Day 133: 2029. The mechanicals switch from night to day at a preset time, the automatic blinds roll up. The May sun struggles in, distilled tepid. The triple-glazed French windows dim any distress to the condo’s energy-efficient insulation. It’s a freeform smart home with technology woven throughout, allowing Sid to connect, control and interface with his dwellings. “Wake Up, Siddy,” Lucy purrs. He pulls his chromed arm out of his petite partner’s embrace and disengages her ‘love mode’. Lucy—Luca, if you may—puckers up for the recharging dock. Sid slides out, reluctantly. The DIY Ikea bed is so snug, it self-adjusts to minimise pressure points and optimise comfort. He puts on the VR glasses and thought-activates Siri. A jealous Alexa, silent until then, auto-plays his nostalgic Richard Clayderman.
Sid is nursing a headache; the complimentary side-shoot of an overdose of vapourised alcohol and a turbo-charged Lucy. The chip implanted in his cortex has cured his Tourette’s, musical hallucinations and anxiety disorders, but his hangovers still measure up to the rum-cola kicks from his IIT-Bombay hostel. The built-in scatologist in his sensor-outfitted toilet, which scans for perilous pathogens and treacherous toxins, showed inconsistencies inimical to his health. But the shower panel scanner cleared his heart, brain and other vitals of any abnormal signs. Somebody has hacked his potty, pee and poo!