Science Fiction
Of all the science fictional tropes this may be the one we are slamming into headlong at the most blistering pace. Go to Second Life, play with your friends vie Wii, even share virtual messages in a bottle on your iphone. Take a look at the amazing motion capture on Microsoft's new gaming technology. It's happening. The effect on societies, and the all-important individuals within them, is far less clear.
"I speak for the President." Drugs make the words difficult to say, but the man asked about my job.
"He's not the press secretary, but our sources say he regularly sees the President. Hmm. Charles Milford. Top security clearance. Maybe a speech writer. He'll do."
To read the Dear John letter, I had to throw something away. To free up some memory in my apartment. As I slapped one of my bedside lamps into Recycle, I wondered if breaking up had been easier when people had physical bodies. Before we all uploaded ourselves. Before the Simulation's inviolable objects-per-owned-volume policy forced you to get rid of a thing you loved each time you wanted something new.
But I didn't want anything new. I only wanted to know why David had left me.
It feels strange to me, deep in my stomach, that I can't find my ten-year-old girl in real life--but that, maybe, I can find her here.
My hand shakes on the computer mouse as I log in to Second World, using one of the default avatars--a woman with straight blonde hair like a plastic shell and the expressionless face of a crash-test dummy. I try messaging my daughter through the in-game chat window right away, but my message bounces back. I check for her name, "fluttercat," on the online user list, but it's not where it should be between "flutter14" and "flutterkid." My throat constricts with a swallowed sob, but I refuse to believe this tenuous connection to my missing daughter won't pan out. Maybe she's set her status to "hidden."
Sam knew Elena wanted him to leave his dead wife. He peered up at Elena's eyes. Her squint of disapproval egging him on, he opened the door to the Room.
The bright light scorched his eyes like when he was little and stared at the sun and Mom said it'd blind him. But eventually, after the door closed behind Sam with a metallic click, his sight adjusted.
You are there again. Near the rock. In the blackness; in the void. I know that it is you, even though I cannot see that it is you.
I know it is not me. I am not there. Not there, where you are. You slump against the rock. It is a small, unnaturally round, boulder. It supports your back as you recline against it, uncomfortably. You roll to your left, twisting, and push off the rock, into a standing position. You lift one foot, place it on the rock, for reference as much as for support. Your faded trousers, cut off below the knees, show a gap of hairy calves above sandaled feet--or they would if it were less dark. You still wear your glasses, useless though they are in this continual night. You have no shirt; you are comfortable enough and you are easier for me to monitor without it. You step up, onto the rock. With this exertion I can sense that you are in good shape, your muscles are lean and your joints smooth even though you have begun the second half of your natural lifespan. You step carefully off the rock and amble forward into the dark.
I move through the aisles slowly, with the casual gait of a bored shopper who's there to kill fifteen minutes while his spouse is trying on shoes across the street. Someone not likely to make an actual purchase and, therefore, ignored by the salespeople. I disregard the flashy displays of electronics piled up high and the enticing discounts. Instead, I study the cameras, the location of the clerks, and the security tag detector equipment by the exit.
Virtual Reality
Of all the science fictional tropes this may be the one we are slamming into headlong at the most blistering pace. Go to Second Life, play with your friends vie Wii, even share virtual messages in a bottle on your iphone. Take a look at the amazing motion capture on Microsoft's new gaming technology. It's happening. The effect on societies, and the all-important individuals within them, is far less clear.
by Ronald D. Ferguson
Published on Feb 11, 2013
by Michael R. Fletcher
Alex Baker - UNPLUGGED.
Thursday, Oct 19th, 2023. 9:45 pm
Published on Dec 9, 2011
by Stephen Gaskell
Passing Mr. Lao's office, she noticed he'd left his door open. On the far side, light spilled through the margins of the door that led outside. Maybe it was a sunny day. She tried to remember the feel of sunlight, the sensation of almost looking into the sun, the shape of the clouds, but her mind was full of the pixelated forms.
Published on Oct 4, 2010
by Erin M. Hartshorn
Sally patted her grandmother's shoulder. "It's time to go."
"I don't want to. I can still be useful."
Published on Nov 3, 2011
by Aubrey Hirsch
Now if we, like those characters in recent movies, discovered specific clues in the world around us suggesting that we do in fact live in a simulation, we would of course consider those clues carefully to see what they say about how we should live our lives. --Robin Hanson
Listen. We're fairly certain it's true. The laws of the universe just don't make sense the way they should and it's more and more apparent with every atom of gold we run through the Relativistic Heavy Ion Collider and every electron we smash up at the Large Hadron Collider that we are living in a universe especially constructed for us. And, since we all know infinities cannot be constructed, we must conclude that our universe has been simulated.
Published on Aug 30, 2011
by KJ Kabza
Terry bit the inside of his cheek again. He felt disconnected from himself, from this single-window room. In fact, it wasn’t like a hotel room at all. More like somewhere between a forgotten closet and a prison cell. Despite the neutral colors, the telephone’s dark cradle gave the room’s nature away. “Listen…” Terry began, slowly.
“No, I know,” said the voice of Margie. “I know all about it. They scan your brain, take your memories of your spouse, and make a program you can talk to--just once, one year later--to say goodbye. For closure.”
Published on Nov 11, 2010
by Alex Livingston
Published on Apr 16, 2012
by Mary E. Lowd
Published on Jul 10, 2012
by Dany G. Zuwen
Published on Oct 24, 2012
by C. Richard Patton
Published on Aug 8, 2012
by Alex Shvartsman
Published on Mar 12, 2012
by Christie Yant
***Editor's Warning: Brief adult language, and graphic details of dying and death live here.***
I never saw my mother's body after she died. The man on the other end of the line asked me if I wanted to--whether they should delay the cremation so that I could make the two-and-a-half hour drive up the coast to where she lay in storage. Pale and spotted with bright red cherry angiomas, her sides striped with purple scars from multiple kidney surgeries and her arms mottled with worn red gashes where the tremors had caused her to scratch herself, I had seen enough of my mother's body when she had been alive.
Published on Oct 18, 2012
