“You’re a peasant, a cyber peasant in the fiefdoms of Meta and ByteDance. You’re a digital sharecropper for Google, Huawei, Amazon, Baidu, Oracle, Apple, and you don’t even know it!”
By majoki5 months ago in Fiction
A wicked wind rattled the gravel and it pinged against the rims of the truck parked on the sloping shoulder. The strikes were constant enough to keep Malloy from dozing peacefully. He was dead tired. He’d been three weeks in the unforgiving Badlands. Fitting.
On the endless rooftop of the fact-ory, they sat in the beat up armchairs amid a bristling forest of antennae and corrugated steel backlit by the godly effulgence of towers and tenements that defined the horizon. It was steamy hot though well past midnight. The heat never quite radiated away these days, but they’d long grown accustomed to it, grateful for the slight breeze that stirred late at night.
Generals like to look good. Even in the 34th century. Even after a thousand years of war. They like polish and shine and finely fitted uniforms, so they like me. Their tailor.
“Tell me, Iswas, how many people can our earth sustain?” “That is not for me to say, Noyes.” “Then who will tell it, Iswas?”
One cannot speak of the Universe. One can only speak of rocking chairs, carnations and a pen. This is the path to understanding. Take it on good authority.
Carson knew they were being watched. Quiet in this part of the city was for the birds. Days earlier, he’d been wishing for the damn things to shut up. Now they’d gone silent and the ominous hush made his skin crawl.
To hell with pleasant dreams. Long live nightmares! Marcus looked at the motto writ large on the smart panel of DreamOn’s boardroom. The corporation’s board was gathered to solicit his opinion. They were going to want his approval. They were going to seek his blessing. He’d gladly give it to them, even knowing it would kill some of his customers. How many might die depended on whether the FDA, HHS, FCC, CPSC, and CDC could get their act together and determine who had power to regulate DreamOn.
“Thank you for reaching out, Mx Shaddower.” “Please call me Bobbie. Bobbie.” “So, it’s true. You’re the Bobbie. Of Bobbie’s Law,” the attorney said in a way that made it part question, part reverence.
Welcome, Robot Overlords! reads the sign on my lawn. Before the singularity, it was worth a few laughs. Now, the friendlies want me to remove the sign from my yard. They can’t come right out and say that to me. It would be pushy and might blow every solicitous circuit in their enamelite shells.
Snug in my craft, taking each spacetime curve to a smooth jazz arrangement of “Just My Imagination,” it became clear. Things were slowing. We were winding down.
“Why then?” Protectively, she froze at the center of the device, as if it would shield her from his question. Ceily finally emerged from the sleek nanocarbon posts which supported the shimmering tendrils of crystalline fiber to face her brother’s accusations.
