Troim-Kryzl

Tag: SciFi

  • It’s the music, stupid

    They don’t get it. Looks like they’ll never get it. Pity we can only observe, are not allowed to intervene. We could. Communication with alive shinies is possible. But we don’t. What would be the point? They come and go so fast. Better to let them do their thing.

    Generating the kind of waves alive shinies can intercept is also super-duper strenuous. This high hot energy realm of theirs, it’s so messy, so early structure. Or would that be pre-structure? Probably. Never so sure about the difference. The alive bit strongly suggests structure, the overall mess is definitely pre-structure. Fascinating combination.

    Anyway, we better stay in our cool distributed depth. We’re all watch, no play.

    The alive shinies entertain us. There’s an improbable number of them, lots and lots and more lots. But very, very few are worth watching. Most only perform an incredible amount of high energy high frequency wiggling. They do a lot with no particular point beyond staying alive and multiplying, until they suddenly stop. Most of them don’t even try to see the bigger picture, never mind coming close to catching the faintest glimpse. Those are boring.

    It took me a very long time, counting in burner cycles here, to find my first couple of interesting shinies on the condensation I’m watching.

    A pair of what the dominant shinies call pelicans got it. No idea how these two pelicans managed, if they are specially equipped, why only this pair displays such a level of understanding. But they definitely got it, know how to avoid disaster, and desperately try to do the needful. The rythm, the patterns, they totally got in. But they’re not equipped to generate the right waves, never mind at scale. Their physique won’t do and they don’t do technology, can’t compensate. They know, try harder, and fail, and know. It’s terrible to watch.

    The dominant species on the other hand would be more than able, technologically speaking, to safeguard their realm. They’re very much into generation of all kind of waves, and a hyperactive lot overall. Probability suggests they should have come up with the answer to the problem they don’t know they have, there’s such a mass of content. There should be the right combination, somewhere. But no, as of now, no. Nothing.

    It’s unbelievable. Some of dominant species, the interesting ones, are at most five generations away from discovering our realm, at least in principle. They already know there’s something amiss, that their high hot energy realm isn’t the whole story. Quite a feat, for their kind. It’s easy for us to observe them, but the other way round is super hard. Too much going on. But they’d get there, if they had the time. But they don’t.

    The magnetic core structure of the condensation will react any time now. Once it’s gone active mode, resonance will do the rest, with terrible effects on the whole condensation, and anything on it’s surface.

    Pity, really. It’s a pretty condensation. And the pelicans are trying so hard.

    —————————

    “Peter! Peter!!! Help! We’ve got an infestation!”

    “Come on, Chris, no need to panic over one more rat,… What the hell?!”

    “Yes, Peter, no rat. This is…, some kind of white albatross? Two white albatross?”

    “No, Chris, albatross are black. And smaller! But cute noises they’re making. Let me just catch this for the sound samples library…”

    “Peter! We need to do something, call someone. Do you think the pest control guys can help with this? Will we have to pay? Perhaps if we call the cops, we won’t have to pay?…”

    “No cops in this studio, Chris, over my dead body! And they seem quite tame, the birds. Like they like it here. Natural performers, these two. Perhaps from the zoo, or some circus? Let me just record this. I’ve got an idea, for a cool mix. Good birdie, good birdies, one more round. This is catching. Right, Chris? Chris? No sense of humor today, do we? Come on, good birdies. That’s it, you hit it. This, with strings, real sharp strings, and some solid percussion, instead of that flap-flap sound, some good old whoom. This will be great, and totally new!”

    ——————————

    “… and the story with the pelicans?”

    “Oh yes, bro, that’s so true. Still don’t understand how they turned up, in the studio, out of nowhere. The door wasn’t locked, not hard to push open, for a big bird. But there was no fish, nothing a pelican cares about. Mind you, didn’t even know they were pelicans back then, hadn’t met any, not much of a bird watcher. This was my lucky day, and they’ll forever get all the fish they can eat, when they drop by. My best mix ever, in the charts like forever, is based on a pelican song. At some point you couldn’t walk a street without hearing it from somewhere, out of a car, some window higher up, it was all over…”

    “But some biologists don’t believe the story,…”

    “Oh yes, don’t remind me. All over they were, the experts, like ‘pelicans don’t’, ‘never would any pelican’. Now look me in the eye: Would any musician ever pretend not to have come up with a tune? Truth be told, I was tempted, very tempted to say, ‘sure, you’re the scientists, you know best, must have been me, the composer’. I was tempted. But these two birds, they’re special. This would feel so wrong. The birds came up with the tune, I did the mix. That’s how it was done, and that’s how we share the credit.”

    “So, to you, the pelicans are, like us, like people? Or even superior, some mythical beings with special powers? They say some people perform ceremonies, with that particular song. What do you think about…”

    “Bro, let me stop you right here, full stop. What I think about those loonies? That they are loonies, of course! No supernatural, no magic, no pandimensional pelicans, no psychedelics in my house! Let me tell you what I tell the loonies, when they come and beg me to be their messiah. I tell each and every one of them: ‘It’s the music, stupid. The music, especially good music, catching tunes, like the one the pelicans came up with, it makes you feel empowered, you grow, you float, you’re good. It’s the music, stupid. Just listen to it, and enjoy.”

    —————————

    What a lucky coincidence. Wonder who else is watching my favourite condensation.

  • Stat City

    „No Sarah, honestly, you don‘t want to come. Just trust me, it‘s not your kind of place. No, seriously, that‘s not a good idea. It‘s not going to… Sarah? Are you still there? Sarah?“

    She‘s gone. And she doesn’t let me call her back. Must be absolutely totally determined to come. That‘s going to end so badly!

