2084 Chapter 1 Higher And Deeper

Monica Talbot stirred in her damask sheets. Her head twitched and she gave a sigh of resignation. It was a fine April morning and daylight could no longer be ignored . She snapped open her eyes. As if on cue, a thickly-foliaged yew silently spread across the room and above the bed and a dawn chorus of bird chirping issued from its branches. Stepping among the tangles that bristled in the forest around her, the image of a young doe approached Monica's body. Its speckled back glowed in the dappled light and it lowered its head and began licking her, slobbering her face with pixels.



"No," she said to the pair of soft eyes and the eager tongue.



The walls behind the clump of trees seemed to shrug. Immediately the doe and the forest glade dissolved into a misty green underwater world. A shoal of bottle-blue fish shimmered through the curling tendrils of a sea anemone and tall grasses swayed from the ocean floor. Casually, almost lazily, a fatly-smiling shark swam towards Monica's face.



"No, no and no!" she said forcefully. A moment later, dragging the words out: "I'm getting up."



A fresh, primrose-yellow light, the default color of her apartment, diffused the underwater scene and the walls seemed to blink in acquiescence. No more inducements to wakefulness were offered.



She was indeed getting up. She pushed away the sheets and lifted her back slowly. Swinging her  legs over the side of the bed, she made a promise not to allow this apartment to dictate her moods. She would reprogram these forests and oceans to a less irritating white noise awakener.



In the kitchen she raked her black curly hair, stumbled around in a toweling robe and flip-flops, and issued commands for coffee to be made, lightly-creamed, and cereal to be poured, drenched in milk and sprinkled with blueberries. Ignoring the grumbling from her newly-awakened Robo, she began thinking about her appointments. She couldn't remember if the party of Chinese physics PhDs she was escorting round the lab were coming at ten or eleven, so she asked out loud. The number eleven flashed on the kitchen calendar screen and she felt relieved. Plenty of time to eat, shower and order the rental car. 



She was so pleased she'd decided to get rid of her bossy little monster and go rental. At one stroke it solved the perennial parking problem and gave her the daily treat of a deferential, almost courtly-voiced vehicle that didn't make annoying suggestions about how to keep yourself in shape. The rental cars didn't give a shit if you were fluey or hung over. Speedy collections and drop offs were their game, not owner cosseting.



She asked for something uplifting and vaguely grandiose to be played while she toileted and dressed, and was given some Pachibel-like synth tunes. She wondered if the Chinese physicists would be as arrogant and offhand as the Korean physics wonks she'd had to put up with the last time she'd been on the escort rota. All those who weren't into consciousness science - all the traditionalists - had a bug up their ass when it came to accepting intelligent energy.



God knows why, the ideas have been around for decades.





She stood on her balcony dressed in a lemon shirt and scarf, light yellow pants and a gold-dust jacket, waiting for the rental to dock in. She tuned in to her ajna, and the thin band of smart-fab around her head gently pulsed at the amber third eye jewel, giving her a menu of news, hard or soft, myriads of music styles, science, arts, spiritual or finance. Most forms of popular culture she'd stopped tuning in to years ago. Having spent her childhood and adolescence studying like crazy - a doctorate in neuro-photonics at age twenty-five didn't come easy - she would rather be engrossed in a discussion of something relevant to her life than gobbling up other people's dramas, games and gossip on the pop channels. She said: "Audio only," and settled in to an audio of Judd Patel's new book No More Rubber, No More Road - The Rise Of EM Transport.



The rental, a sleek, silver-sided capsule with room for seven - much bigger than she needed - floated alongside her balcony gate and slid back its door. A slender ramp ushered her aboard and she strapped herself in. She had told the rental company her destination at the University of London, so there was no need to speak. She sat back and allowed the car to whisk her into the Stream that flowed like a high, bankless river between the buildings and above the slow crawl of wheeled vehicles. Not thinking of the Chinese postdocs or listening to Judd Patel's silvery voice, she let her mind ponder once again the worrisome Mr Yuke Corrigan.