Story #1
posted by story on December 27th, 2008 at 11:01PM
posted by story on December 27th, 2008 at 11:01PM
WHAT IT MEANS TO BE A GOOD PERSON
The year is 24AU. That's 24 years After Union--after global unification. Terrorism has all but disappeared here--just a few rare whispers in the air of remote attacks along the eastern perimeter. But everywhere else in the colony, and in all the other continental colonies, a stable peace has finally been achieved.
How? To understand it, we'll need to start many years earlier--before the union. As manual labor became less and less valuable, due to increasing automation, the real money was to be made in the trade of intellectual property. To ensure this, the idea of a new specialized implant was proposed. It took a very very long time for the public to grow comortable with the new technology. But the exact specs and limitations of it were clearly put forth, and this ultimately, eventually, silenced the paranoid Big Brother conspiracy critics.
All ideas have a unique neural pattern, and the original implants merely filtered protected ideas from entering the long-term memory regions of the brain. A simple registration process was required to protect an idea, and once it's signature entered the central servers, and from there the implant's daily-updated cache, you would not be able to retain it in your mind for more than a few minutes--unless of course you obtained permission, in which case, on your next sync-cycle, it would be removed from your blacklist.
Artisans thrived. Anyone could contribute some original idea to his craft. And everyone did. And they were fairly compensated. Innovative builders, artists, designers, writers. The system was a huge success.
Of course, there were a few, very few, who would not be persuaded by rational arguments. Though they could not offer any specific flaws with the design, neither implementational problems, nor general systematic ones, they clung to their paranoid propaganda that portrayed the implants as some kind of oppressive chain. And, well, shit, now that I think of it, I suppose it did limit their freedom a little--their freedom to profit from other people's intellectual property. Though they would never say anything so directly.
Most of these naive troublemakers eventually became convinced of the idea, and the others disappeared. Decades later, as the sea-levels began to rise at an alarming rate, and vast expanses of the lowlands were reclaimed back into the seas, humanity had been thrust into chaos and famine like never before in recorded history. But, as usual, we found a solution. All the great civilizations had by then already implemented a robust infrastucture for their neural implants. We used this system to transmit optimal food and resource allocation parameters to everyone, in real-time. So long as people generally followed the computational-models for their nutritional intakes, they would be assured survival. Some were informed to eat every second day. Others even less. And it worked--at least for those who followed the guidelines. Of course there were some who simply refused to trust anyone and anything, and they ultimately perished, along with perhaps a great many others that depended on their rationing of the ever-decreasing resources.
Not many months after the rationing had managed to save the vast majority of it's civilized members, plans began to emerge for the restructuring of the populations. The great costal metropolises had all been swallowed by the insatiable seas. Almost 60% of the earth's best land had been taken away, which turned almost half of the world's population into lost nomads. People were forced into the centers of their continents, each of which essentially sustained a single huge colony of survivors. Massive and endless walls were soon constructed along the perimeters of the colonies to protect whatever land was left. Every year they would have to be reinforced, and extended several meters higher.
Even after the rhythms of life had once again taken hold of the people, the benefits of a centrally computed and modelled rationing scheme were undeniable. Optimal resource retrieval and allocation were always achieved. People didn't have to worry about going hungry, and soon thereafter, not even about the tedious chore of selecting a nutritional and tasty menu--it could all be done automatically. Suffice it to say, this too became a huge success. People had far more time to do the important things--the things they liked.
Nevertheless, things were not as utopian as we'd have liked. Remember those few but inevitable troublemakers that disappeared? Well, they came back. They might have silently accepted an open well-understood and agreed upon ip-protecting implant, but they felt all these new uses of the implant technology were going too far. They decided to launch a propaganda campaign of their own. Needless to say, they didn't stand a chance. The vast majority of people once again did not fear the naive orwellian rhetoric. On the other hand they did experience first-hand the improvements in the quality of their lives. The protestor's complaints, nevertheless, were not completely ignored, and strict and open processes were put in place to protect against abuse and to ensure fairness.
And while this was enough for most of the protestors, yet again there were still a few who simply could not be appeased. There was nothing we could do or say to them to convince them to join us. They slowly shifted out to the darker perimeters of the colonies, and were soon forgotten. We had no right to disturb them, and for the most part, they didn't disturb us.
"Rise and shine Munib."
And that's where I come in. For that little part in the picture where they would disturb us. While we would all much rather be doing our own things, pursuing our own interests, some of us are still needed to do the dirty work of protecting the rest of the colonists from these unplugged terrorists. There was no clean sync-signal that could be relayed to them to disarm.