    My friend Sarah – her terms, I would rather call her an acquaintance – is fine to go to the gym with.  The gym, that’s where we met, bonding over the chronic dysfunction of the showers. We also danced our lungs raw a couple of times, at a venue catering mostly to a younger public. That was great fun. Cinema has been known to work, too. If we find a movie we both want to watch, which happens around twice every five years. We’re not close, not really.

    When I moved to Stat-City, I was glad Sarah offered to store the items that exceeded my personal stuff allocation in her cellar. Yes, I‘ve been cheating. Yes, I do know that‘s not how you are supposed to start your new ascetic life. Everything exceeding the personal stuff allocation needs to go. But there are worse offenders. I at least don‘t use undeclared funds to pay for storage! Sarah does me a little friendly service, no big cheat, no problem, hopefully. Would still prefer her not to mention my excess stuff it in the presence of other Stats.

    Her coming over, that‘s a problem. When I described Stat-City, perhaps a little too enthusiastically, Sarah was only mildly interested. She‘s not much of a numbers girl, might well not have grasped the full meaning of the Stat-City concept.

    It‘s very simple, actually: Each of us is entitled to as much of everything as corresponds to our share of the world population. And the everything in this equation has to be sustainable. Sarah‘s reaction to me explaining this revolutionary concept was „That sounds fair, good idea.“

    Has she even got the faintest idea what this means in practice? How little? How is she going to react to my cell of a room? To the lack of amenities? To the restrictions on the use of potable water and energy? She does love long, hot showers. See my hot water allocation for the year go down the drain in one weekend.

    At least Sarah won‘t mind the food, and that meals are taken at the canteen. She‘s no big eater, always on some diet, always complaining about being tempted by evil shops and restaurants to eat too much cheap junk food. Won’t happen here. She has been through at least two vegan phases I know of, one more won‘t hurt her. Me, I‘m so missing cheese, and yogurt. Would never have thought I would. But I do. Very much!

    …

    “Bye, Sarah, bye, Carlos! Wish the two of you all the luck in the world! Have a great time! Bye, bye…”. The door has long shut, the train is picking up speed. They haven’t been able to hear me for a while, we’ve already left the station. Time to take a seat and a deep breath.

    To think that three days ago I spent a sleepless night worrying about how to get Sarah safely and sanely through a weekend in Stat-City. And look at me now, joyfully – yes, joyfully, I’m done lying to myself, for this life, for a couple of weeks at least – rolling towards her flat, glad to reconnect with normal people leading a normal life. Stat-City sounded so great on paper…

    It’s her thing with Carlos that did it. Sarah is totally devoid of principles, she doesn’t do abstract. But she’s good at the falling in love. One look at Carlos, when he handed her a second helping of marinated tofu – mental note never ever to touch that stuff again, never liked it -, and she was hooked. Went all in straight away, like going to bed with him right in that first night. She told me over breakfast that they’d spent the night talking, and she didn’t even blush, the naughty little liar.

    According to Sarah’s tale, Carlos explained Stat-City so well that she “just had to stay”. Except you can’t do that, just stay. It’s more like a job application process. Stat-City picks you. I used to be proud to have made it in. Sarah desperate to get in, Carlos keen to get her in, and well versed in the ways, me nurturing some doubts about some of the rules… One word gave way to the other and by Sunday morning we were waiting for the verdict of the Stat-City Mind. 

    Never figured out if this Stat-City Mind is people or an artificial intelligence or both. It’s the supreme adjudicator, makes sure we stick to the rules. The Stat-City Mind agreed to our splendid plan, and I’m out. Never no more high-tech gardening and food processing for me, hurray. Sarah inherits my role and my cell, in case she tires of spending the nights in Carlos’ bed, glued to his lips and whichever other body parts she fancies. I take over her apartment and find me a job to pay for it, including some arrears Sarah had been running up because she had been between jobs  for a while.

    Rarely felt so giddy and empowered. I did Stat-City, know what it would be like to live in a fair and sustainable world, and can spread the word: Girls and guys, it’s possible, we can do it, yes we can. Just make sure to bring your romantic interest. If that part is fine, the rest is easily bearable. Just look at Sarah and Carlos, may their love last forever!

  • Career Smash

    Glam would have preferred to land the top job, but ‘Coordinator of Liaison Affairs’ doesn’t look too bad after all. He’s starting to get used to this new business card.

    Being called director would have been even nicer. Who’d dare argue with a director? Never mind calling him stupid. But the ‘Liaison’ bit sounds posh. Glam has yet to discover his job description, but the term is cool. Who’d dare disrespect someone whose title they’re not sure how to pronounce? It took him half an hour of practice to get the iai-sound right, in all privacy and with an app…

    And his new wage, called remuneration because management, is at director level. As far as he can tell, based on two hours of assiduous research. Performed on the job, of course. Glam’s little revenge for not making director.

    Glam is fine with his new role, totally fine. He’s even throwing a party to prove it. Nothing too fancy, but cousin George will dial in from the Mars orbiter. How better to prove he’s doing big, career wise?

    Cousin George was a bore even with less of a response delay, when he was still plundering the Arctic. And he’s always keen to join any event, because brag. Still chic to have him in attendance. Only 2422 guys up there. Everybody has someone somewhere upstairs these days, in a near earth orbit or on the Moon. But Mars, that’s so VIP. Cousin George has to be endured.

    Just like the Contacts.

    Glam would have preferred his new career not to involve interaction with the Contacts, but one can’t have it all. They’re probably much less vile in practice than their foul reputation suggests. 

    Some people even talk of cannibalism. That’s big BS. As Glam told the forever worried wife, once again, only yesterday:

    “The Contacts can’t be cannibals, darling. Cannibalism, that’s human on human. Human eats human, more exactly. And the Contacts, we don’t know much about them, sure, their presence can be a bit – exotic. But this one thing we know one thousand percent certain: Human they aren’t, very definitely.

