Perry was dreaming of an outdoor lunch gathering a month before, which was over ninety years before, and the guests began to slow down. There were three of them: one man and two women. The women were different ages; one very young, and the other, Perry guessed, in her fifties. All three were dressed in white for the summer weather, and they became blurred, and stiff.

And then it was no longer a dream, and no longer a lunch, but him rising up. Up for air; up for life. He felt he should be wet with the polymer gel, but it was gone. He had been cleaned, and was dressed in white himself.

“Yoooouuuu wiiiilllll” the older woman was telling him. Their speech, as he heard it, continued like this for some time.

“wake up slowly—”

Even as they came more into focus, and spoke at more of a regular speed, they still sounded different. The schwa sounds he would have expected were different, shortened; sedation came off more like a very quick sedashyin, to his ears, or even just sedashn. Relatives became reltivs; he focused on this for some moments before he realized they were telling him that they had located none of his.

But he did have credits. They mentioned—they would have called it minshind—this several times.

“We have an apartment for you, small but very nice, just outside the hospital. You should be able to go there very soon. And of course you’ll have all the credits you need to get set up again.You’ve nithn to worry about.” It was still the older of the two women speaking. She seemed to be the lead. Perry noticed a name tag on her white jacket: Dr. Shaughnessy.

The three of them—all sat in chairs directly in front of him, while he was still in a hospital bed—were a bit too intense for his taste, leaning forward toward him and barely blinking. Now he realized that Shaughnessy didn’t seem to blink at all.

But they were earnest. And he knew he should thank them, for they had brought him back from the dead. Or back from his stasis fog, which might have been worse.

He had been aware that he had nearly died, and that he was frozen and paralyzed. Nothing more than that, but he had known that much. He’d had no sense of time passing, but at the same time his fog had seemed to last far too long.

And now he was back. These people had raised him up.

And they had credits for him.

“So do you know what you might need?” This was from the man, who was leaning forward nearly off his chair.

Perry had been awake, to his mind, for less than half an hour. After decades.

“Anything at all,” the man repeated, “that you might need?

“I don’t suppose anything I owned has come down with me?” he asked them.

“Good question!” the younger woman said. “But no, we’re afraid not. It has been a very long time, you’re aware.”

“Of course.” He remembered the current year, which they had told him: 2121.

He looked down at himself. “How did you do this? What was wrong with me?”

“Some irreversible brain damage that has become reversible,” Dr. Shaughnessy said. “You will be as good as new once you are set up. Set up and on your own, with a budget. So, clothes? You’ll want those of course. We’ve provided you just a few things here, but you’ll want to pick your own.” She nodded slightly but repeatedly as she said this. She was good-looking, he thought, but he found himself wanting to back away from her, which he could not do in his angled bed.

“We can get a screen for you,” the leaning man said, and he was just as anxious-making. The lean did bring his name tag close, at least: he was Orville.

“In fact – ” Orville added, and he pulled up a large translucent tray; but then Perry realized it was not a tray, but rather the screen he had mentioned.

“In fact, you can have this one. I can charge it to your credits.”

He held it up, and nodded to it. Pictures of garments appeared on it.

“Online shopping hasn’t changed,” Perry said. “And you are Dr. Orville?”

“Just Orville. And I don’t know about the line,” he said, with a pained, begrudged, quick half-smile. It was there, then it was gone. “But yes, you’re free to shop. Do you see anything here?”

The garments on the screen—jackets, pants, and, interestingly, formal robes—scrolled. Perry realized they did this automatically, responding to the gaze of his eyes whenever he looked anywhere but the middle of the screen.

“What do you think?” Orville prodded.

“It’s not easy for me to focus,” Perry said. “The screen senses where you’re looking?”

None of the three staff answered.

“Well, how formal are those purple robes these days?”

The younger woman had come closer to him, and now had her face next to his, looking at the screen.

“Yes, that would be a good choice,” she said. She and the other two stared at the screen as if it was something a normal human being would have shared right away with a patient who had just woken up after a hundred years. “I’ll reserve it,” the young woman said. “What else would you like?”

