A Day in the Empire

Year 5755, Prime, Residential Sector 47-B

Lyra wakes naturally around 10:30 AM, her neural implant having filtered non-essential notifications during her sleep. No blaring alarm, no demanding boss. She works when she wants. Like most citizens of the Empire, she chose to have an occupation - not out of necessity but out of boredom. At 67, she is considered a young adult with still more than a century ahead of her.

Her apartment on Prime is modest, only 45 square meters. Space is precious on an ecumenopolis of 1.9 trillion inhabitants, even with the vertical architecture stretching kilometers upward. But it’s free, provided by the State like all basic housing. If she wanted something bigger, she would need to contribute more to the Empire. Or settle on a more remote planet - but who would want to leave the beating heart of civilization?

Morning: Leisure and Creation

After a synthesized but perfectly nutritious breakfast, Lyra decides to work on her latest musical composition. With copyright laws being virtually nonexistent, she freely remixes a popular Acéras melody captured during the war. An act of “cultural rebellion” that is very much in vogue. Her adaptive clothing pulses softly to the rhythm of the music, shifting from blue to violet. High-end arcanotechnological fashion that she treated herself to after six months of saving.

In the artificial park on level 892, she runs into Marcus, a 180-year-old veteran who knew peace before the war. His medical exoskeleton, a lasting consequence of a battle on Kepler-442b, doesn’t stop him from practicing anti-grav tai chi - a sport where Arcanotechnology reduces gravity by 40%. Slow movements become graceful leaps of several meters.

“Have you seen the news?” asks Marcus. “The Opals took three systems this week.”

Lyra shrugs. The war has lasted longer than her entire life. It’s a constant background noise, like the humming of the arcanotechnological processors that keep Prime habitable.

Afternoon: Optional Work

Around 2 PM, Lyra decides to put in a few hours at her “job.” She codes compression algorithms for interstellar communications. Not the best-paid or most valued work. But it amuses her and earns her credits to buy tickets for the exoskeleton arena fights this weekend.

Her colleague Jin, 95 years old, has just finished his three daily hours. He works in warpgate maintenance - hard and dangerous work, therefore much better paid. “I’m heading to Nexus tomorrow,” he says. “1 day of travel on a slow cargo ship, but I don’t have the connections for warpgate access.”

“Why not stay here for the Unification Festival?” suggests Lyra.

“More propaganda,” Jin laughs. “Celebrating 5,755 years of an Empire led by five immortals who will never let go of power? No thanks. I’d rather go see my family.”

He says this loudly, without fear. Being a critical “rebel” is perfectly acceptable, as long as you don’t take action. The Empire realized long ago that verbal dissent is a safety valve.

Evening: Entertainment and Reflection

In the evening, Lyra joins friends at a stim bar. All drugs are legal, after all. She takes a mild euphoric while they watch the broadcast of an augmented reality e-sport tournament. Players manipulate holographic armies in three-dimensional space - playful preparation for the real war that 5% of the population is currently waging.

On the secondary screens, the official news scrolls by. The Council of Guardians announces a new offensive. The Imperial Assembly voted the credits. As always, the representatives follow the Council’s “suggestions.” Sérac, the Council’s leader in wartime, promises that victory is near. He’s been promising that for twenty years.

An elderly man at the bar murmurs that he’s heard about rebel cells in the peripheral systems, secretly funded by the Empire to destabilize the remaining autonomous factions. Nobody responds. Some things, even in this “free” society, are not discussed.

Night: Questions Without Answers

Walking home (the 47 floors to her apartment make for good exercise), Lyra passes a Hero patrol. No distinctive uniform in civilian zones, but she recognizes their gait - that confidence of those who have survived the unthinkable. One of them might have hidden tattoos indicating their rank.

In bed, before her implant filters her thoughts for sleep, Lyra sometimes wonders what humanity was like before the Empire. Before the Council. Before this gilded peace built on compromises that one prefers not to examine too closely.

But those questions are for philosophers and fools. She has a good life. Better than 99% of human history. The price to pay seems reasonable.

Doesn’t it?