Rain falls hard around me as I smoke the last of my cigarette; each drop slaps my jacket like a bullet from the heavens. My lungs fill with smoke while my eyes fill with people: men, women, and mixtures of the two, all running for cover in the new iClubs that line the high street. Everyone is cowering under the overhanging canopies, their faces aglow with the light from their mobile screens. The clicks from their mobile keys blend with the rain as they tap, tap, tap away without muttering a single word to their partners.

I like the feeling of the rain on my skin. The coolness of Mother Nature’s touch soothes me in a way that most people nowadays wouldn’t under¬stand. Music thumps around me and a stray bass line ripples the puddles beneath my feet. A motorcycle pulls up outside the Golden Apple night¬club and the rider hands over two paper bags filled with fast food, which the clubbers ordered as they waited. I take the final drag of my cigarette and toss the butt on the floor, squashing it beneath my boot. I check my watch. 11:45. My appointment doesn’t start for another fifteen min¬utes, plenty of time to enjoy a beverage or two. The Hacienda stands before me, its name towers high, flashing myriad reds and greens on the puddled floor. I see through the glass to the people inside, bodies grind¬ing bodies and drinks soothing drinkers. I look under my shirt, checking I’m still dry. I am. Zipping up my jacket, I walk inside.[private]

Passing through the first of the two double doors a hand touches my shoulder. Panicking, I turn, only to relax again as a fat, balding man, creases his brow. ‘I.D sir,’ he asks in a hoarse and masculine voice. I look for the ring on the wall and place my hand on its surface. A flash of red. A sexy, feminine voice leaves the speaker above and strokes my ear. ‘I.D Verified. Welcome to the Hacienda Dr Roberts.’ The bouncer nods and releases his grip. I push open the door to the sudden thump of drum and bass. I sigh with relief.

Strobe lights flash and people of all ages jerk around the club: all holding drinks, all of them in a crowd, none of them talking. Everyone clutches their mobiles in their hands, staring at something on their screens they probably neither want nor need. The glowing plasma of the screens gives their faces a heavenly aura. If only. The sweet smell of stale ale climbs my nostrils and my feet stick to the ground beneath me as spilt drinks of nights past try desperately to keep me inside. A couple of women on a nearby table lift up their phones and take a picture of me, then stare at their screens and frown. They have the faces of teenagers but the bodies of my old mother. The wonders of walk-in plastic surgeries. Rolling my eyes and frustrated I head straight for the bar.

Taking a seat on a spare stool I scan the rom once more before turning to look at the army of liquor bottles that hang on the wall before me. Tubes reach into every bottle and then disappear behind the bar. All filled with their desired toxins, the tubes look like a narcotic rainbow, promis¬ing a pot of gold, but providing only nausea and dead brain cells. I place my hand in the ring to my right and it flashes red as it scans my chip. The sexy voice from the door greets me again. Twice in five minutes? Must be my lucky night. ‘Good evening Dr Roberts. What can I get for you today?’ The surface of the bar comes alive with images of drinks and lunch-time nibbles. I touch the cool, alcohol smeared surface, and shuffle through the menu at the side. Cocktails. ‘Excellent choice, Dr Roberts. May I recommend the Apple Explosion?’ A bikini-clad woman appears on the screen holding a drink that glows green like liquid uranium. Tall, blond, and with a figure to die for, she looks every bit as sexy as she sounds.

My heart beat quickens. ‘According to your profile, your preferred bever¬age is Vodka. Did you know Apple Explosion contains three shots of Vodka? Go on Dr Roberts, what do you say?’ She is quite pushy for a virtual barmaid. I nod. It is a special night after all.

‘To hell with it, I’ll have two.’

‘Excellent choice,’ says the barmaid, a large smile pixelates across her perfect face. ‘Please keep your hand in the circle until the transfer is complete. Your drink will be ready shortly. Have a good evening, Dr Roberts.’ I wait as the edge of the ring changes from red to green. It flashes. ‘Transfer complete.’