--
"You've received four new messages during the night, sir."
The morning rays have triggerred the next wakeup subroutine in the successful life of Munib Hussain. His wife Suneeta has already been synced, and is calmly assessing her daily synopsis. Her blood iron levels are a little low, and an extra helping of whole wheat and nuts have been added to her recommended morning intake. She rushes to place an order for more brocolli to avoid distribution congestion, though there is no need to rush. The automated systems use amazingly precise models to forecast demand across the entire globe--both within and between the colonies. There has never been a single delayed shipment, let alone a dropped request. Nevertheless, Suneeta remains stubbornly superstitious. She still doesn't fully trust the system. Perhaps because of the stories her parents used to tell her of pre-union times.
Munib has finished syncing.
"Sunee, I'll be 52 in a week! I wonder if Bill will upgrade me this time around."
He traipses to the provisioner to take his preferred breakfast.
Bill is the coloquial name for the colony's brain--it's core servers. It was named after a famous prophet who more or less designed all this way back in the days of silicon, but years before the world was able to appreciate it.
Every year, on a colonist's birthday, Bill analyzes their progress. If they meet certain criteria, they are granted clearance to a higher level--upgraded. Their shipments get higher priority, their working hours become more flexible, and other such advantages.
"This is definitely your year Munib. How can it not be--you've already done so much for Him."
"For us."
"Of course. We're going to have so much fun! If it's as great as I hear, maybe we should just stay there for a few years?"
Munib's next upgrade entitles him for the first time to inter-colony travel, a rather special privilege given the still-recovering state of the colony's energy supplies.
"What would I do there?"
Suneeta shrugs.
Munib brings his synopsis back into recollection. Today he has been scheduled to the infamous eastern perimeter for the first time. This was definitely a good sign from Bill.
--
The job was dirty, and risky, not only because it often involved force and violence, but also because our sync-cycles were specially configured to delete the previous day's work memories. This was done to ensure that whenever we retired from the force, we could continue living normal lives, without any brutal memories terrorizing us. Nevertheless, it was very unsettling to realize that half of the best hours of your life effectively did not exist. But, we were paid very well, and, in truth, we liked the job. It was very rewarding. And exciting.
After the usual briefings and administrative work, I hit the road for the usual patrols. The day is pretty uneventful. As night falls, I am relayed my new travel route to the perimeter. The city lights gradually grow more sparse as I head out.
Not long thereafter I spot a few miscreants spraying grafitti on a wall. I sound the horn, and begin to pursue. They disappear. This is a relatively minor infraction, but, it still has to be reported. I relay the message to Bill, who will promptly dispatch the appropriate cleaners. Before leaving, I notice their leftover food wrapper waft briefly in the wind. I amble toward it, and quickly scan the watermarking. It belonged to someone from an inner neighbourhood. It could have been stolen at the point of delivery, but there was a chance that they could have some co-conspirators still lurking around in the core. I transmit the watermark, along with another operations code: 'Potential conspirator. Obtain affidavit'. It could also simply have been a generous citizen who took pitty on the poor man, and shared his food. This is known to occur, and it is generally frowned upon. There are good reasons why we discourage this. Not only does this introduce inaccuracy to the center's models, and thus force others to work more than is necessary, but we do actually have specially provisioned and anonymous food banks intended especially for these people.
I return to my car and continue southward, clockwise, along my arc of the perimeter.
My mind wanders into pensive thought. I've earned countless citations and awards throughout my career. I'm a hero here. I'm a nobody in any other colony.
A report has been relayed to me about high latency in communication in a nearby neighbourhood. This is probably due to a downed propagation tower. Since there is neither a storm nor any seismic activity anywhere around here, it was probably the work of terrorists. Sometimes I feel sorry for them, since they really don't stand a chance--not only in convincing others of their paranoias, but far less in affecting any real damage to the colony. Least of all in disrupting communication with Bill. Our wireless implant infrastructure has withstood global catastrophes more powerful than any in recorded history. I'm not sure what a bunch of lost kids could possibly be hoping to achieve.
As I turn the corner, sure enough, a solitary relay tower blocks the road. I signal my horn, and dispatch yet another operations code: 'Destroyed tower'. The appropriate construction crew will arrive shortly with a new tower. I get out of the car to inspect the jagged stub. There is evidence of explosives. I dispatch another supplementary code: 'Terrorist aggression'. Then I submit a request for a forensics followup. This was a pretty serious crime, and the perpetrators will have to be caught.
