That New Century Shine by Mark Grealish

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All of that, and the road I take into town is packed dirt and gravel. Invention: Antiquity. The fucking Pharaohs in fucking Ancient Egypt had fucking dirt roads.

I pull up the collar of my jacket and hunch my shoulders against the morning mists and turn down the road towards town, a vaguely silver gleam a mile or more away through the fields and scattered copse of woods. Neatly-spaced homes line the road like scattered pearls on a string. Wooden frames, shingle roofs and gaily painted walls. Up the valley, I find a few tidy log cabins with their tidy little cords of wood stacked up for the winter. Firewood! People burning wood for heat when the electricity that electricity for their homes comes from a caged black hole that sits in a nondescript building away in the City! I turn attention away from the primitive affront. Toward town. After a moment's consideration, I tell the house to lock itself. Integrated household security: Twentieth century. I walk. I brood for an hour until my grand march is brought up short at the crossroads. A road sign. We have intelligent traffic management systems that run on the same supercomputers used to model the entire universe, and my town makes do with some dumb, bullet-pocket metal pole thats been here for at least seventy years. It'll still be here long after I'm gone. I slap it and continue on my march.

Later still, New Town. Five hundred wooden buildings all gathered up inside the invisible boundary of the Old Town's wall, along the stone quays by the seas. Away from the mountains, I notice. Too many bad memories? Too many bad winters of men and women who came with guns and fire, down from the hills to pillage and steal in decades past. So, town: Founded in the year of the Lord eighteen hundred eighty-seven. As I prowl along the main street, I watch neat houses that stand shoulder to shoulder, each dully alike: Tidy little gardens, children out front at play, garage in the back. A cat. A dog. A...

''Sir?''
I jump. There's a unity officer looking me up and down from a meter away. She's a pretty little twenty-something thing with big soft blue eyes and a spill of raven-black hair down her back that juxtaposes weirdly with the big truncheon that hangs off her belt. Another product of this century.
''Yes?'' My reply comes out sharper than I had intended.
The unie's eyes narrow a little. ''Are you alright, sir? I was watching you. You came down the way mumblin' 'n' talkin' away to yourself without a care in the world, 'n' well... well people were lookin' funny, 's'all.''
I force out a smile. ''Well ma'am, that's just the day that's in it. I've a lot on my mind. Things to remember. Chores to do.''
She nods understandingly. She leans toward me. '''Greybeard, eh? I know what its like. Y' climb your butt outta bed inna morning and wonder what in the hells the world's come to. Done it myself, too.''
So she's a rejuvie too. I have to laugh. ''Shouldn't you be off in retirement somewhere bouncing your grandchildren on your knee?''
She lets out a shrug. ''Been there, done it.'' She mimes theatrically. ''Had enough. Came back here two summers back. Hey, you keep yourself safe granddad, hear?''
''I will.'' She gives me a hearty punch on the shoulder and a big grin as she steps aside to let me walk past. I get about ten steps before I lurch to an abrupt stop. I see a distorted reflection in the window of a bait store - a twenty-something kid with ancient eyes.

Just another product of this century.