The future isn’t what it used to be!

- Arthur C. Clarke

In the late 1970’s a new kind of music burst onto the scene which had a profound effect on western popular culture. *Punk Rock* comes out of the back streets of London, and its ferocity of tone and lyrics set it apart from previous music. Punk Rock groups, in general, preached Anarchy and individuality in violent and rebellious songs. Groups such as The Sex Pistols, The Clash, and The Ruts, screamed their music to audiences who were tired of hearing how great the world is, when they could look around them and see the truth. These groups, wrote Griel Marcus:

made music so brutal, haphazard, or obscene that airplay was out of the question. Given that the normal channels of pop communication were irrelevant, all restrictions on what could go into a record or a performance, on what a record could sound like or what a performance could look like were forgotten.

These new musicians ignored all the conventions of pop music, and instead sang and played staccato lyrics and beats designed more to irritate rather than entertain. Coming quick and sharp they gave little time for digestion before another round would hit.

Many writers of the late 1970’s pick up this style and begin to write science fiction stories with the same jarring feeling that punk rock music gives. It is highly debatable as to whether these writers did this consciously or not, but the term cyberpunk is conceived to describe these new authors and their abrasive stories. In the introduction to his anthology Mirrorshades: The Cyberpunk Anthology, Bruce Sterling, one of the innovators of the sub-genre, reflects on this term:

This movement was quickly recognized and given many labels: Radical Hard SF, the Outlaw Technologists, the Eighties Wave, the Neuromantics, the Mirrorshades Group.

But of all the labels pasted on and peeled throughout the early Eighties, one stuck: cyberpunk.

Thus, “cyberpunk” - a label none of them [cyberpunk authors] chose. But the term now seems a fait accompli, and there is a certain justice in it. The term captures something crucial to the work of these writers, something crucial to the decade as a whole: a new kind of integration. The overlapping of words that were formerly separate: the realm of high tech, and the modern pop underground.

This “overlapping” of ideas is crucial to the success of cyberpunk, as it shows that science fiction needs not be unrelated to our daily existence. The term then defines the sub-genre, and it is the rebelliousness that it represents against traditional science fiction that attracts a whole new generation of readers and writers to its flag, “The point of the cyberpunk argument,” argues one writer,” is that this old techno-future is a flabby, outmoded idea, one that makes for boring science fiction because it’s based on an old-fashioned dream of the future and therefore obscures our view of the burgeoning dystopia we’re inhabiting right now”. Cyberpunk can directly deal with our culture, and its immediate future. This sub-genre is a bringing together of the cyber, referring to the technology used to artificially augment the human body and human abilities, with the popular culture and social ideas found in punk rock and roll music.

No idea can come from only one source, and cyberpunk does not merely evolve directly from science-fiction. Instead, it derives its style from a verity of literary sources, and it seems that, almost surprisingly so, one of those chief sources would be the pulp detective novel genre, especially those written in the 1920’s. In an interview conducted by Larry McCaffery, William Gibson, considered the father of cyberpunk, comments on Dashiell Hammett, famous for his creation of the character Sam Spade in the novel The Maltese Falcon;

I remember being very excited about how he had pushed all this ordinary stuff until it was different - like American naturalism but cranked up, very intense, almost surreal. You can see this in the beginning of The Maltese Falcon, where he describes all the things in Spade’s office. Hammett may have been the guy who turned me onto superspecificity.

Novels such as those by Hammett and his contemporaries, portray raw details, giving an almost hyper or paranoid awareness of what is happening in the story.