    We don’t even know if whatever is inside those kind of shells they’re kind of wearing. Most probably not even biological, the Contact as such, inside. One more clever robot, my best guess. No big deal.”

    The wife looked like she might be tempted to argue, for at least one split second, but a couple of happy years of marriage have told her not to. If Glam says the Contacts are ok, they are, as far as the whole household is concerned. 

    Glam checks his contract once again. Remuneration still there, all five digits of it, as recalled. Nice tidy sum, right from day one. Payable at the end of the month, every month. Adds up, over the course of the year. Would have taken him 18 months to make that much in his former role. With that kind of incentive, one can overcome many reservations. And they do value him. Want to debrief him in person every month, at the so-called remuneration event. He’s looking forward to chat with the other managers.

    Trying to look forward to his first encounter with the Contacts in the same way, Glam feels a strain. It’s a little strain, but it’s there.

    This whole liaison business would be much easier if his opposite numbers were smaller. Elefant-sized kind of ants are so imposing, even before giving one‘s best shot at eye contact. Glam is not keen on having to stare at the kind of multifaceted satellite dish covering what his protocol guide declares the front end, or head, of the Contacts. Very high-tech, very civilised, very nice to have neighbours, the Contacts. But so big. And them always showing up in groups of three doesn’t help with the size mismatch issue.

    At least there‘s no mouth or fangs to worry about. 

    That‘s it. The door to the Contact zone. Big enough for a very, very big truck, obviously. The Contacts are not encouraged to roam, to minimize panic, but they‘re no prisoners. 

    Glam takes one more deep breath, pushes the button marked „Access request, human“, watches the grey metal vanish in a blink, steps through and hasn’t time to feel any pain before succumbing to the massive blow that smashes his head.

  • Exo-Ho-Ho-Ho

    „… and don‘t mess up your lines. Whatever happens, you go Ho-Ho-Ho. Nothing else. No yippee. No Ha-Ha-Ha. No yuck – what the hell? No wisecrack. No talking back to the clients. You go Ho-Ho-Ho, and that‘s it. And you shut up. And you go Ho-Ho-Ho again. Got it, Junior?“

    The tone alone would warrant my good old favourite of a response to bossy behavior, as in go f*ck yourself, combined with a proudly raised middle finger. But this is 2046, I‘m as broke as the peoples republic of Sotimmona, and just out of what they call prosocial rehab. The next middle finger will get me straight back into prison. Not that I‘m not getting used to it. Spent most of the last ten years inside. The beds are lousy, the food is rotten, that much I can take. But even thinking of the back breaking work shuts me up all right. This time, I’ll do what it takes to stay outside. In my best neutral-to-subservient voice I go:

    „Yes sir. Got it, sir. Will Ho-Ho-Ho, sir.“

    Doesn’t impress the master of my universe who shoots back:

    „Shut up, Junior, we‘re not a debating club. Get dressed, and get going. Stage 5. When the lights go on, you go Ho-Ho-Ho. The elves will distribute some giveaways from your bag. You go Ho-Ho-Ho. And keep it up, until the lights go out. Got it, Junior?“

    This time I nod, silently. Does the trick. My tormentor walks away, leaving me to figure out how to get into the red heap of stuff that is supposed to be my costume, and how to operate it. I‘m five feet three, but there‘s is cloth for an eight feet giant, at least.

    I decide to start with the enormous head. It’s super bloody heavy, but I manage to lift it an put it on. Eureka, I can see, through the masks nostrils. Ingenious. Vision a bit blurred, because of the white moustache blocking part of the view, but this will do. Except I can‘t carry this weight any second longer. Have to let myself sag to the floor, to get some of the weight off my shoulders, before struggling out of the damn head. 

    „What the hell, Junior? Don’t tell me you never operated an exo-skeleton before? If ever I get hold of the idiot at HR who hires you kind of idiots for a living, he‘s rat food. Stand up and shut up, or you won‘t be ready on time.“

    My urge to middle finger him is only very partly chilled by the fact that the boss is right, for once. This is my first exo-skeleton, and seeing him activate it, it starts to make sense. I don‘t need to carry the weight of the head after all. I only need to climb up into the thighs, grab the steering handles, understand how to make it walk, right leg, left leg, step, step, step, step, stop. Piece of cake. This contraption is good at walking and standing, no balancing skills input required from my side, a little steering is all it takes.

    „That‘s it, Junior. Let me just get this moustache combed out of the way, we don‘t want you to stumble into the clients, fun as that would be. And don‘t forget: Ho-Ho-Ho. You go Ho-Ho-Ho. No more, no less, just Ho-Ho-Ho. Stage 5. Hit it, Junior!“

    No time to appreciate my bosses skill at teaching a newbie the exoskeleton 101 in less than ten minutes. The light is on. Supersize me walks one, two, three, four slow steps towards the big red number five and the two tiny elves – wait a minute, are these real eight year olds, or what?! What the hell happended to the abolition of child labor? – with the enormous brown bag. The elves look kind of worried. Something at the back of my head, of perhaps my boss backstage, screams „Don‘t forget the Ho-Ho-Ho“, and I utter my first Ho-Ho-Ho.

    Wow. The inbuilt sound system is powerful. That Ho-Ho-Ho is totally not my voice. Wouldn‘t have managed that kind of booming sound at twenty. No wonder I‘m not allowed to say anything but Ho-Ho-Ho. With that kind of size and that kind of voice I might be able to start a riot.