I watch as the bottle of Vodka on the wall hisses and drains. Next the Apple Sour does the same. The murmur of machinery at work is barely audible over the pounding music. A minute passes and then my drinks flout up from behind the bar on a silver tray. I take them and sip loudly.

On the dance floor I see a woman watching me. Her hair is wavy and brown and her body snuggles tightly to a red dress, revealing every dip and curve of her luscious figure. She smiles at me and I raise my spare drink. She heads over. Her hand disappears inside her bag and she produces a slick silver mobile. Taking the seat next to mine she lifts up the phone and takes a picture of my face.

I hold out my hand and shout over the music. ‘Hi.’

I look into her eyes and see the reflection of my profile imprinted on her retinas. She scans her screen and then looks at me bemused. She is frowning. I know instantly what she is seeing: Occupation—Unemployed. It’s what they always look at first. Not that it matters anymore, I guess. Without saying a word she picks up my extra drink, shakes her head, and then wanders off back into the sway of human bodies. Typical.

I long for the good old days of dating and courting; getting to know someone, the thrill of not knowing and the anticipation of finding out. Not anymore though, times have changed. Picture Recognition put a stop to that. This isn’t fun anymore—nothing is. When did life get so…elec¬tronic? I look around and see people standing merely a foot apart and yet they choose to text each other rather than talk. I wonder if children nowadays even know how to talk. Probably not.

I take my phone out of my pocket and insert my headphones. The blissful sound of nothing. My ears thank me. 1 New Message. I open it. It reads: Hey, at da Titanic Bar nw, only acrss da street frm u. More livly in ere. Hope ur ok. C u soon. T.H. I don’t bother replying. What’s the point? I flick over to the news page; maybe there is something interest¬ing happening elsewhere.

There isn’t.

My headphones crackle and a newsreader flashes onto my screen. Beside him a selection of recent top-stories unfold like a blind of misery. I select Read All. More of the usual crap: Mass overpopulation, not enough money or housing to compensate, poverty increasing; Science gives world’s oldest man another ten years. He is 147; Entrepreneur and Apple CEO clones himself again as his cancer develops. Scientists working towards miracle cure to break the cycle; Man, 56, has affair with android maid. Android contained new emotion chip and courts say she should have known better. She is destroyed. Stupid arse. What’s the world coming to if a man would rather fuck a robot than his own wife? He is the one who should have been destroyed—silly old fool.

The final story grabs my attention: Ex bio-scientist kills 2 in suicide attack at Thermilab. Third attack in two weeks. At least someone is using their initiative. These scientists need to be stopped before they bring the whole human race to its knees. I scroll to the bottom of the article to read the comments. Not many. Just taking out two people was probably a waste of time, poor sod, all that for ten measly comments. Hardly worth the effort. If you are going to do something like that, you have to think big. It’s the only way they get the message. Activists just aren’t the same as they used to be.

I turn off my phone in frustration, place it back in my pocket, and order another drink. A straight whisky. I need it. This world has lost it. Too much technology and not enough common sense, that’s what I think. A young couple walk over and take a seat. They look at me nervously and then turn their backs, muttering something into each other’s ears. Makes a change, I half expected them to text each other. The young lad places his hand in the ring and it flashes. My sexy friend greets him. ‘Good evening Mr Kato, what can I get for you this evening?’ He answers before the bar has the chance to catch up.

‘Two strawberry daiquiris please, with an extra shot of rum in each.’

‘Excellent choice. Please keep your hand in the circle until the transfer is com¬plete. Your drink will be ready shortly. Have a good evening, Mr Kato.’

As the man pays, the bar starts to glow bright blue and the Pepsi logo floats across the surface like a dead cat floating over a lake. What the hell is going on? A man’s voice emanates from somewhere within. ‘This transaction was sponsored by Pepsi.’ I turn to the young man and tap his shoulder. He ignores me. I tap again, harder than before. He turns and frowns at me as though I’d just spat on his wife.