*

He was given an apartment. The airy architecture of the building, or its green walls, might have grabbed his attention, but they were overshadowed by the lobby: it was strewn with deliveries – packed with them – at every hour of every day. And these were not simply packages that were unclaimed; they were constantly being retrieved by residents.

Most of the deliveries were brought by large, silent white spheres which rolled up and disgorged their contents. Their sides opened up and small, self-propelled carts emerged. These carried packages, which were dumped in the lobby. The empty carts then returned to their spheres; and as soon as one left, another rolled up.

He lingered in that lobby for some time, taking it in. The other residents of the building hustled in and out, picking up their deliveries and then dashing back up to their apartments. Judging from the pile of stuff that never seemed to diminish, they might have been running right back to purchase more.

They paid him no mind. He was dressed in what turned out to be common clothes – loose blue pants with a string-tie waist, and a buttonless long-sleeved shirt – and apparently no one could guess he had been away for a century.

He was surprised that the pile of deliveries was apparently not secured in any way. Residents rummaged through the stacks, looking for their names and addresses but evidently never tempted to take anyone else’s items.

Perry eventually asked one of them about this; a woman, about his age, burrowing through the pile. He sidled up to her, gradually sliding into what must have been her discomfort zone, but she focused on the deliveries. He ended up just asking:

“Pardon me, sorry to bother you. A lot of deliveries today, eh?”

She glanced at him, then back to the pile.

“Can I ask you something?” he continued. “Aren’t you worried that someone else will take your things?”

She paused, and looked at him blankly. “Are you not from here?”

“I – no. I’ve traveled here.”

“You do sound different. Pirn me for saying! But what sort of accent is that?”

“I was home-schooled. In the Yukon.”

He had anticipated that he’d be asked this question, and this was one of the answers he’d considered, as something easier and quicker than the truth. He hadn’t quite decided for certain to use it, but it was official now.

“Home. Schooled.”

“Yes.”

“I see.” She nodded with exaggerated agreeability, eyes wide open. “But no, of course no one around here would take anything. I would hope it’s that way where you are from, too?”

“Oh, of course. I just thought – well, I wondered about things here.”

“Oh yes, just the same.” She nodded, too hard. By now she had lifted three small boxes. “I have to run with these.”

She darted toward an elevator.

*

He’d returned to his apartment for just a minute when its door buzzed.

This content has been unlawfully taken from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.

Outside was a self-propelled table displaying packaged food: cups of instant oatmeal, boxes of coffee, dried bananas. There were also citrus fruits the size of small oranges but as blue as blueberries. Toward the back of the cart was a small upright control panel that rose like the tower on a tiny aircraft carrier.

An aircraft carrier full of unneeded snacks, he thought.

A light on the control blinked and the cart started to barge into his apartment. Its wheels whirred.

“No! Stay the hell out!”

He shoved it back; this was difficult, but not impossible. He shut the door.

He listened to the rolling cart buzz the door again, and bump into it several times, before it apparently gave up and moved to the next apartment.

*

He looked at the screen Orville had given him. It lit up when touched, and was filled with advertisements. Clothing, food, pharmaceuticals; dog treats, yard furniture, train tickets; and some items he couldn’t identify, such as items labeled “cubes:” square, colorful boxy containers shown on kitchen counters.

The train tickets seemed to be to some sort of mall. The screen displayed it as a collection of low white buildings. It looked like an oceanside village in Greece, Perry thought, but streams of people were walking in empty-handed and coming out with boxes.

He had no idea how to search the screen. He could scroll with his finger, as well as just by moving his eyes, but in every direction there was just more merchandise; seemingly infinite merchandise.

*

The main window in his apartment overlooked the street. This day, his third out of stasis, was gorgeous. Pedestrians wandered about. Vehicles hummed by on the street, silently and fairly slowly. Many people rode bikes.

Stores occupied every space in the ground floors of the buildings as far as he could see, and sometimes the second and third floors also.