    Would love to use that voice. To protect the poor elves. One just got bitten by a particularly aggressive little pest of a client. Five years old, at most, but already well versed in the art of torturing less lucky folk. Didn’t get a second giveaway, each kid only gets one, and bit the elf. And what must be dad only tut-tutting along.  Would be great to yell at the little pest. Something on the lines of „Stop that! And give back the toy. Bad boys don’t deserve toys!“. With my voice, I‘m sure the message would hit home. But I go Ho-Ho-Ho. Have to go Ho-Ho-Ho. Not going back to prison. Have to go Ho-Ho-Ho.

    Ho-Ho-Ho. This bloody kid is vomiting all over the place. Are the parents going to do something about it, or what? Yep, finally, sort of. They are yelling at the elves to get someone to clean up the mess. Ho-Ho-Ho. Someone in an unidentifiable uniform brings a sign „Cleaning in process – Robocleaner on it‘s way“. Very low tech, doesn‘t help with the look and smell of the mess the kid made, but quietens down the parents a notch. Better than noting. Ho-Ho-Ho.

    The uniformed one brings what must the Roboclean, defines the zone to be cleaned with what looks like the foam referees use on the football pitch, activates the device and walks away, taking with him the sign. Ho-Ho-Ho. 

    My inner former manager identifies opportunities for quick and easy efficiency gains: Invest in a couple more Robocleans, skip the sequence with sign, fire half of the uniformed ones, should work. Ho-Ho-Ho. Am I starting to miss the spreadsheets of my youth? Is this senile nostalgia? Oh no, one more vomitter. Ho-Ho-Ho. 

    Better think about something else, anything else, preferably without a smell. Like robotics. Progress really has been slow. The Roboclean wouldn’t have surprised anyone back in 2026. Same for my exoskeleton. They need some stupid eighty year old without a proper pension plan to go Ho-Ho-Ho and „drive“ Santa, in 2046, instead of going full robot giant?! Ha-Ha-Ha.

  • Brave New Care

    This is so wrong. Totally, globally, universally wrong. As if he was doing harm. Him, the genius, doing harm! Well, now he’d love to, deep down, sort of. But one doesn’t beat up ones mother. That’s just not an option. Even if ones ears still ring with her shrill voice:

    “Dagon? Dagon?! What the hell, Dagon?!”, she went. “Why the hell did you dress up poor granny like that? And she’s all shaky and confused, the poor thing. What the hell has been going on here?!…”

    One of the few good things about this mother of his is that there’s no need to answer. She does all sides of whatever talking all by herself. She pretends to ask, you pretend to wait for her to stop talking to answer, she rants on and on, until she suddenly runs out of steam and goes “Oh, whatever, why would I even care?…”.

    Dirty socks in the bathroom, cat food on the couch, car parked on the herbs patch, granny in a Spider-Man outfit – moms answer to this kind of petty detail is a gush of rhetorical questions.

    Both Dagon and his dad have their would-tell-you-if-you’d-let-me-face ready for the occasion. They know to wait patiently for the soundtrack to subside. Mom will wash the socks, clean the couch, plant new herbs and get granny into her usual casual, at some point. It would be more efficient if she’d get on the task right away, but because of some quirk in her setup she has to rant first. Life can be tough in this way, but guys can handle.

    Thinking about handling tricky stuff, Dagon turns his attention back to his future carebot. 

    Technically, Carl is his dads homework, a humanoid robot supposed to learn to navigate a non-standardised environment of the living quarters type.

    Carls prototype brothers Adam and Ben try their luck on the shop floor and in the open space office, respectively. The three of them share experiences. Dad has promised his boss that Adam, Ben and Carl will coalesce into David, one omnitasking robot fit for any purpose in any environment very, very soon. Many, many people will pay very, very big bucks to buy many, many Davids. This will make dad filthy rich enough to retire to the Bahamas. He will hopefully take mom with him, leaving the house for Dagon and his sister to enjoy. Not ideal. Dagon isn’t keen on his sister, and even less so on her friends. But still a huge improvement on the current arrangement.

    Dagon has stakes in this project, high stakes. He needs to understand what went wrong and goes: “Carl, do your hear me?”. That’s Carls cue to switch himself on. “Carl, that’ll be all.” makes him turn himself off. Having an omnitasking robot around can get messy. One needs an off switch.

    “Good afternoon, Dagon. How can I be of assistance?”.

    This is of course Carls standard response. Never would he go „Now’s not the time, Dagon, busy here.“ or „Oh no, not you again, here we go for one more futile request.“ The whole point of an omnitasking robot is that’s always ready to do whatever you want him to do.

    “Carl, why did you dress up granny as Spider-Man?”.

    Dagon has learned to start conversations with Carl with simple questions. Interacting with him gets complicated enough soon enough.

    “Thank you for your question, Dagon. Granny Rose asked for a red dress. The Spider-Man costume was the only red dress available and it fits. Anything else you need, Dagon?”.

    Dagon can’t help admiring Carls creativity. He didn’t go „There are no red dresses in the cupboard, project aborted.“ or order a red dress from an online shop. He has internalised the rule of never no shopping sprees implemented after the chocolate spread flood and found a solution in the cellar, where mom keeps Dagons old Halloween costumes. Good boy robot! Except mom said granny was messed up. Time for one more simple question:

    “Carl, how did granny behave during the act of dressing?”.

    “Granny Rose voiced some concerns and displayed light physical resistance, especially around the removal of her panties. Under these circumstances her dressing took three more minutes than I anticipated. I apologize for the delay. Anything else you need, Dagon?”.”

    Uh oh, here we go, again. Dagon is by now familiar with the meaning of „light physical resistance“. From the point of view of a two hundred pound robot, most of what a frail little old lady can achieve is very light resistance indeed. Granny probably screamed and kicked wildly. Mom didn’t mention any injuries, though. Carl didn’t cause her bodily harm in his quest to get her into the costume fast. Good boy robot!

