The child clutched his mother’s hand, his palms damp with anticipation, as the high-speed elevator whisked them to the top of the mighty CN Tower. With each passing floor, the city shrank until the skyscrapers looked like tiny Legos. The elevator floor hummed against his sneakers, a vibration that skipped up his spine. They ascended over one hundred floors in less than a minute.
Stepping onto the observation deck, he pulled away his hand and leaped onto the transparent glass floor that exposed the ground far below. Her breath caught. She scooped him up and diverted his attention to the lake beyond the panoramic windows. The intricate railways and resplendent cityscape captivated him. Yet, despite the fascinating sights, his eyes were drawn skyward.
In an instant, the light blue canvas above the city darkened. A cry of denial slipped from the boy’s lips as day turned into night, the ominous clouds swallowing the surroundings. Seconds stretched into an eerie silence, followed by sharp cracks of lightning that streaked across the heavens. Trembling, the boy turned to his mother, seeking solace, but her face eluded him, lost in the darkness. His cries filled the air, desperate hands reaching out yet unable to touch her cheeks. Another bolt of lightning pierced the sky, illuminating her face in a fleeting moment of terror. Her hair liquified, a thick, tar-like black running into her eyes. Her face slid like warm wax.
“No!” the man screamed, snapping upright in his bed.
“Good morning, Abi,” Vila, the smart assistant, greeted, its soft, upbeat voice cutting through the silence as the clock flashed 7:00 a.m.
Shaking and bathed in sweat, Abi struggled to steady his breath.
“Another bad dream?” Vila asked.
“Status,” Abi managed to say, ignoring the question as he flung his feet over the side of the bed and tried to regain control of his breathing.
“Today is July 12th, 2062. The temperature outside is 16° Celsius. Would you like to hear a joke?”
“Sure.”
“What does a man have in common with an earthquake?” Vila paused for effect. “They are both destructive—but only one stops.” Abi’s mouth twitched into the mandatory giggle. It was a reflex now, like a knee-tap at the doctor. The screen flashed a yellow smiley face in approval.
Humor was propaganda in Turtle Island.
The daily newscast animated the screen, spewing meticulously crafted facts. Humanity stood on the brink of creating the greatest society ever known. True communism was just around the corner, proclaimed CN News, the Party’s truth-keeper.
Private property had become a relic of the past, replaced by universal housing, and inequality was gasping its final breath. Workers were the happiest they had ever been in history, insisted the numerous surveys published by the media. That all the means of production, including the media, were owned by the single-Party government presented no conflict of interest in the eyes of the obedient residents. Everybody trusted the news in Turtle Island.
Shrugging off the anxious tremors, Abi climbed out of the bed and checked his reflection. The smile was holding, though his jaw ached from the years of keeping the corners turned up. Evolution had tried to give him a frown for his nightmare, but his education had won. Outside of revolutionary activities, everybody smiled all the time in Turtle Island.
Abi, like most citizens, resided in a ten-by-six-foot room. The rainbow-colored bed sat in one corner, and an adjacent wall housed a pullout tray that held a small screen, a pair of Arvis glasses, and secured virtual reality headsets: everything he needed for entertainment, gaming, social media, and take-home work. The remaining space was occupied by a small closet containing his clothes, hair-coloring kit, makeup, and other essentials. With society having transcended clothing stereotypes, a handful of vibrant outfits, along with a winter jacket and boots, sufficed for the green-haired man.
Near the foot of his bed, a weathered wooden door stood next to a large screen with a camera atop it. Vila utilized the camera setup to help the citizens in every conceivable way. The Department of Equity, the second largest government body after the Social Justice Department, ensured that all were treated equitably. It had generously implemented monitoring solutions into the system that tracked the populace for their own good.