I hear a noise in the distance, and begin rushing toward it. I turn into an alley, and spot the outline of a group of people huddled around a pole. A faint glow flickers at it's base. They fall silent and begin breaking from the huddle. Someone spots me, and yells to the others. I charge towards them while dispatching another code: 'Multiple suspects spotted. Request backup'. The group disperses in all directions. I fix my eyes on the slowest one and will soon overtake him. Like a cheetah on a wounded gazelle. The hunt invigorates me.
I firmly catch the shoulder of my prey, who turns out to be a young woman, who quickly resigns herself to her fate. She stops running and lowers her head. Her shoulders drop too, as though all her energy had just been drained from her body.
"Pig. Get your hands off me." she says softly yet directly.
I comply. She's no threat. I dispatch a supplementary code: 'Suspect apprehended'. My backup arrives shortly. Some of them begin cordoning off the nearby downed tower, while the others disperse in the general direction of the assailants. I stay with the girl until the caretakers arrive. They'll take her into the core where she'll be taken care of for a bit. Then she'll be given an option to become a responsible member of the colony and get an implant, or she'll be tagged with a far less intrusive beacon, and released back to the perimeter. We can't afford to have these terrorists disturbing the colony.
"Do you have any kids?" she asks.
A long tractor truck comes down the road dragging a huge new tower. Behind it, the caretakers.
"Nope. I can't. Why?"
"Don't you wan'em?"
"I dunno. Why?"
A caretaker slowly approaches us.
"Nevermind."
"Is this her?" He asks.
I nod.
"Come on. Let's go missy."
He leads her toward the back of his van. She quickly jerks her head around.
"I HATE YOU!" She screams.
The caretaker guides her in, then closes the door and enters the front. The windows are tinted.
And that pretty much ends yet another day on the job in the life of good ol' Munib. I got an amazing wife who respects me. All my friends and fellow colonists who also profoundly respect the dangerous work I do for them. I have everything I want and, hopefully, will soon be moving to a more beautiful and peaceful colony overseas. And all I can think of at the end of today is the hatred this little punk girl feels toward me.
The year is 24AU. That's 24 years After Union--after global unification. Terrorism has all but disappeared here--just a few rare whispers in the air of remote attacks along the eastern perimeter. But everywhere else in the colony, and in all the other continental colonies, a stable peace has finally been achieved.
How? To understand it, we'll need to start many years earlier--before the union. As manual labor became less and less valuable, due to increasing automation, the real money was to be made in the trade of intellectual property. To ensure this, the idea of a new specialized implant was proposed. It took a very very long time for the public to grow comortable with the new technology. But the exact specs and limitations of it were clearly put forth, and this ultimately, eventually, silenced the paranoid Big Brother conspiracy critics.
All ideas have a unique neural pattern, and the original implants merely filtered protected ideas from entering the long-term memory regions of the brain. A simple registration process was required to protect an idea, and once it's signature entered the central servers, and from there the implant's daily-updated cache, you would not be able to retain it in your mind for more than a few minutes--unless of course you obtained permission, in which case, on your next sync-cycle, it would be removed from your blacklist.
Artisans thrived. Anyone could contribute some original idea to his craft. And everyone did. And they were fairly compensated. Innovative builders, artists, designers, writers. The system was a huge success.
Of course, there were a few, very few, who would not be persuaded by rational arguments. Though they could not offer any specific flaws with the design, neither implementational problems, nor general systematic ones, they clung to their paranoid propaganda that portrayed the implants as some kind of oppressive chain. And, well, shit, now that I think of it, I suppose it did limit their freedom a little--their freedom to profit from other people's intellectual property. Though they would never say anything so directly.
Most of these naive troublemakers eventually became convinced of the idea, and the others disappeared. Decades later, as the sea-levels began to rise at an alarming rate, and vast expanses of the lowlands were reclaimed back into the seas, humanity had been thrust into chaos and famine like never before in recorded history. But, as usual, we found a solution. All the great civilizations had by then already implemented a robust infrastucture for their neural implants. We used this system to transmit optimal food and resource allocation parameters to everyone, in real-time. So long as people generally followed the computational-models for their nutritional intakes, they would be assured survival. Some were informed to eat every second day. Others even less. And it worked--at least for those who followed the guidelines. Of course there were some who simply refused to trust anyone and anything, and they ultimately perished, along with perhaps a great many others that depended on their rationing of the ever-decreasing resources.
