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 A Higher Form of Communicationby Kevin Curran Page 1 of 2
A higher form of communication. We are living in the era of PDA's and mobile phone cum personal organisers. Memory capacity seems to be constantly offering more for our hard earned cash. It does not require a great leap of the imagination to imagine the depth of information a personal organiser could contain if used for one's entire lifetime. It would contain times/dates of events attended, items purchased not to mention knowledge of people who have been entered in one's diary during this time regarding pleasure and business. Now take that information and merge it with another person's organiser and allow the organiser to discover weird and wonderful shared interests, common friends/business partners, locations visited and items owned. The list is endless. Advanced Data Mining algorithms could be developed to exploit these memory resources. There should be little to prevent the organiser(apart from poor programming) from revealing that people attended the cinema on the same day or at least seen the same show provided of course, the organiser contained this piece of information in the first place. Please allow me now to paint you a picture of the future......
It is the year 2010AD and Delta Dan enters a neon lit bar in the back streets of Delta fire zone 21. All the dope smokers in the corner are laughing incessantly at the spider that stumbled in one of the cracks on the beer stained table after they had enveloped it in smoke for the umpteenth time. The Pentium in the corner plays the latest inter-planetary hits. Instantly he is met by one of the resident hustlers offering an assortment of cigarette brands from the latest treasure throve removed from the decaying cities on the long demolished Earth zone. Uttering sectarian curses at the Cyborgs, he pushes them aside and strolls to the bar and selects a Jack Daniels from the LCD screen implanted in the bar. Instantly a robotic arm presents him with his chosen tipple. He reclines on the encompassing floating bar stool and rejects the latest R (Reality) gadget (used to be called VR) trust towards him displaying his last preferred settings of naked women. No, tonight he wanted the real thing. At the far side of the bar he sees her, same lady, same time, same place, but who was she? Was she human? And was she available? The hustlers reappeared. This time he felt like one. He tossed out 4000 zelta for a stale cigarette and took a drag, tried to forget about ' big brother' as a camera took his snap shop and he knew that instantly his credit card was less the fine of 10000 zelta. It's now or never, he thought to himself. He reached for his organiser. He stood up, finished his third Jack, stubbed the Regal on the smallest hustler and approached the blonde. 'Excuse me lady but have our paths crossed somewhere in this crazy sizzled solar system' he blurted out with an embarrassed smile, half conscious of how corny his statement sounded. Copyright © 1999, 2000, 2001 Kevin Curran, sffworld.com. All rights reserved. No part of this may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the author. The author has submitted the work in accordance with and in agreement with the following Submission Guidelines. |
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