Brenden Pontz The Man of Tomorrow Dedicated to Alaine Nitch-Ball It was 6:00 a.m. on the North American west coast, and Haroon Wilson was getting ready for school. He had no idea why the professor insisted they start class so early, but Professor Barnett was several time zones ahead of most of his students. It made the young man regret picking Ancient History as his major, but with his father as a history professor himself, Haroon didn’t have much of a choice. Sighing, and wishing for the umpteenth time that he had just become a mechanic instead, Haroon woke up from his sleep pod and pressed the button that lifted the pod’s cover with an audible hissing sound. He climbed out of the pod, cursing the machine’s pre-wired schedule that pumped adrenaline into his veins in this early hour of the day. After climbing out of the pod and putting on the silver bodysuit that served as his school’s uniform, Haroon began making something that vaguely resembled breakfast. The dehydrated package of toast and eggs was poor quality compared to what the average person ate, but being a student meant living in perpetual poverty. As he put his meal in the rehydrator, taking the gray cubes inside the packaging and turning it into proper breakfast food, Haroon killed time by surfing the web. Haroon turned on the neural link that hooked his mind up with the Extranet, and started browsing articles. The news was the usual mess of politicians screaming at each other. The media was ranting about the famine in central Africa, the crime wave entering its fourth year in South America, and tensions between Earth and the Martian colonies that could possibly lead to war. Why is there always bad news on? he thought to himself. It seemed like a universal truth as permanent as gravity that the media would always obsess over the worst parts about life. A loud chirping noise snapped Haroon back to the physical world, indicating his breakfast had finished hydrating. The food had a similar taste and texture as sand, but at least it was edible. After brushing his teeth and ridding himself of the unpleasant grainy feeling, Haroon took another look at the clock and figured it was time to get it over with. College had started. He pressed two of his fingers onto his forehead and activated the link that connected him to everyone else in his Ancient Mythology class. His mind conjured up a digital image of the lecture hall; a cramped, sparse room in Central Quinnequt University. The room held no desks or chairs save the professor’s, as very few students chose to attend physically. Behind said desk was Professor Barnett himself, a white-haired, overweight man wearing a suit that probably went out of fashion a couple centuries ago.
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