Once the motorcade passed there was a desperate attempt to storm the embassy, but the thick, pungent bio-foam successfully stopped the mob.
The constant roar of air through the glass and steel corridors of the city was exhausting. It’s not wind, he thought, it’s artificial.
Air defenses were activated for the city. Every third citizen would stare unblinkingly at the sky and disbelieve.
In the background an old telephone rang, he heard an answering machine pick up. It was the Colonel, and he was sobbing.
“We need to grow this business over time. Consider your buckets. Evaluate your implants. Assess your ontologies. Scratch. Sniff. Scream.”
After-hours the club became a resistance node, dispensing psychometric blockers for anyone approaching the central core.
Square food cubes, vaguely gelatinous, were traded briskly for a watered down form of Red Empathy called Red Drool.
The Red Zone was devoted to the craft of experiences. Green Zone was dedicated to the act of resistance. The Blue Zone was focused on spiritual navigation.
The new city was built inside the crater. They protected it by placing spiritual challenges at the periphery. The final obstacle was an impossible act of self-reflection demanded by nattering hairdressers.
The cathedral opened for business the following sunday. People lined up holding their chickens, wearing hair shirts, and chanting “Let’s Go Crazy” by Prince.
Several packages were delivered to HQ, each a fragrant act of protest.
Tunnels under The Capital had been stocked with dreams and nightmares since the condition of the general populace showed no signs of improvement.
There was no time left in the afternoon, it had been gloriously wasted on nostalgic revenge and consumption of Red Empathy.
The robot bartender pronounced her name incorrectly, it poured the beer over the side of the table, it charged her for a Super Deluxe. The bar was immensely popular.
“Twenty years from now you won’t recognize it, the reservoir will be bubbling, overflowing with new fluids,” he said.