The delivery spheres rolled up and down the sidewalks, constantly. There was never a moment when he couldn’t see at least five of them at once.

Just then a floating sphere arrived outside the glass before him. It was about the size of a soccer ball and was made of many small metal panels.

In a loud voice, heard easily through the glass, it told him:

“SEARCH AND PURCHASE. SEARCH AND PURCHASE.”

It repeated for a moment and then moved to the next apartment down, making the same command.

*

The next morning, the door buzzed again. Perry prepared to fend off the overkill food cart, but this time it was Orville.

“Perry, how are you doing? We need to speak with you.” He was still leaning in too close, but at least now Perry could retreat.

“I am fine–”

“Good, good. We’ve been informed that you have not been spending down your credits. You have been acquiring very little. Or actually nothing. Is everything all right?”

“Yes. I just haven’t needed anything.”

“And you remember we showed you how to order before you left the hospital, correct?”

“Yes, I remember.”

“But you haven’t been spending your credits on anything?”

“No, not really. I still have the food you had sent for me. I received some clothes. I’m fine for the time being. It’s only been a few days anyway.”

Orville nodded, but Perry could see that he was clearly not satisfied with the answer.

“Perry, we are all concerned that you’re not obtaining enough. There is so much room in here. You could get large amounts of things.”

“Look, Orville,” Perry said. “Come in, first of all. You don’t need to stand out there to tell me this.”

Orville said a perfunctory ‘thank you’ and stepped into the apartment. Perry closed the door and resumed:

“So, listen,” Perry said. “You know, I’m basically new here. I’m wondering–”

He had been trying to stay calm, but he felt like a cracking dam.

“What is going on, Orville? What the actual hell is going on? Why have you all been talking nonstop about me needing to buy things? Is that all anyone does? Am I going to get thrown in jail if I don’t buy crap?”

Orville shook his head, agreeably. Perry was alarmed that what he himself thought was clearly insane – getting incarcerated for failing to buy enough – did not seem to faze him.

“No, not jail,” he answered. “You’ll be entered into subscriptions.”

“Subscriptions for crap?”

“I wouldn’t put it that way, but you’ve got the idea. Every citizen has to spend down a minimum of credits each week, or else basic goods are sent automatically. It’s how we all take care of each other, you know, Perry. It’s how the system runs.”

“By buying crap nonstop?”

Orville raised his hands, palms out.

“I’ve been reading a little about your time, Perry. I had thought this would be more familiar to you, because it seemed like you were born in our era; but now I’m thinking it started shortly after you – left. So, perhaps I should apologize. And I should have explained more.”

“Okay then, that’s fine.”

“So we really need you to start using your credits.”

Perry stared at him.

“That’s it? That’s the explanation?”

“I thought I’ve been clear already.”

“How can this be?” Perry demanded. “How can the planet not be full of trash with all the stuff you must be throwing away? Or is it, and I just haven’t noticed yet?”

“Full of trash?” Orville seemed truly shocked, or maybe offended. “Oh, no – our dissolution and reconstitution system is nearly one hundred percent efficient. We have far less consumption debris than you did in your day.”

“Where does the energy come from, then? You must go through petawatts of power making all this, and then trucking it around, and then tearing it down.”

“We do, you’re absolutely right. But again I should have mentioned: we have fusion. What you would have called cold fusion.”

“Cold fusion powers all this?”

“Yes.”

“And it’s clean?”

“Wonderfully clean. It’s how we can still have a planet, really.”

Perry took this in.

“So this is the point of your economy now.”

“Essentially, yes.”

“You – provide jobs, basically, by just producing . . . an endless flood of consumer goods. And you do it without exhausting the planet.”

“That’s it. That’s a good summary.”

“You spend, who knows – a sun’s worth of energy to produce a planet’s worth of crap, and then you tear it all down and start over again.”

“You know – again I wouldn’t put it exactly like that, but you’re on the right track.”

