The Wakeful Wanderer's Guide to Disillusionment

Breakfast Plans

We like to imagine that all of our stories and perspectives are alike. Being in constant touch with each other minimizes our differences and breeds the illusion that we are all the same. The more I travel and meet new people, the more I discover how rich our differences are.

– The Wakeful Wanderer's Guide, Vol. 2, excerpt from line 328

Thirty/Fourteen, the chef at the Lester Sunshine Inn, was proud of his beard. It was thick, kinky, black and reached halfway down his chest. His head was bald because he liked the feeling of the cool air on his scalp. To keep it smooth, he had the stubble pulled each night by tonsorbot. Over time, fewer and fewer hairs needed pulling. They worked so gently and gradually, the feeling became pleasurable as he got accustomed to it. When he had first tried them, it freaked him out. Now it put him to sleep. His usual bed was in the carriage house of the Lester Sunshine Inn, a short walk from the kitchen where he spent most of his days.

Rising, he looked down at his arms and legs. The cuts were healing well, and the bruises showed clearly now on his arms. Blood pooled under the skin along the outer edge of his left bicep and right wrist. There was some ochre mixed in with dark purple. It fascinated him.

Remembering again that Seemi was dead, he let a long loud breath escape and walked to the lavatory. Dispensing as much water as needed, he washed his face and arms, wetting his beard and letting it drip dry. After a moment's hesitation, he dipped his hands into the decompiler well, disinfecting them. It tingled. He rinsed them off in the water and grabbed a tooth cleaning mouth guard before returning to the edge of his bed to sit and chew for two-and-a-half minutes. He used that time to plan breakfast.

The Raiders had slaughtered three of his sheep and two of his goats. The goats were milkers. Thirty had tried to scatter them ahead of their demise, but they were too slow for the hungry Raiders. One of the goats gave a good fight. Thirty felt satisfied for a moment before remembering the Raiders vomiting blood on the floor of the parlor, desiccated while still alive by microscopic nano-bots. It was brutal. He shook his head quickly to put that image to one side.

He had chickens. The chickens had scattered well, hiding in bushes and undergrowth where the Raiders were not looking. One of the roosters, a Brahma named Luke, was caught and would not stop crowing despite Thirty's repeated silent commands. They didn't have time to slaughter him. The lucky guy was still king of his roost. This morning would be about eggs, he decided.

The vertical farm was down, so lots of the usual additions would be a while in coming, as nearby tribes contributed a part of what they had after the battle. Caravans and tainers should arrive tomorrow. By then they would have more than they needed. Today's cuisine would be a challenge. Bots in the ruined farm had brought up all the young greens they could harvest before demolition started. There were lots in the way of mustard and collard greens. Thirty envisioned a combination of spicy wraps made from blended combinations of those and dried with filamentary seeds like chia or flax. There were lots of pumpkin seeds as well. His stores of wheatgrass milk were plentiful, as the Raiders wouldn't touch the stuff. The batches had gone slightly sour, but that could be a good thing on a chilly morning like this.

Satisfied he had breakfast and lunch well in hand, Thirty threw on a ribbon jacket by the door of the cottage. Something caught his eye. At the bottom edge of his beautiful beard, he saw a glint of white. At first, he thought it was a reflection of the light from the window panes near the door, but as he turned back toward the interior of the carriage house, he realized it was gray hair mixed in with his glorious dark facial adornment.

A shudder of fear and disgust ran through him. Was he getting old? There were no mirrors in his cottage, or anywhere in the Lester Sunshine Inn, as the Interconnected didn't use them. He ran through the image feeds of his tribe from the day before, grepping his own name, and found a recording taken of him preparing a late snack in the Sunshine's kitchen. There it was, plain as the nose on his face. A circular cluster of white hairs at the bottom edge of his black beard. This was happening, he thought to himself, and posted his emotions.