This “superficialness” is what writers like Gibson pick up on, and use. Dialogue is kept short and punchy, with incomplete sentences trying to capture more accurately normal human speech. In this selection from Hammett’s The Maltese Falcon the reader is presented with a phone conversation between Sam Spade and an unknown caller. The reader does not know who is calling or why, and we are only privileged enough to hear Spade’s end of the conversation, “Hello... Yes, this is Spade... Yes, I got it, I’ve been waiting to hear from you... Who?... Mr. Gutman? Oh, yes, sure!... Now - the sooner the better... Twelve C... Right. Say fifteen minutes... Right.”. On the one hand, this dialogue sounds trite and meaningless, empty of deeper content, since, unlike the modernist writers, who also attempt to represent realistic human speech in writing, we never see the thoughts or conscience behind the words; but the problem is that in real human communication there often is not anything deeper than what is being said.

Writers like Hammett present the reader with an ultra real surface, with the events, nothing more than you would get than if you were actually standing in the room with the characters. Rather than attempting to analyze events and actions for the reader, the reader is left to puzzle through the characters motives just as in “real” life. Many cyberpunk writers also work at this surface level, allowing the reader a more active role in character development than in the modernist novels, since the reader judges the characters not upon their intentions, for which the reader has only the narrator to interpret, but upon their actions, which are left to the the reader to interpret.

NEXT TIME: The Fall of Western Civilization: The Cyberpunk Years →

Once upon a time there was a society that did not know itself.

It had known itself once.

When it had been modern.

When everything had fit.

When everybody agreed on everything.

All was in harmony.

The Future was assured.

(or so it had seemed)

But slowly the unified society realized its homogeneity was an illusion. What had been one culture fractured into a multitude of sub-cultures, all seemingly at odds with one another. There were so many different sub-cultures that no one could seem to agree on anything, and the people became very confused.

So they looked to the past.

They cut it up, rearranged it, deconstructed it, and reworked it.

They took the modern and created the postmodern.

INTRODUCTION: ONCE UPON A TIME WE WERE MODERN...

Postmodernism is now a well established and documented cultural fact that has been argued over for at least the past two decades, and should be of keen interest to the literary critic today. Defining such a term and how it relates to literature, though, is at best difficult and at worst totally useless due to the anarchistic nature of postmodernism. Postmodernism, on the surface, encompasses many different and often contradictory ideas. In no other genre of fiction are the postmodernist ideals for literature expressed better than in the sub-genre of science fiction, cyberpunk. This relatively recent offshoot of science fiction, has come into its own with its recognition as a form of postmodernist writing.

Yet cyberpunk is as difficult to define as postmodernism, because like postmodernism, cyberpunk has many different individuals contributing to an un-centralized and un-manifested concept. One must, then, look not for simple one line definitions of the term, but instead try to gain an understanding of it through thorough examination and exploration of the concept. By looking at the fiction, interviews and essays by the leading authors in this genre, and tying this into the postmodern context, one can more accurately and substantially comprehend the term cyberpunk and hopefully come to a better understanding of postmodernism.

NEXT TIME: CYBERPUNK IS SPAWNED →

In this new educational paradigm, “creative technologists” will thrive by balancing three pillars:

• Knowledge: Using AI to expand the breadth of information available.

• Communication: Leveraging tools to express ideas more effect

• Creativity: Driving the entire process with human desire and appreciation.

Ultimately, the goal of education in the age of AI is to ensure that we don’t let our innate creativity be “educated out of us.” Instead, we must use these “alien” intelligences to free ourselves from drudgery, allowing us to focus on the play, curiosity, and innovation that define the human experience.

Creativity is born from human emotions: desire, curiosity, empathy, and even vulnerability. An AI can simulate a style, but it cannot “well up with a tear” or feel the spark of inspiration. It has no sentimentality and no inherent reason to create. Therefore, the future of human work lies in our ability to bring this “special sauce” of emotional intelligence and lateral thinking to the table—skills that cannot be coded.

This dual nature necessitates a move away from traditional rote learning. As AI becomes more capable of handling knowledge retrieval and basic reasoning, the role of the educator shifts from a transmitter of information to a “trusted filter” and mediator. Education must now focus on how to navigate this partnership responsibly, emphasizing ethical frameworks like the Oxford rubric—prioritizing safety, efficacy, accountability, transparency, and agency.