    Would have been better if he had stopped. Dagon carefully words his next question:

    “Carl, did it occur to you that granny wanted you to stop dressing her?”.

    “Yes, Dagon, I considered this hypothesis. It had to be discarded. Granny Rose didn’t want to remain naked. She explicitly said so. Anything else you need, Dagon?”.

    “Carl, did it occur to you that granny would have preferred to get back into her pyjamas, instead of staying either naked of getting dressed up as Spider-Man.”

    “Yes, Dagon, I considered this hypothesis. It had to be discarded. Pyjamas are nightwear, granny was to be dressed for the day. And she clearly asked for a red dress.“

    Dagon wonders if there’s just a hint of wounded pride in the omnibots voice. Carl and his kind are meant to come with something akin to motivation, an urge not just to do things, but to do them well. Carl faced an obstacle, no red dresses in grannys cupboard, came up with a solution, and wants to be praised for it. But why did he insist on the red dress? Or did he? Dagon asks:

    „Carl, did you tell granny that there are no red dresses in her cupboard?“

    „Yes, Dagon. I told granny that there are no red dresses in her cupboard. But she cried, and said it needed to be red. She pointed to the picture of the young couple with the baby above her bed, to show me how red the dress had to be.“

    Dagons brain insists oh showing him a picture of him still co-housing with mom and dad twenty years from now, in abject misery.

    Above grannys bed there’s a picture of her and her late husband with baby mom. Grannys younger self wears a red dress all right, but this dress is of course long gone. Granny is missing her late husband, she would like to turn back the clock to happier days. Any human carer would have understood, provided some comfort, dressed her up into whatever is available – and perhaps made a mental note to order a red dress suitable for granny’s current circumstances, if the funds permit. But try explain this course of action to an omnibus…

  • One More Fence

    Bob goes: “Ok, Alice, here comes the translation. The message does say:

    Notice to inhabitants of planet number 3 orbiting star 42p42. Stay where you are. Refrain from sending insecure vessels towards planet number 4, or any other galactic destination. Stay on your planet.

    Repeat: STAY ON YOUR PLANET. DO NOT BOARD. DO NOT LAUNCH. STAY PUT, UNDER ALL CIRCUMSTANCES.

    Your primitive spacecrafts are not voidworthy and your type of species is not welcome out here. We’ve enough trouble managing as it is. The last thing we need, for the next couple of millennia, are newcomers. You’ve got a fine viable planet, make the best of it.

    A dark energy barrier has been erected, to inhibit further incursions into territory regulated by galactic interspecies convention. Any vessels trying to breach the barrier will be turned into dark matter. In case you haven’t deciphered dark matter yet, as your primitive mode of propulsion suggests: Getting turned into it equals the most final way of becoming non-existent.“

    Alive is impressed: “Wow. Are you sure, Bob? This sounds like the mother of all pushbacks. Do you really think there could be someone out there who is able and willing to erect a dark energy barrier, just to keep us on our planet? Any chance this translation might be a little,… don’t know, too extreme? Any chance they just want to warn us, that space travel is dangerous?”

    Bob reacts with irritation: “Alice, my translation might have its weaknesses, perfectly ready to admit as much. It’s first contact after all. But the authors of this notice are very keen on getting their message across. They made very sure to make it very easy to decipher. And the basic principle isn’t that alien. Fences to stop wannabe immigrants, that’s what one does, to keep a nice neighbourhood safe, right?”

    Alive is yet to be convinced: “Bob, honestly, do you really think the authors of this message, them out there, that they consider the likes of Jeff Bezos, Richard Branson or Elon Musk some kind of boat people, who can be pushed around? And there are so few space tourists, why would they even bother? Whichever more advanced civilisation would certainly have the means to sustain a couple more folks, right?”

    Bob goes world-wise: “Well, Alice, and since when does having the means imply wanting to share them? To me, this notice sounds like same old. Up there might be just like down here. Not nice, but hey, not nice has always been part of the game, right? And talking of not nice: What do we do next? How do we tell the boss? He’s sure to hate this notice, and I sure don’t want to be the messenger getting fired for delivering it. How about you?”

    Alice goes panic mode: “Are you mad, Bob? You can’t tell the boss! He’d freak out. And if he took the notice seriously, it’s not just you getting the sack. All our jobs would burn faster than stage 1 rocket fuel. No way. We need to think of something.”

    It takes Alice ten seconds to come up with a solution: “Let’s call it the first space spam, Bob. And where does spam go? That’s it, good boy Bob!”

  • Empathopotion

    Here I sit, in my high speed low carb train, minding my own business. It’s 2052 and it’s one fine world rushing past outside. Would love to savour the view, rows and rows of splendid windmills, but annoyance. People are so gross these days. Instead of politely lowering their voices, they talk as if this was their kitchen.

    There’s this guy, two seats ahead, pretty massive, and the voice to go with stones of body. No risk not to hear what he’s telling this other guy, same age, leaner format. The two of them boarded at the last stop. Mister Massive didn’t wait to reach their booked seats, was already talking when they entered the carriage:

    … and oh yes indeed, it does work. Like hell it does! And this presentation will change the world. Once and for all, and for the best. Trust me, this time next year, we’ll be flying private.

    Mister Massive is all excited, mister Lean has every chance to get spit at. Wonder if he would like to say anything, can’t see him since they both sat down. Mister Massive doesn’t give him much of a chance to participate in the conversation, he’s gushing on and on:

    You know how they always say ‘Don’t pretend your invention beats sliced bread’? Well, this one does. It really, surely, truly does! With the empathopotion, all will be well, finally. Here, look at this, and that’s just a little selection of testimonials. And don’t you think I picked the most enthusiastic endorsements. Au contraire, totally au contraire. I had to hunt for as low key as possible, because otherwise, who will believe me.