‘Can I help you?’ he says in an arrogant tone that makes me want to punch him in the mouth.

‘Yes, you can,’ I reply, trying to be just as arrogant. ‘What the hell was that on the bar?’

He turns to his wife and they smile as if sharing a private joke. ‘It’s my new bank account. If you agree to be sponsored by a company then that company will supply you with benefits. Pepsi said they would double my interest rates, so I took it. Cool huh?’

I can’t believe it. People—actual real life, breathing, walking, talking, human people—are being paid to be living adverts. This is one step too far. ‘Don’t you feel exploited?’

He chuckles, as does his wife. ‘No, don’t be daft. It’s only a logo after all. I’ll do anything to save money, especially with a child on the way.’ His wife kisses him on the cheek and he turns and kisses her back. I lean over and look at his wife’s stomach. It’s as flat as a playing card. Her hus¬band follows my gaze and then laughs again. ‘Oh no, she isn’t pregnant yet. We’re having a bio-baby. It’s being designed for us now.’ They smile at each other again. It makes me sick. Have they no conscience? ‘She will be fully grown in just a month’s time. We can’t wait.’

I feel ill. I hope they stick around for my appointment, maybe then they will see. I pull the phone out of my pocket and check the time. 11.57. So close. I must be patient. Maybe I can stall them. ‘Don’t you feel you are interrupting nature?’

‘Look around man,’ he boasts. ‘We control nature. This is our world now. If we want something, we can make it happen; nature moves for us, not us for nature.’

‘It’s still wrong.’

‘You tell that to the parents whose child can’t get into a top school because they don’t have the same academic skills as the others. Tell that to the parents who have a handicapped child and waste their life looking after it. Why should we risk it and hope that our child will be smart enough or fit enough, when we can make it so, providing him with a better way of life before he is even born.’

‘Because it’s wrong, that’s why. If you know how your child will turn out, what’s the point of being parents at all? You are just screwing Mother Nature and then pissing in her sink before you leave. You’re just—’

The windows to the club glow white and yellow before exploding inwards. Shards of glass and brick rain inside, knocking over dancers and tables. A piece of glass hits me in the face and slices my cheek. Fresh pain pulses through my head; my ears ring and my eyes burn. I look up and through the blur of reality see that the Titanic Bar across the road is glowing with fresh flames. Burning bodies run outside and roll in the rain, a BBQ smell fills the air. People everywhere are screaming, abandoning their mobiles and talking, face-to-face, for the first time since I entered.

‘Holy shit, someone blew up the club!’

The man beside me is shielding his wife with his arms, patting her head as she sobs into his sleeve. He is whispering words of comfort into her ears. A pointless task if ever I saw one. I reach inside my pocket and pull out my phone. 12:00. It’s time.

‘Dude, call an ambulance, please.’

I look across at the guy and then down at my phone. How ironic. I open up my private app, type in the password, and then hand him the phone. ‘Just press call,’ I say, looking at the carnage before me. He presses down with a bloodied finger.

My chest rings.

‘What’s that?’ he asks.

‘It’s my appointment.’

I undo the buttons to my jacket the man and his wife recoil and drop to the floor, scurrying away through the rubble like animals. They don’t get far. Red lights flash and the bomb around my waist surges into life. This is it, my final message to a fallen world. A world where humans are no longer humans and nature is no longer the boundary for life. I will show them. I will show them all that we are not gods and what I did in the labs was wrong. This is not our world to command, and never will be. I will take them to a place where they can be human again. Where we all can.

I am Dr Aaron Roberts, ex-bio scientist, founder of the Bio-Baby Builders and father of none. I am a free thinking human being, the last of my kind. Holding out my arms I take my final breath, and as the beeping on my chest stops, I vanish in a flash of white.[/private]

About Guy Lucas

Guy Lucas is a 25 year old primary school teacher who has been writing seriously for five years. He has had short stories published in the UK and US and is currently spending his spare time writing a fantasy epic for children.

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