Usually this blog is a casual essay, something reflecting a new interest or an interesting event during the week. Today’s post is something I consider relevant to current events in America and around the world, a short story first written during the G. W. Bush administration. It’s sobering to contemplate how much this dystopian tale reflects fears and attitudes twenty years later.

Introducing “The Seventh Day,” Part One of  Three.

The Seventh Day

by S. D. Matley

Sunday, April 14, 2041

 

Joe Miller awoke at his 821 Acorn Street home expecting his wife, his coffee, and his regular 8 AM newsgram. He got two out of three.

The foot-tall hologram of President Stanton J. Laurel projected from the middle of the breakfast nook table. “Greetings, my fellow Americans,”

“What the heck is this?” Joe looked over the top of Laurel’s head at Marge, his wife of forty-two years. “Where’s Marshall Webb’s Sunday commentary? I’ve been waiting all week to hear what he thinks about the market slide.”

“As your President,” continued the hologram, “I’ve taken the liberty of pre-empting regular programming to share with all of you some great news for all of us in the Theocratic Republic of the United States of America.”

Joe groaned. “Last time he said that he doubled our taxes.”

“He looks thin,” Marge said. She sipped her coffee with milk and one lump, eyebrows puckered toward each other as they always did when she analyzed something. “I think he’s lost weight since the war ended.”

“I am proud to announce our new economic program, code word New Genesis.”

“More marketing hype,” Joe said. He crossed to the coffee maker to refill his mug.

President Laurel cleared his throat, adjusted his red power tie and showed his startlingly white teeth. “You folks can’t imagine how much easier it is to work without the delays caused by the legislative branch of government. I’d like to thank each and every one of you, again, for voting to dissolve Congress in the last election. Consolidation of decision-making – – that’s what the Theocratic Republic is all about!”

“Not all of us voted that way, buster,” said Marge. “Only fifty-one percent!”

“Like that damn Phyllis next door,” Joe grumbled

.“Hush now, Joe, she’s been a good neighbor.”

“You, the citizens, have put the power to end war, shortages and poverty exclusively in executive branch hands. For the first time in the history of this nation, your government can do what you’ve mandated us to do, and quickly!”

Cheering and applause erupted from an unseen crowd.

“Worse than those old sitcoms with the laugh tracks.” Joe reached for the holocom off-switch but stopped, needing to know the worst.

“In developing New Genesis, the Cabinet and myself have given prayerful consideration to the results of the 2040 nationwide survey, where we asked each of you to list your top ten concerns about the health and vitality of this great nation.” Laurel flashed the down-home grin that had won him the past four elections. “Your number one topic, hands down, was getting closure on the Crusade thing, and I am pleased to say we’ve whipped the Infidel and brought our robofighters home!”

The president raised his arms above his head in the “v for victory” gesture he’d used in the last campaign. Disembodied cheers rose again. Joe looked at Marge, who was looking at him. Mirror-like, they shook their heads and sighed in unison.

“Could have ended the war years ago, before the market crash and the recession,” Joe said with a snort. “Who voted for this joker, anyway?”

“New Genesis will be implemented over the next six days. On the seventh day, we’ll rest.” Again the figure beamed his folksy grin, raising a chuckle from the unseen. “Starting this morning at 8 AM, we’ll announce each of the six phases, one per day, to be implemented the following day. Phase One.” The president turned slowly in a circle, nodding to viewers on all sides of every in-home newsgram holos across the nation. “Effective one second past midnight tonight, Eastern Standard Time, we will put an end to hunger in the Theocratic Republic of the United States of America.” Sounds of amazement emanated from unseen mouths. “Our brave patriots, the robofighters, have been reconfigured into nanobots designed for peacetime activity. At one second past midnight tonight, each household will be serviced by a team of nanobots, too small to be detected by the human eye, who will remove all existing food, food which is produced, as we all know, with great inefficiency and expense.”

“We just traded our aerocar for a side of beef!” Marge said, shaking her fist at the unseeing head of state. Joe gestured to her to be quiet, missed a couple phrases that ended with, “ . . .  to end hunger in this great nation with an efficient, economical soysynth fabricator in every kitchen.” Once more Laurel raised his arms in a “v” to exuberant cheers. His grinning image flickered, then disappeared.

Marge gulped down her coffee, slammed the empty mug on the tabletop, and strode into the pantry. She emerged, face red with indignation, an apron emblazoned with “Kiss the Cook” tied over her pink chenille bathrobe. “Call the kids, Joe. Call the neighbors. We’re gonna have one hell of a barbecue!”

Joe and Marge couldn’t sleep that night, stuffed full of barbecued beef, potato salad, corn bread, coleslaw and apple pie with ice cream. Shortly before midnight the hum of an airtram drifted down Acorn Street and through the Millers’ open bedroom window. Passenger doors opened with a barely audible hiss. The humming and hissing grew louder as the tram neared number 821, then died out as it continued toward the nine hundred block. Joe rolled out of bed and poked his feet into his slippers. “I’m gonna check this out,” he said. Marge, on her back with her arms crossed over her stomach, grunted in acknowledgment but did not rise.