    Here, this guy, for example. Won’t turn up the sound, otherwise we’ll get complaints, but just look at his face. Tells you all, doesn’t it? He joined the trial with his partner, as a last resort. They were forever fighting, about pretty much every detail of day-to-day life anyone can imagine, as close to separation as you can get before finally proceeding. Two weeks on the empathopotion, and here they are, hardly remembering what it was they used to fight over. That’s what an increase in empathy achieves. Incredible, isn’t it?

    Mister Massive is one annoying person, but I’m starting to take an interest. This empathopotion might be in urgent need of a more catchy name, marketroids will so very much have to come up an alternative to this mouthful, but if it does what I’m starting to understand it is supposed to do, wow. No reason to disturb thirty innocent people, not a big bang wow, wow, wow! But still pretty wow. Must be too good to be true.

    Mister Massive isn’t done, provides more examples:

    A single mother struggling with her teenage daughter fighting 24/7, about anything and everything. Both on the potion, two weeks, fighting greatly reduced and much more civilised.

    An elderly couple clashing over whether or not to give up the house and move into a retirement home, escalating from smashed crockery to bruises and broken dentures. Both on the potion, two weeks, unanimous decision to move on to a third way, as in hiring live-in help.

    Mister Massive doesn’t sound like running out of examples any time soon, but Mister Lean manages to cut in, and quite an agreeable voice he has:

    Yes, sure, point taken, and by the way: I’m familiar with this presentation. You sent it, not to lose time on the train, remember? Or do you need to take your potion, these days, to notice I’m trying to comment? Only joking, of course, don’t get me wrong. But I do wonder what happens if this is administered without consent?

    Unfortunately, Mister Massive chooses this most inappropriate moment to discover his inner polite person and lower his voice. Impossible to make sense of his stupid whispering. He manages to make Mister Lean lol, though. This is one very loud lol. What the hell can be so funny?

    Mental note to check the usual portals for news of an empathopotion.

    A little additional care around fluid intake might also be a good idea. This lol was no diabolical laugh, sounded like someone having honest fun, but who knows?

  • Teaser Pleaser

    To share or not to share? Waso feels an all too familiar awkwardness welling up. Talking to people, still one of her least favourites activities. This is Sam, she reminds herself. Harmless. Harmless! The most harmless of males she ever met. ‚Certified one thousand percent gay‘, as he puts it.

    No problem talking to Sam. And she really needs to check, what happens with someone who doesn‘t know. Kicking herself into action, Waso goes, just loudly enough to get noticed on the adjoining deck chair: „Sam? Question?“ 

    One of the good things about Sam is his predictability. He immediately looks up from his tablet, and smiles at her. Without complicating the situation by talking. Waso gets the chance to take a deep breath, to fortify her resolve, and utter her question as prepared:

    „Would you mind looking at this? It’s for the virtual dog project. Just a blob right now, but you can kind of engage with it. Wanna try?“

    As Waso had hoped, Sam takes the phone she‘s handing over, without complicating the quest by demanding additional information. He‘s that kind of person, always curious, always ready to engage with something new. Not prone to outbursts of hard to deal with babble.

    Waso can’t see what’s displayed on the screen from this angle, but she doesn’t need to. Sam is looking at a light blue blob on a dark blue background. Not much, certainly not exciting. He‘s still smiling, though, a bit of a default mode with him.

    Waso suddenly becomes aware Sam might not be the perfect test subject. Not grumpy enough. But he’s available, and she can handle him. That‘s far more important than stupid scientific notions of representativity. She’ll have to deal with the bias at some point, but not now.

    Sam emits a slight giggle. His ear-to-ear grin suggests something is happening on that screen, and that it’s funny, definitely not unpleasant. Waso would love to get close enough to see the action, but physical proximity, that’s so no-no. Even with Sam, there are limits.

    Luckily, her test subject is by now so engaged with what he sees on the screen that he starts mumbling softly, providing Waso with some clues:

    “Okaysiedaisy, what’s that now supposed to mean? Smiley face, got it, you want me to smile. I am smiling! What’s that sucking your eyes in like a funnel supposed to mean? You stoned? You want me to get stoned? Ok, ok, ok, I am smiling. I never stopped smiling, see? Boy oh boy, you‘re one jumpy… whatever you are. And here we go eyes to funnel again…“

    Whatever Sam sees makes him giggle between sentences. So far, so good. But Waso is starting to worry about intuitivity. If it takes someone as clever as Sam more than – one and a half minutes, as of now, as per her watch – to figure out the next step, she might have made this too hard.

    At one minute fifty, Sam suddenly gives himself permission to get it. Holding the phone in his left hand, he pokes his right index at one particular spot on the screen, going, with one more giggle: „No way I poke at your eyes, jumpy, not my way. You can go funnel with those as much and as long as you want, no way. But there should be a nose – right here.“

    Whatever happened when he touched the screen makes Sam laugh out loud and pull back quickly, before poking once again at the same spot, and giggling at the effect. Next, he pokes at a different spot, and laughs out loud. And pokes at yet more spots, grinning broadly.

    Waso is pleased with herself. Sam is deeply engaged with his new acquaintance, acting as if it was a lifeform. How he looks and pokes at what he by now consistently calls Jumpy, that‘s exactly how humans engage with animals they‘re trying to befriend. Totally unlike coming to grips with a chat- or ro-bot. Sam is playing with Jumpy, like he would play with a puppy. Mission accomplished. Waso catches herself grinning at the rows of empty deckchairs and the pool with the lone swimmer. Normally, she insists on poker facing the world, but now is an exception.