Are you looking over your shoulder at your job, looking for the next round of layoffs. There is a heavy cloud of anxiety about our jobs being in danger of automation. We’ve seen the headlines, and we’re all asking the same question: What are humans good for now that AI is coming?

To answer that, we have to start by clearing the misconception of what AI actually is in today’s world. We hear “Artificial Intelligence” and we assume it’s trying to be an artificial human intelligence. But I’d argue it’s more like an “Alien Intelligence”—something every bit as different from us as a creature from a planet millions of light years away. It’s algorithmic, it’s autonomous, and it may be a form of intelligence (if we can figure out what that is) but it isn’t human.

Human intelligence is built on reason, knowledge, and communication, but the magic ingredient is creativity. And the reason AI can’t truly be creative is as simple—and as cliché in science fiction—as you can get: emotions. AI lacks that biological condition that gives a rise to emotional responses. It doesn’t have the proteins, the DNA, or the chemicals that give rise to the “messy parts” of reasoning that creativity gives rise to. As Martha Nussbaum wrote, emotions aren’t just fuel; they are part of the reasoning itself.

An algorithm can play the perfect record, but when was the last time an algorithm “welled up with a tear” because of it

We also have to stop confusing creativity with the creation. Take that AI image that won the Colorado State Fair. People asked, “Is this creativity?” I couldn’t disagree more with the idea that the AI was the creative force there. The creativity belonged to the human coder, Jason Allen. He had the desire, he asked the questions, and he set the process in motion. Creativity is not the creation; the song, the painting, or the website is just the “receipt.” AI is a great tool for printing receipts, but it doesn’t have the desire to create them in the first place

I’ve realized for awhile that creativity isn’t a talent—it’s an ability, like throwing a ball. We can’t all be Michael Jordan, but we can all throw the ball. As John Cleese said, creativity is a “way of operating.” It’s about getting yourself into a particular mood or mode where you’re able to play with ideas, childlike, without worrying about some immediate practical purpose. In the work world, we get obsessed with “productivity,” but productivity isn’t performance. If I play for two hours and find a brilliant solution, and someone else grinds for four hours and produces something poor, who was more “productive”?

To stay creative, you have to cultivate a growth mindset. You have to be willing to be vulnerable and open to criticism, even the hostile kind, because there’s usually a kernel of truth in there. A fixed mindset just wants to “look smart,” but a growth mindset has a desire to learn. It’s better to know why you failed than to not know why you succeeded. You have to be willing to take on projects that challenge your abilities and treat every obstacle as if it is surmountable.

And you have to be mindful. Mindfulness isn’t about naval-gazing; it’s about being present enough to observe the world. It’s about “zooming in and out” of a problem so you don’t miss the big picture or the details. When I’m in the “creative doldrums”—when I feel like there’s no creative wind in my sails—I just keep working the process until the wind returns.

David Lynch talks about ideas being like fish. You don’t make the fish; you catch them. You put the “bait on a hook” by desiring an idea, and then you wait. They come in small fragments, like pieces of a puzzle being flipped into your room from another room. Your job is to be open enough to catch them and assimilate them in your own unique way.

AI is a power and a force we can’t fully understand yet, but it doesn’t have to be the end of us. John Trudell said that “every human being is a raindrop.” When we become clear and coherent in our own creativity, we don’t just disappear—we become the power of a storm. So, make your creativity clear. Make it coherent. And don’t forget to relax—it’s not that important, as long as you don’t keep reminding yourself that creativity is everything.

Eric Myer, noted web design thinker, ran afoul of what he calls “Inadvertent Algorithmic Cruelty” when he opened FaceBook and got his algorithmically generated “Your Year in Review…” With a photo of his recently deceased daughter smiling at him. Eric was upset, saying in an article about the experience “Yes, my year looked like that. True enough. My year looked like the now-absent face of my little girl. It was still unkind to remind me so forcefully.”