All living quarters and workspaces—everything from residential, commercial, and government buildings to schools, public transit, street corners, bars, shops, services, and markets—every nook and cranny of Turtle Island was under constant surveillance, obviously to guarantee the safety, security, and welfare of its people. Privacy wasn’t a concern as the feeds could only be accessed by the system, with no human intervention, or so was affirmed repeatedly by the Party for years until privacy became an afterthought, and then an alien concept.
Abi opened the door and hurried to the communal bathroom. Inside, he chose one of the open shower squares. Dividing walls were not needed in the body-positive haven, especially without a man in sight. Despite the city’s surplus of what had once been called male anatomy, identifying as such had become an absurdity of the past.
As he showered, Abi’s gaze drifted toward the woman occupying the neighboring square. The glimpse of her lathered, glistening body stirred a sensation within him—one he could neither explain nor ignore, given his long-standing identification as an ace.
Abi averted his eyes as guilt washed over him. What is this unbidden feeling that keeps returning? Could it be attraction? One could either be an ace (asexual) or a pan (pansexual) in the city. All other sexualities were discriminatory attraction biases that stood in the way of sex positivity. Love was sex. Sex was equitable. Everybody must love everybody in Turtle Island.
After finishing, Abi headed to his room for his grooming ritual. He put on makeup, added glitter to his wavy green hair, and slipped on his life guide: the augmented reality (Arvis) glasses. Worn by citizens nearly every waking hour, this transformative technology had long supplanted handheld devices. Arvis projected real-time information directly before the user’s eyes, including messages, tags, identifiers, and any relevant data hovering just above the objects being viewed. Its speakers automatically adjusted volume and seamlessly filtered ambient noise, allowing users to make calls or watch media without earphones. Only the wearer could hear the sounds, transmitted discreetly through the temples of these advanced glasses.
Breakfast awaited the residents in the mess hall, where Abi snatched his meal box and scouted for an empty spot. He settled on a seat facing an all-encompassing wall-mounted screen at the far end of the hall. Every wall had a massive screen. He opened his box to find the usual bland assortment: a piece of bread, some cereal, and the obligatory almond milk. Everybody was a vegan in Turtle Island. The Department of Equity took great pride in their monopolistic role as food distributors, ensuring that every soul received the same monotonous sustenance, regardless of their occupation or position. The principle of equity ruled the day, right down to the dining table.
During breakfast hour, the morning programming commenced. As the residents gazed at the screens, their Arvis devices transformed into anti-glare glass, allowing for optimal viewing.
“Species of Taronto are suffering,” said the chairperson of Turtle Island North in his usual effeminate, regretful tone.
“We have overlooked the plight of dog moms for far too long.” As the camera zoomed closer to his distinguished ivory face, his light brown eyes, calm and deliberate, showcased the profound suffering that must have echoed within his heart. Unlike public reporting, government telecasts did not use avatars, which allowed for the transparency and increased accountability of the leadership, one of many sacrifices the Party made for the people.
“The time has come for us to reconcile and make amends,” the chairperson continued. “While no measure can fully heal their anguish, and no restitution can ever compensate for the past and present atrocities inflicted upon dog moms, we must now exert every effort to dismantle the systemic barriers that hinder their authentic existence.”
Many in the mess hall nodded, some applauded, while the sincerest ones—those who never doubted the vast magnitude of their niceness—shed tears of both remorse and elation. Abi exhaled in quiet relief. His smile brimmed with gratitude for the Party, as if the world itself had grown just a little brighter.
In his early sixties, Chairperson Dustin Fizer was one of the heroes of the revolution. Admired by the people and feared by men, he was a true loyalist to the cause. A rare gem from the generation of bigots and leftovers, Dustin was one of the most powerful figures north of New York City.
“The Department of Accepting Science has found a causal link between the health and well-being of dog moms to the treatment they receive from society. It is up to all of us, the collective, to ensure that dog moms feel safe and welcomed in our communities. With that in mind, let me call upon the esteemed director of the College of Inclusive Medicine, Dr. Fondra Carli, to enlighten us with their scientific findings.”