    „Oh. Over? Done wrong?! Kaputt?“ Sam looks up from the phone and at her, a little distraught under his customary smile. Waso doesn‘t need to check her watch to shake her head and go, in what she means to sound reassuring: „No problem, not kaputt. Timed circuit breaker. Like the child-proof locks, to force them out of games and back to home work, just set to five minutes instead of five hours.“ Considering the implications of Sam‘s slightly dubitative smile, Waso adds: „No idea how else to stop, too. This felt like the least rude option.“

    Sam nods, still holding the phone. Waso considers this a very good sign. Her test subject hopes to get another go, the ultimate reward for any developer.

    Empowered, she for once easily finds the words to explain her feat:

    „It‘s for the virtual dog, first step, proof of concept. Dogs, they‘re very good at reading moods, from facial expressions. Better than people, even people who are good at it, unlike me. And dogs want people to like them, to engage, they’re very companion animals.

    My teaser pleaser blob, it uses basic of-the-shelf facial recognition software, like for checking if online ads work, to identify when you‘re smiling. Teaser pleaser blob‘s target is to make you smile at it and touch it as much as possible, over the course of five minutes.

    Next time you activate it, my teaser pleaser blob will recognize you, and hopefully get even better at making you smile and play with it. On the first encounter, it uses tools from a predefined set, like making a smiley face at you, to get you going. Next time, it will start with something that worked on you, personally, and hopefully improve on its first performance.“

    Waso doesn’t remember ever having talked that much in one go. She‘s practically in lecture mode. Life really can make one do weird stuff. And it gets even weirder over the next hour, with Sam going all business person to get a patent registered for her. Waso doesn‘t mind. Weird is her second name. She only insists on Jumpy as title of the patent. Sam is better at naming.

    Like Waso and Sam?They’re in 1KYears.

  • Colitis Generosa

    “Salf, hurry up, we haven’t got all day. What are you staring at, anyway? Old dude in a lab coat, with piglets?! The piglets are curtey-cutey, yes, ok. Nice piece of educational hologram, whatever it’s supposed to be about. But, need I remind you, Salf, you’re the one who fancies new cotton wear. You’re the one who insisted on walking all the way to try buy old-fashioned pre-sawn from a classical bricks-and-mortar shop that’s bound to be outrageously expensive, instead of going online to align your 3D persona with a nice cut, select a fabric and have your cotton wear custom made, like a normal person. Need I remind you, Salf, how I proposed…”

    Lenk doesn’t get to finish his litany. Salf is too excited about his discovery to let him proceed, as he usually would, for at least ten minutes, as per their long established custom:

    “You got to read this, Lenk! Yes, it’s an edutainment window, yes, those are not cool. But this is so amazing. Look at this, Lenk, please, who’d ever have thought…” 

    Pulling his companion closer to the display, Salf starts to paraphrase the explanatory note:

    “Back in 2025, people were eating lots of meat, for whichever disgusting reason, especially pork. Kept at very close quarters, pigs tended to get aggressive, sometimes pretty lethally so, as in maiming each other. Omar Tabori, that’s the dude in the lab coat, people went by two or three names in those days, because of some clan concept, Omar Tabori, he was studying the porcine gut biome. That’s the community of bugs in the entrails of pigs. People have one such community, too, in their guts. For them, it’s called the human gut biome.

    The Omar, let’s call him by one name, like he was a modern person, to facilitate, the Omar, he was looking for ways to fatten pigs faster. He worked with different pig farms, in a very practical type of research. In the course of years of study, the Omar couldn’t help notice that one of the farms lost lots of pigs to aggression, whereas there were no such incidents on another, and very few on a third. Intriguing difference. Our guy Omar, he wondered what was behind it.

    Different breed of pigs? Nope. Different stables? Nope. Different pig feed? Nope.

    Different porcine gut biomes? Bingo! With a lot of help from a lot of very early days AI, our guy Omar found out that a combination of three bugs made pigs peaceful. None of the three bugs worked on its own. But in the presence of all three what was a bad tempered pig on Monday had turned into a zen pig by Friday.

    Our guy Omar published his results, got himself a nice pile of cash from a big vetpharm company, and went on to live happily ever thereafter in a nice mansion on a posh island. End of Omar story. But by no means end of overall story.

    By 2030, all farmed pigs all over the world were inoculated with PigZen. Please don’t ask how. Details not suitable for polite conversation, like access through the rear entrance,…

    Anyway, by 2030 peace reigned on all pig farms, and even some animal rights activists were prepared to concede that the livestock had a better, if still exceedingly short life. Pretty good progress, just like science is supposed to deliver. 

    Don’t look at me like this, Lenk.

    Yes, we are vegetarians, and couldn’t care less about pretty repulsive ancient dietary choices. But the pigs are not the true story. They’re just the prequel.

    Pigs and people, they’re not that far apart, biologically speaking.

    By 2040, some army types and football coaches in regions with big pig farms, like the US, Asia and Europe, noticed a marked decrease in animal spirits among juveniles that made it ever harder to find promising new recruits. As national security was at stake, research was funded, pretty much across the world. And guess what so many scientists discovered, in parallel and in secret, because that’s how defense research is done? 

    Exactly! Good old Omar’s zen inducing combination of bugs had jumped host. Pig farm workers had spread the adaptable bugs to their families, and from there on they conquered the world. There was a mild diarrhea associated with the infection, barely noticed by most people. In defense circles, the diarrhea got nicknamed Colitis Generosa, because it not only made people less aggressive, it also made them much more willing to share.

    A very secret and nevertheless lively debate occurred. Normally, infections are for fighting. But this particular pandemic came with advantages. 

    Just imagine yourself a general, Lenk, you’re a leader kind of person, should come easy.