Not many months after the rationing had managed to save the vast majority of it's civilized members, plans began to emerge for the restructuring of the populations. The great costal metropolises had all been swallowed by the insatiable seas. Almost 60% of the earth's best land had been taken away, which turned almost half of the world's population into lost nomads. People were forced into the centers of their continents, each of which essentially sustained a single huge colony of survivors. Massive and endless walls were soon constructed along the perimeters of the colonies to protect whatever land was left. Every year they would have to be reinforced, and extended several meters higher.
Even after the rhythms of life had once again taken hold of the people, the benefits of a centrally computed and modelled rationing scheme were undeniable. Optimal resource retrieval and allocation were always achieved. People didn't have to worry about going hungry, and soon thereafter, not even about the tedious chore of selecting a nutritional and tasty menu--it could all be done automatically. Suffice it to say, this too became a huge success. People had far more time to do the important things--the things they liked.
Nevertheless, things were not as utopian as we'd have liked. Remember those few but inevitable troublemakers that disappeared? Well, they came back. They might have silently accepted an open well-understood and agreed upon ip-protecting implant, but they felt all these new uses of the implant technology were going too far. They decided to launch a propaganda campaign of their own. Needless to say, they didn't stand a chance. The vast majority of people once again did not fear the naive orwellian rhetoric. On the other hand they did experience first-hand the improvements in the quality of their lives. The protestor's complaints, nevertheless, were not completely ignored, and strict and open processes were put in place to protect against abuse and to ensure fairness.
And while this was enough for most of the protestors, yet again there were still a few who simply could not be appeased. There was nothing we could do or say to them to convince them to join us. They slowly shifted out to the darker perimeters of the colonies, and were soon forgotten. We had no right to disturb them, and for the most part, they didn't disturb us.
"Rise and shine Munib."
And that's where I come in. For that little part in the picture where they would disturb us. While we would all much rather be doing our own things, pursuing our own interests, some of us are still needed to do the dirty work of protecting the rest of the colonists from these unplugged terrorists. There was no clean sync-signal that could be relayed to them to disarm.
--
"You've received four new messages during the night, sir."
The morning rays have triggerred the next wakeup subroutine in the successful life of Munib Hussain. His wife Suneeta has already been synced, and is calmly assessing her daily synopsis. Her blood iron levels are a little low, and an extra helping of whole wheat and nuts have been added to her recommended morning intake. She rushes to place an order for more brocolli to avoid distribution congestion, though there is no need to rush. The automated systems use amazingly precise models to forecast demand across the entire globe--both within and between the colonies. There has never been a single delayed shipment, let alone a dropped request. Nevertheless, Suneeta remains stubbornly superstitious. She still doesn't fully trust the system. Perhaps because of the stories her parents used to tell her of pre-union times.
Munib has finished syncing.
"Sunee, I'll be 52 in a week! I wonder if Bill will upgrade me this time around."
He traipses to the provisioner to take his preferred breakfast.
Bill is the coloquial name for the colony's brain--it's core servers. It was named after a famous prophet who more or less designed all this way back in the days of silicon, but years before the world was able to appreciate it.
Every year, on a colonist's birthday, Bill analyzes their progress. If they meet certain criteria, they are granted clearance to a higher level--upgraded. Their shipments get higher priority, their working hours become more flexible, and other such advantages.
"This is definitely your year Munib. How can it not be--you've already done so much for Him."
"For us."
"Of course. We're going to have so much fun! If it's as great as I hear, maybe we should just stay there for a few years?"
Munib's next upgrade entitles him for the first time to inter-colony travel, a rather special privilege given the still-recovering state of the colony's energy supplies.
"What would I do there?"
Suneeta shrugs.
Munib brings his synopsis back into recollection. Today he has been scheduled to the infamous eastern perimeter for the first time. This was definitely a good sign from Bill.
--
The job was dirty, and risky, not only because it often involved force and violence, but also because our sync-cycles were specially configured to delete the previous day's work memories. This was done to ensure that whenever we retired from the force, we could continue living normal lives, without any brutal memories terrorizing us. Nevertheless, it was very unsettling to realize that half of the best hours of your life effectively did not exist. But, we were paid very well, and, in truth, we liked the job. It was very rewarding. And exciting.
After the usual briefings and administrative work, I hit the road for the usual patrols. The day is pretty uneventful. As night falls, I am relayed my new travel route to the perimeter. The city lights gradually grow more sparse as I head out.