Dustin stepped aside as a short-haired brunette took the podium. Dr. Carli was the primary adviser to the chairperson on matters of public health, responsible for advancing science and technology in Turtle Island North.
“After years of research, scientists have discovered that dog moms suffer from post-partum depression, backache, mood swings, and other serious health problems associated with childbirth. The best outcome is achieved for the mother and the child when they spend at least the first six months of their quality time together, without the mother’s additional responsibility of community service,” said Fondra. To support her claims and emphasize the need for society to step up and help dog moms, the good doctor cited rigorous and comprehensive research and academic papers on the subject going as far back as two decades.
Fondra held up to the camera a peer-reviewed textbook whose cover read Necessitudo amongst Canis lupus familiaris and Mater. The book was thick, at least a thousand pages long, and was made available for all to read on the social system. It was endorsed by more than five hundred experts. Everybody in the mess hall nodded continuously as the doctor presented facts after facts.
Nobody had heard of the plight of dog moms until a few weeks ago. Even the most involved activists had only been aware of this new civil rights movement about three months back. All the more reason for people to celebrate this scientific breakthrough. The vigilant Department of Accepting Science was championing the cause.
Once everyone had been convinced of the glaring need for affirmative healthcare for dog moms, the chairperson took back the podium.
As Dustin spoke, his expression exuded euphoria. “As we all learned, the previous generations did not realize the oppression they were perpetuating on dog moms, who have existed since the dawn of time. To make amends for the past crimes, the department has decided to provide six months of birthery leave to all dog moms. Nurses will be assigned to help them manage post-partum complications. Dog moms no longer have to work in jobs that require physical efforts until their child is two years old.” The chairperson listed the other long-overdue incentives for dog moms. Mess halls across the city erupted in cheers for another battle won. The equitable world was just around the corner. Abi took a bite of the bread. It tasted less moldy today.
Later that morning, at Woke Public School, Abi started his lecture on history, now called evolving history, to reflect that while historical events may be fixed, their understanding changes over time.
“What is the capital of Turtle Island North?” he asked a group of vibrantly dressed eight-year-olds. His voice was amplified by the ever-present Arvis glasses worn by each student.
“Taronto,” they answered in unison.
“Yes!” he cheered. “During the dark ages of the Americas, from 1700 to the 2030s, this city was called Toronto, a symbol of European imperialism. These white supremacist Christians stole the land from indigenous peoples and systematically oppressed them until the revolution of the 2030s. Then the name changed to Taronto, in acknowledgement of the indigenous Mohawks, who called it Tkaronto.”
Every desk in the classroom had a screen, used to share tutorials and other videos. The walls were adorned by more screens, mostly used to display a slideshow of flags and other activist material. Historically, the classrooms used to display the physical flags of the social justice movements. Over the years, the flags of various movements, genders, species, and other marginalized communities had outpaced the wall space, making screens a necessity. The cameras attached to the screens were to ensure a safe learning environment.
“What is the capital of Turtle Island West?” Abi asked.
“Portland,” the children answered eagerly.
He nodded, reveling in the progress of his young students, many of whom were close to developing reading and writing skills. In the middle of the lecture, his gaze fell upon a cis-human child, sitting on the floor beside his desk. The astute teacher was able to comprehend the situation as soon as he witnessed the child licking his hand and purring.
“Steven,” he said. “Do I have your consent to ask you a personal question?”
The child glanced at the teacher, a little confused, but forced a smile and nodded approval.
“Are you coming out to the class?” Abi asked, elation evident in his voice. Anticipation hung in the air, along with a sense of joy, confirmation, and pride.
Steven spoke with exuberance. “Yes, I have realized that I am trans.” He climbed onto the chair, contorting his body to rest all four limbs on the seat. The room buzzed, his fellow students whispering in awe and admiration.
“More specifically, I am a transcat,” he declared. His cheerfulness was awarded with enthusiastic applause. Some kids left their desks to hug him. Others, the more considerate ones, chose to pet him.