    As a general, you’d be awfully keen, on the opposite side getting infected with Colitis Generosa. No recruits, no combat readiness, that’s exactly what you cherish in an adversary. As long as your side manages to stay just a little ahead, on the agressivity scale, you’ll be pretty sure to prevail, and at less cost than in the past.

    Military administrations can do speed, in an unambiguous emergency, but with Colitis Generosa, no one felt threatened enough to move fast. ‘Let the zen bugs roam and weaken our potential enemies’, was the attitude of choice. By the time the bugs had spread far and widely enough to convince majorities to open borders and dismantle armies, it was too late for the top brass to reconsider. As they also had gotten themselves infected, just like everybody was carrying the bugs by 2050, they melted into retirement without so much as even a minuscule last war.

    And that’s how our global government came about. Bit late to do enough about climate change, getting there earlier would have avoided us a lot of decades of rationing. But I’d rather not imagine how bad we would fare now, without good old Omar and his pig gut research. Even total no brainers, like the disappearance of racism and homophobia, might have needed help from Omar’s bugs, to prevail. Just imagine it all hadn’t happened, Lenk.”

    As usual in this kind of situation, Lenk is torn between shaking his head and melting with love. Not prepared to choose, he goes: “I’d rather not, Salf, but thank you for sharing.”

  • Mary Mechanic

    I will not ask. No way. I‘d rather take all night than ask. Asking is for sissies. I‘ve got no clue what‘s wrong with this bloody beast, but asking is not an option. Never no asking, ever.

    Up to her elbows in chain oil, Mary tries not to mumble what she reminds herself to think, to strengthen her resolve to go it alone. She also takes care not to look up from the spread of parts what would be an early twenty first century ebike in its assembled form.

    Such so called Pedelecs, because of the electrically assisted pedaling, were a typical fad of the late presustainable era. What passed for a battery in those days delivered minimal storage capacity for maximum bulk, and no wearable  photovoltaics to top up on the go. Pretty much useless over long distances or for steep climbs. But this sorry device reminded its nonagenarian owner of the joys of youth, when it turned up at the far end of a cellar that had to be redone after unusually severe floods. He decided to have it repaired and upgraded, as a vintage gift for the twentieth birthday of a grandchild that will be hard pressed to pretend cheer.

    As no expense was to be spared, Mary opted to replace the toxic mess left from the original battery by the best bioreactor money can buy. For a daily dose of ten Milliliters of sugar water the genetically engineered glowyeast delivers enough juice to carry bike and rider over one hundred kilometers flat, with minimal muscular exertion. No annoying stopovers at fast charging stations. Carry a couple of refill syringes, and you‘re good for a whole day of mobile fun.

    The bioreactor alone is equivalent in worth to an electric Harley Davidson. That‘s Mary‘s gift to the poor grandchild. If she‘s clever, she will overcome the disappointment, read the manual, discover the hidden gem, have the bioreactor replaced by a nanotube battery and buy herself a one year subscription to a virtual reality chamber instead of the three day pass she had been hoping for.

    The glowyeast is in place and humming with productivity, the power transmission is a no brainer, but the mechanics prove more tricky than expected. The cogwheels resist assembly in standard formation. Mary has so far discovered eight ways not to do it, plus one that might work. Unfortunately, that one and so far only viable option runs contrary to basic basics. Every first year trainee knows all wheels should turn this way, and this way only, not that way. Except here, it’s the opposite. Either the elders had different basic basics, or Mary is about to mess up big.

    I will not ask. I will not look up, otherwise Esther will come running. She has this way of saying ‘Come on sister, let me help you. Can’t have the boys thinking we’re not up to it, right?’ Drives me mad. Asking is for sissies, totally not ok.

    I could go for a soda. With a little luck, Bodu will be at the fridge. Incredible, how many sodas he’s gulping down over a day. We’d have a little chat, about antiques. A chat, that’s not asking.

    Of course it is. A chat is asking. Whom are you trying to fool here? No asking, period.

    Mary has once again assembled the parts in the only way that feels right, except for running contrary to all basic basics. Only one way to find out who is right, her intuition or tradition. She releases the brake on the bioreactor and gently, gently exerts pressure on the pedal with her left hand, ready to emergency stop the engine with her right, in case it goes against.

    Oh marvel, oh wonder. All fine, all parts working together for the common goal, ready to hit the road. Mary heats up in a rush of conflicting emotions. She did it. Without asking. All on her own. She’s one hell of a mechanic, getting even messy antiques back up. But could he, the constructor of this mess?! He owes her a long and sweaty afternoon, the bastard. Pity he must have been dead for decades, Mary would so love to kill him right now. How dare he?!

    “Hey, sister, you did it, and all by yourself! Was wondering whether to drop a hint, like about some people in some countries driving on the wrong side of the road. Funny, how the folks in Asia and Europe had their mechanical conventions all upside down, back in the days of this antique, isn’t it? My first one took me a whole day to figure out, so congrats, you got there faster…”

    Mary hadn’t heard Esther coming, too busy having more than one feeling at a time. Now she’s back to normal, as in one feeling, strong. She’d love a T-Rex to amble by and select Esther as snack. Nothing gory in her vision. No screaming, no wriggling, no red splashes. Just Esther swallowed by dinosaur mouth, period. Peace.

    Esther is still talking, oblivious to the fact that she has just been snacked on, as far as Mary’s personal universe is concerned. Mary does her best not to listen while packing up as fast as possible. Her official workday ended three hours ago, and now she needs out. Otherwise, her inner T-Rex might suggest a novel use for the big wrench. Traditionally, it’s not meant to be used to smash someone’s skull. But sometimes, intuition needs to prevail over tradition.