Algorithms cannot read emotion, only numbers. The algorithm could not have predicted that Eric would not want to see the most popular photo on his FaceBook wall that year. At least not today. How could it?

So why don’t we just leave? Leave Facebook, Twitter, or any other filter that we grow dissatisfied with. It’s the same reason it’s hard to simply move houses when our neighbors annoy us: our how is where all of our stuff is, and our social media outlets our where all of our data stuff is.

As George Carlin noted:

You know how important that is, that’s the whole meaning of life, isn’t it, trying to find a place for your stuff. That’s all your house is, your house is just a place for your stuff. If you didn’t have so much gad damn stuff, you wouldn’t need a house. You’ll just be walking around all of the time. That’s all your house is: it’s a pile of stuff with a cover on it.

And a social media platform is just a database with all of your stuff in it.

We are becoming Data Loyal to those place we are keeping our stuff. As they become our trusted filters, we find it harder and harder to break away from them. The obvious difference, though, is that with a house you can move your stuff to a different house, a storage shed, or anywhere you want. Not so with your stuff on social media.

Facebook does not provide moving boxes to take your stuff to another social media platform.

This is the third & final part of a new short story on Fickle Futures.

← READ PART II: Profit & Loss

“GOD damn the sinners.”
“God damn the SINNERS.”
“God DAMN the sinners.”

Mr. Ratsid was mumbling under his breath as they briskly strode from the cathedral offices into the icy cold streets of the late winter morning. A pale sun glowered at them through grey clouds, but all Mr. Ratsid could see was a dim tunnel ahead and the looming presence of the Cathedral of the Devout behind him.

“What do we do?” Mr. Clem asked earnestly during a lull in Mr. Ratsid’s muttering.

Mr. Ratsid stopped abruptly, paused briefly to consider, and spun to look up into Mr. Clem’s face.

“I tell you what we are not going to do, Mr. Clem. We are not going to panic,” Mr Ratsid said slowly, betraying only the slightest note of panic in his voice. “What we are going to do is get that sigil back, hand it over to the Archapostle, and buy our indenture,” Mr. Ratsid started walking briskly again as if he had never stopped. “But first we are going to get a cup of very strong tea and have a think.”

The DeutaromaTea Tea shop was a favorite of church employees to get away from their superiors’ direct scrutiny. However, in the late-morning, they crossed a deserted street and walked into an empty shop, ordered an Earl Gray for Mr. Ratsid and a Green Tea for Mr. Clem — Mr. Ratsid had no idea how Mr. Clem drank the stuff as it had the flavor of stale pond scum — and sat at a table for a think.

“Why don’t we just go and tell him he’ll be excommunicated if he doesn’t give it back to us?” Mr. Clem contributed this unhelpful thought to the brainstorming session.

“Describe to me exactly how that would work,” Mr. Ratsid said like a snake waiting for a mouse to get just a few millimeters closer.

“Well, like I said, we just go over to his shop and give him the regular guff about following the church protocols or he’ll be… you’ know… excommunicated,” Mr. Clem said seeming to doubt his own logic towards the end, ”and stuff.”

“And if he still refuses, which he almost certainly will?”

“We, uh, we could, um… we could just… kill him?” Mr. Clem said this last part as if expecting to get cuffed up side the head.

“And where in this brilliant plan of yours do we get the sigil back?” Mr. Ratsid said, his words dripping with doubt.

“We… we search the store?” Mr. Clem, relieved after not getting the side of Mr. Ratsid’s hand, almost sounded like he believed this was a good idea.

“We… search… the store,” Mr. Ratsid said slowly as if he was trying to calculate the stupidity quotient of Mr. Clem’s statement to the eighth decimal place.

Mr. Ratsid smacked him across the ear.

