The apartment of Calvin Queen, early morning year 2071. A large carnival-style cardboard of a body in a suit with the cutaway for insertion of one’s head stands in front of a camera and picture of a neat apartment. The actual place is a shambles.
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The day began like any day in the post stellar unification partitioning of twenty seventy two. Then I got the call.
(A futuristic phone sound.)
They had done away with telephone, picture phone, tactile phone and the like, once matter transference and reconstitution had been perfected and so now each conversation is face to face, 3-D, with one party teleported into the presence of another. Don’t ask me to explain it, something about holograms and neurological sensors. I just know that Porthos Dresden, Chief of Intercultural Planetary Police, was standing in my living room at seven hundred hours and he didn’t look nurturing. The Chief of investigators was one of those old fashioned types who still believed in kissy face meetings. It didn’t make sense in the new technology but then there’s always someone fighting the future, isn’t there? You see, the development of habitable space stations coupled with heightened racial and cultural tensions finally provoked the Trans-Global Earth Government to isolate various peoples in separate but equal orbiting satellites. Every imaginable ethnic, political, religious, cultural, and special interest group has been placed in a dedicated location to live the existence that suits their temperament amongst like tempered characters. It was an imperfect solution to an immoral state of affairs but it happened and was only being opposed by one single interplanetary activist, Stahl Flowers.