“And if this frenzy were to stop, this fever you all seem to have for buying things – ”

“People would lose their occupations. They would have nothing to do. So many of our sectors have become so efficient, Perry. We don’t need many farmers. Our transport is automatic. Now, it’s true that our population is smaller than in your day. But, you know, many people are still here, and we can’t just get rid of them. We have to do something.”

“What about leisure time? Staying occupied by, whatever, exercising? Hiking? Making art?”

“Those are great ideas – do you mean you want paints, or something?”

“And all these credits that I apparently have – how am I getting them? How is anyone getting them?”

“Well, most of us work at least a few hours. I don’t do this for free, you know! But you’ve been given a temporary budget as someone . . . someone who is just finding his land legs, we could say. The councils are pretty lenient with how they provide credits.”

“I can imagine. Councils?”

“Mayors, boards. Local government.”

“My God.” Perry shook his head. “So the opiate of the people ended up being just, stuff.”

“Marx! But that’s essentially right. I’ll just start you up on some subscriptions, it sounds like?”

“I –” Perry started. “No.” He spoke with resignation. “I’ll take a bicycle. I was going to look for one used, but I guess that’s not the way, these days.”

“Great idea! A new bike. Let’s pull up a list.”

*

The next day Perry sat in his apartment – surrounded by boxes holding the bike, and several other things he’d grudgingly ordered – and finally, it seemed, sighed and took a break.

It occurred to him that the culture shock – time shock, consumption shock – had dominated his attention so much that he had been unable to reflect on anything else going on until he had dealt with it. And now, as a reliable citizen dutifully purchasing things, he could think.

He remembered his wife and daughter. He thought of how ridiculous they would find all of this. He had so many muddled memories to sort through; but thanks to this society he was immersed in, the recollections foremost in his mind were of the three of them cleaning and painting an old wooden rocking horse.

The second-hand rocking horse memory had sprung up, of course, because he knew that today – 2121 – it would have been summarily shredded and replaced with a new one. But back when Araceli was four or so, he and Jennifer had pulled the old toy out of his parents’ garage, and restored it.

“Old, but not quite enough to be an antique,” he had said.

“It’s fine, we should use it,” Jen had answered.

She had seemed genuinely enthusiastic about it, and this struck him, because frankly she did not have as close a relationship with his parents as he had hoped, and he knew his parents were at fault for that. So he hadn’t assumed that an old family possession that had come down from his father’s side would be something she would value. But she did. She dusted it off immediately when he slid it out of a corner.

“You played with this?” she asked.

“I did. I don’t remember it very well, but I did. And my father too, he said. And I don’t think even he was the first owner.”

The horse was awkward-looking. Even when it was new, its unnaturally squat legs and too-sharply-inclined head might have made it hard for a child to love. And now its paint was worn, and the coloring it had left was dirty and showed scuffs.

But Araceli had liked it as much as Jen did. It was solid; and its rockers, of course, worked just fine. She had ignored spider webs on it to ride it, hauling back on the pegs that extended out from its head.

“Can you paint it white? And gold?”

“Of course. And you can help.”

The three of them had scraped it and painted it together, in an afternoon.

“She’s going to burst a blood vessel in her head waiting for that paint to dry,” Jen had said.

Araceli had played with it often before outgrowing it. The last he could remember, it had still been in their basement, waiting for the next rider.

*

In 2121, a young family would have just bought a new rocking horse. Or two or three.

But he supposed there were worse ways for a society to coerce its population into supporting the system. He had certainly read and seen enough dystopian fiction that he could easily compare this world to one in which people were slaves, or segregated into either wastelands or luxury bubbles, or locked into suspended cages.

Any rulers anywhere – and at any time – would have to either allow the masses to provide for themselves; or just provide for them directly; or oppress them. He could remember how many times he had heard, in his first life, about volatile nations plagued by unemployment and unrest. Here, everyone had something to do: build, buy, or shred.

“There are worse ways to provide for your people, I guess,” he said aloud. He could hear the snack cart out in the hallway banging into the front door again.