Joe padded down the hallway and switched on the kitchen light. No food was out in the open, Marge would never allow that, considering bugs, bacteria and the like. He crossed to the refrigerator and opened the door. A half gallon of milk and the last bit of coleslaw that no one had room for glowed in the harsh inner light. The grandfather clock Marge’s family had brought out west in covered wagon days gave the twelve expected chimes. “Usual snafu,” Joe said to himself. “Laurel never could get the job – – ”

That’s when it started. The plastic milk jug started vanishing from the top down, the slaw after that, as if a zipper raced the width of the bowl from one end to the other, erasing both contents and bowl as it swept. By the time he reached the pantry, the nanobots, invisible specks of last year’s war heroes, were rapidly deconstructing pasta, canned goods, and the last four pints of Marge’s prize-winning pickled okra. A spigot formed on the far pantry wall, a label “soysynth” appearing above it. “Piped in from the outside,” Joe murmured. A hose formed at the end of the spigot, snaked across the pantry shelves, and bored through the wall into the kitchen. Joe followed the hose to its connection point, a toaster-sized fabricator on the counter where the coffee maker used to be.

“Marge isn’t gonna like this,” he said to the fabricator, wondering if the nanobots were still on premises and could report customer dissatisfaction to the Cabinet. Marge would sure as hell speak out, he’d bank on it.

***

Though she argued with the fabricator every step of the way Marge figured out how to make soysynth coffee, Joe’s black, hers with milk and one sugar, by the time Laurel’s Monday broadcast fired up.

“Tastes funny,” she said after the first sip, holding the mug in both hands to warm the morning stiffness from her knuckles.

“Yeh,” Joe said, not tasting anything he was so preoccupied with the figure materializing on the breakfast nook table. President Laurel appeared in the same gray flannel suit as yesterday, the same red power tie.

“Greetings, fellow Americans,” he said, grinning from ear to ear, “and thank you for the outflow of great feedback about Phase One of New Genesis. We at the Oval Cathedral have heard from hundreds of thousands of you this morning, voices from every state of this great nation. Given the record-breaking response, we haven’t had time to reply to every message – -”

“Like mine, you little twerp,” said Marge, raising her coffee mug in mock salute.

“ . . . as we promised, an end to hunger in the Theocratic Republic. I’m sure you’re eager to hear about Phase Two of New Genesis.” The figure’s expression transformed from jubilant to serious. “A major concern for many of you in the 2040 survey was American consumption of personal goods and the impact on the balance of trade.”

“There’s some sense in that, anyway,” said Joe.

“Your fear that our economy is being overtaken by foreign-produced designer labels with built-in fashion obsolescence topped the list of consumerism worries.”

Marge stroked the lapel of her faded chenille. “The crap kids buy, and on credit.”

“As your leader I’ve heard your concerns. Putting the good of America first, the Cabinet and I met with our nation’s remaining clothing manufacturers last fall. We’ve signed an agreement with those manufacturers to contract one hundred percent of their services to our government. Under a veil of secrecy, factories have been retooled and production is at full capacity.  Effective one second past midnight tonight, Eastern Standard Time, all citizens will be issued a wardrobe of jumpsuits, made right here in the Theocratic Republic of the U.S.A.”

“What!?” Marge hoisted her womanly bulk out of her chair. “For crying out loud, this country is not one-size-fits-all!” She sucked in her breath and tightened the belt of her robe. “That idiot’s gonna have us looking like a bunch of auto mechanics!”

“. . . and further, the benefit of dirt-resistant, tear-resistant, stain-resistant fabric, conserving limited resources and . . .”

Marge wheeled on the holo and shook her fist in its face.  “We wouldn’t be in this mess if you hadn’t started the Holy War and let it drag on for sixteen years!”

“. . . and don’t worry, ladies, these jumpsuits are programmed to expand where you expand.” Disembodied masculine chuckles erupted as Laurel’s grin widened. “Believe you me, Mrs. Laurel insisted we make that one of the features.”

“I hope that fat cow sits on him – – hard!” Marge said, storming down the hallway toward the bedroom.

“. . . will be returned to the manufacturer and recycled after the death of the wearer. As happened last night with your food supplies, at one second past midnight Eastern Standard Time nanobots will remove all existing clothing and fashion accessories from your homes. For your comfort, although this is not in complete accordance with Theocratic principals of conduct,” Laurel cleared his throat, “it is recommended that when you retire this evening, you do so au natural.” Disembodied murmurs of consternation simmered around the figure.

Marge emerged from the hallway, her figure vivid in the stretch fabric sequined gown she’d bought for their cruise fifteen years ago. A turquoise feather boa rested on her shoulders, and a foil tiara from last New Year’s Eve perched atop her head. She strode toward the hologram and planted her hands on her hips. “Hah!” she said, leaning down to its doll-sized face before collecting the half-full coffee cups and dumping the soy-based contents down the sink.

***