Not long thereafter I spot a few miscreants spraying grafitti on a wall. I sound the horn, and begin to pursue. They disappear. This is a relatively minor infraction, but, it still has to be reported. I relay the message to Bill, who will promptly dispatch the appropriate cleaners. Before leaving, I notice their leftover food wrapper waft briefly in the wind. I amble toward it, and quickly scan the watermarking. It belonged to someone from an inner neighbourhood. It could have been stolen at the point of delivery, but there was a chance that they could have some co-conspirators still lurking around in the core. I transmit the watermark, along with another operations code: 'Potential conspirator. Obtain affidavit'. It could also simply have been a generous citizen who took pitty on the poor man, and shared his food. This is known to occur, and it is generally frowned upon. There are good reasons why we discourage this. Not only does this introduce inaccuracy to the center's models, and thus force others to work more than is necessary, but we do actually have specially provisioned and anonymous food banks intended especially for these people.
I return to my car and continue southward, clockwise, along my arc of the perimeter.
My mind wanders into pensive thought. I've earned countless citations and awards throughout my career. I'm a hero here. I'm a nobody in any other colony.
A report has been relayed to me about high latency in communication in a nearby neighbourhood. This is probably due to a downed propagation tower. Since there is neither a storm nor any seismic activity anywhere around here, it was probably the work of terrorists. Sometimes I feel sorry for them, since they really don't stand a chance--not only in convincing others of their paranoias, but far less in affecting any real damage to the colony. Least of all in disrupting communication with Bill. Our wireless implant infrastructure has withstood global catastrophes more powerful than any in recorded history. I'm not sure what a bunch of lost kids could possibly be hoping to achieve.
As I turn the corner, sure enough, a solitary relay tower blocks the road. I signal my horn, and dispatch yet another operations code: 'Destroyed tower'. The appropriate construction crew will arrive shortly with a new tower. I get out of the car to inspect the jagged stub. There is evidence of explosives. I dispatch another supplementary code: 'Terrorist aggression'. Then I submit a request for a forensics followup. This was a pretty serious crime, and the perpetrators will have to be caught.
I hear a noise in the distance, and begin rushing toward it. I turn into an alley, and spot the outline of a group of people huddled around a pole. A faint glow flickers at it's base. They fall silent and begin breaking from the huddle. Someone spots me, and yells to the others. I charge towards them while dispatching another code: 'Multiple suspects spotted. Request backup'. The group disperses in all directions. I fix my eyes on the slowest one and will soon overtake him. Like a cheetah on a wounded gazelle. The hunt invigorates me.
I firmly catch the shoulder of my prey, who turns out to be a young woman, who quickly resigns herself to her fate. She stops running and lowers her head. Her shoulders drop too, as though all her energy had just been drained from her body.
"Pig. Get your hands off me." she says softly yet directly.
I comply. She's no threat. I dispatch a supplementary code: 'Suspect apprehended'. My backup arrives shortly. Some of them begin cordoning off the nearby downed tower, while the others disperse in the general direction of the assailants. I stay with the girl until the caretakers arrive. They'll take her into the core where she'll be taken care of for a bit. Then she'll be given an option to become a responsible member of the colony and get an implant, or she'll be tagged with a far less intrusive beacon, and released back to the perimeter. We can't afford to have these terrorists disturbing the colony.
"Do you have any kids?" she asks.
A long tractor truck comes down the road dragging a huge new tower. Behind it, the caretakers.
"Nope. I can't. Why?"
"Don't you wan'em?"
"I dunno. Why?"
A caretaker slowly approaches us.
"Nevermind."
"Is this her?" He asks.
I nod.
"Come on. Let's go missy."
He leads her toward the back of his van. She quickly jerks her head around.
"I HATE YOU!" She screams.
The caretaker guides her in, then closes the door and enters the front. The windows are tinted.
And that pretty much ends yet another day on the job in the life of good ol' Munib. I got an amazing wife who respects me. All my friends and fellow colonists who also profoundly respect the dangerous work I do for them. I have everything I want and, hopefully, will soon be moving to a more beautiful and peaceful colony overseas. And all I can think of at the end of today is the hatred this little punk girl feels toward me.
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posted by dsk on January 6th, 2009 at 6:32PM
>Even after the rhythms of life had once again taken hold of the people, the benefits of a centrally computed and modelled rationing scheme were undeniable.
Heh. Nice try linking IP to communism.
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