Almost all Abi’s students were trans, belonging to different species. The Party had mandated public schools to affirm children, encouraging behaviors that aligned more closely with their true inner species. The ignorant humans of the past, without exception, identified as cis-humans—they were born in a human body and identified as a human. In the 2040s, science had discovered that species, like gender, was just a social construct.
It was established that the species of people was fluid and existed on a spectrum. The trans prefix was used by people who were assigned human at birth but whose inner self was a different species. Trans differentiated them from the biological species of animals; the latter being a social construct itself, as per some activists, was hardly a useful categorization. Biology was neither real nor innate in Turtle Island.
Other species, like dogs and cats, could identify as transhuman, and they often did. Their parents had to confirm the identities of their transhuman children because even after sizable investments and efforts, doctors had not been successful in enabling transhumans to talk.
An entire industry had been developed around translating the thoughts of transhumans, and attempts were made to make them appear like cis-humans. In reality, nobody could grasp the intricacies of the ever-changing species doctrine, but accepted it nevertheless, to avoid causing offense to anyone or getting into the crosshair of activists.
“Yes!” Abi cheered as Steven began to purr. He didn't need a biology textbook to tell him what he saw; he needed the Arvis feed to confirm the student's species profile had updated in real time.
The classroom boasted a state-of-the-art projector, capable of displaying vivid imagery and streaming 80k videos into the air. It was an essential tool, offering an even more immersive education that couldn’t be achieved by using Arvis and multiple screens.
Abi activated the projector, cycling through various images and texts. To his surprise, he stumbled upon a new chapter in the curriculum that hadn’t been there the day before: “The Historical Struggle of Dog Moms.”
As a responsible teacher, he decided on the spot to incorporate the topic into his lesson, silently admiring the Department of Diverse Education for their promptness and innovation.
The term dog mom itself hearkened back to the archaic early twenty-first century, the dark ages, when it replaced the offensive and violent term dog owner. According to the species theory, it was not a mere title; those who had dogs were more than just dog moms in name—they were, quite literally, the parents and deserved to be treated as such. In the absence of men, there was no room for the outdated concept of dads. Dog moms were moms, but moms were birthers in Turtle Island.
The city offered many remote, internet-driven jobs. Teaching wasn’t one of them. It was the most important profession; the art of molding young minds. Teaching children how to think, what to feel, what to believe, whom to mistrust, and how to converse. It was the Party’s tool to protect children from their radical conservative parents, a task unfit for the virtual realm.
Education of the innocent ranked the highest for the Party, as outlined in the Department of Diverse Education’s motto: The education of all children, from the moment they can get along without a birther’s care, shall be in state institutions. The Party had, with a nod to inclusivity, carefully modified a few words from the original wisdom of the great transwoman Karl Marx.
The Party harbored no illusions about how perspectives changed once people became parents. Even after decades spent teaching activism to children in schools, history bore witness to the most celebrated activists succumbing to conservative beliefs when ensnared within the familial structure.
These people staunchly opposed fundamental human rights such as having no age of consent, and contested children’s autonomy to choose their species and undergo transitions at any age. They further denied healthcare for transspecie children.
The Party considered any restrictions on the absolute autonomy of little people exploitative, aligning with Marx’s rationale, who wrote, “Do you charge us with wanting to stop the exploitation of children by their parents? To this crime, we plead guilty.” Thus, the Department of Diverse Education came into existence, committed to teaching all forms of diversity, responsible for the education and upbringing of children.
In a matter of days, the entire curriculum had undergone yet another transformation, now reflecting the historical struggle of dog moms. They had been swiftly incorporated into the ever-expanding roster of protected categories. With the marvel of technology at the Party’s fingertips, all human knowledge resided in the cloud servers overseen by the Party. Correcting history had never been easier. A simple query had the power to revise the past, conjure new figures, or erase the undesired ones.
“Who knows a dog mom?” Abi asked, and a dozen eager hands shot up.