’re no spring chicken anymore.”

Summer glared at her father. “Dad. I’m thirty.”

“Exactly.”

Summer raised her hand. “I vote for a subject change.”

“So, Patrick, what do you think of Naomi Sutton?” Connor asked, also desperate to change the subject. “I heard she might run for President in 2052.”

“She’s dangerous.” Patrick took a bite of his stew.

“Really? You mean, to the establishment?”

Patrick swallowed and wiped his mouth with a cloth napkin. “Her ideology is dangerous because it’s exactly what people wanna hear. But she won’t fix things because, no matter how well-intentioned, more government control never leads to more prosperity.”

“Maybe we need someone like her to shake things up?”

“Maybe we have to see the horror of totalitarianism firsthand to get it through our thick heads.”

“She doesn’t want totalitarianism. She just wants the wealthy to pay their fair share. I’ve seen her talk about the banking system and the Federal Reserve. I think she would actually end the Fed. Imagine how much more money we’d have if we weren’t perpetually in debt to the Fed and the member banks.”

“Let’s assume she does run for president, and she wins, and she does abolish the Fed. Then what? You think she lets us use whatever form of money we want? Or does the treasury control the monopoly on money, money that they can debase and create from thin air as they see fit?” Patrick leaned back in his chair. “We end up in the same place. We just took a different path to monetary slavery.”

On the way home, Summer was quiet, looking out the window as her autonomous Hyundai drove toward Arlington.

“We’re hosting another Resistance meeting next Tuesday night,” Connor said.

Summer turned from the window to Connor, who sat next to her on the rear bench seat.

“Don’t worry. You don’t have to do anything.”

“That’s fine,” Summer replied, her voice barely audible, her eyes hooded.

“You okay?”

“Just tired. I have a long day tomorrow. As much as I love my dad, I really didn’t have the energy to visit tonight.”

“Do you think he might be sick?”

“Sick? Why would you say that?”

“Well, he was really keen on seeing us married with children sooner rather than later. It felt like he knew he wouldn’t be around too much longer.”

Summer shook her head. “No, he’s just like that. He’s always been a little fatalistic. I guess we’re both a little fatalistic.”

Connor reached out and placed his hand on top of hers. “Because of your mom?”

Summer shrugged. “She was healthy, and then she wasn’t. The crazy thing is, she didn’t even smoke. I’m sure watching that at a young age affected my psyche. Like my dad, I definitely understand that we only have so much time on this planet. We need to be the best version of ourselves. I’m not saying I always do that.”

Connor squeezed her hand. “Maybe that’s why you’re the best nurse, and one day you’ll be the best mom.”

Summer squeezed back and forced a smile. “What if we had a baby? No crazy-expensive enhanced baby. Just a natural, hope-for-the-best baby. You’d be such a good dad.”

“You’ve seen the trends. It’s okay for us, but we’re not competing with that many of them yet. But babies born now are a different story. In the future, all the good jobs will go to enhanced babies. A natural baby would always be at a disadvantage, no matter what. What kind of life is that?”

Summer lifted one shoulder and turned back to the window.

“I’m officially announcing my candidacy for President of the United States,” Corrinne Powers said.

The Today show’s hosts and the audience gave the Democratic senator a standing ovation.

Corrinne smiled and mouthed Thank you . She certainly looked the part of the next POTUS. She was in her mid-fifties but looked thirty-five. She’d won the genetic lottery with her symmetrical face and fit body. She’d also managed to slow the aging process with the best cosmetic supplements and surgeries money could buy. She’d managed the impossible—an experienced, smart, and beautiful female politician. Despite widespread wokeness , beautiful women were still afforded special status and influence in society.