“Do you honestly think he’s just left it out in the open? Or did he put it in a cleverly hidden location with a big sign pointing to it saying ‘THIS WAY TO MY ILLEGAL SECRET STASH OF BLASPHEMOUS OBJETS’!?! I don’t think so.”

“And even if we did find it in his store, how do we explain the extra dead body at the mortuary? You know they’ve been cracking down on any extra-curricular excommunications, and if we tried to get an excommunication order, they would want to know why…”

But then, Mr. Ratsid began to stroke his chin.

“God be praised on this fine evening, Deacon Ratsid”, Mr. Jordan forced a relaxed attitude at having two deacons show up in his shop unannounced at closing time, ”What can I do for you?”

Mr. Jordan had heard the shop bell ring loudly and turned to see as Mr. Ratsid entering The Lord Saves Pawn Shop & Emporium. The door was shattered glass covered over every square inch in packing tape to hold it together. Mr. Clem loomed tight behind him, his red Deacons cap visor low and obscuring his eyes in shadow. Mr. Jordan could see that they were not in his shop to sell more trinkets.

“Well, Mr. Jordan, Deacon Clem and I have a bit of a problem,” Mr. Ratsid stated as if this problem was really Mr. Jordan’s problem. “It seems we have a report that you are keeping blasphemous items in your shop — strictly against the law, of course — but we know that this just must be a simple innocent misunderstanding, am I right?” Mr. Ratsid had forced the ball firmly into Mr. Jordan’s court.

Mr. Jordan looked coldly at Mr. Ratsid: coldly in look and frozen inside.

“Ummm… yes, as I mentioned to you earlier… purely for… umm… research purposes,” Mr. Jordan finally tossed it back back to Mr. Ratsid, not bothering to look at the warrant. It’s not like it mattered what it really said.

“Yes, yes, you did saaayyy that, but now I need to search the premises as per this warrant I was given by the Court of the Devout,” he waved the search warrant under Mr. Jones’ nose without mentioning that it was just for pre-Great Revival paraphernalia, a heavy fine but no excommunication, “but if you just wanted to bring me any of those blasphemous objects…” Mr. Ratsid paused for emphasis, “say for example a cross…” He let the words linger for a second as Mr. Jordan did not react. “I could see my way to simply accept that as a penitence for your transgressions, and move along with my business as a Deacon,” he made sure to emphasize his dominate position in this matter.

Mr. Ratsid looked obliquely at Mr. Jordan, not wanting to scare him away from the hook he was dangling. Mr. Jordan stood hard and still behind the counter, his back to Mr. Ratsid, not looking at anything but the infinite space in front of him.

Mr. Jordan had lost his wife during the Great Revival. The deacons had it on “good authority” that she had been part of a Wiccan cult while in college. The closest his wife had ever gotten to practicing magic was dressing up in a sexy Witchipoo costume from H.R. Puff n’ Stuff one Halloween. But there were pictures from the party, and even though she was obviously not even college age in the photo, that was enough for the Court of the Devout.

He gently slid open the drawer to his left and looked down at the picture of her from that Halloween. He kept it in a drawer to remind him of her and had placed the sigil right next to it. He had insisted on taking that picture, even though at the time there had already been a crackdown on blasphemous behavior, especially Halloween. Halloween parties were strictly prohibited, with a national curfew of 4PM on the thirty-first of October strictly enforced. Still, they had snuck out to a party.

After she disappeared, he hadn’t been able to function, thinking his wife was lying somewhere dead in a ditch or had run off with someone else. He had kind of hoped for that one. At least she would be somewhat safe.

They had thought the deacons would never come for them. They went to Church four times a week, which, while below average, was the minimum accepted amount of worship.

Most of his family and friends had been excommunicated, or at least that’s what he assumed when they no longer showed up at the shop, or the cafeteria, or the tea house. Or the church. He’d been expecting his own visit from the Deacons ever since Ms. Jordan had been excommunicated.

Took’em long enough.

With a smooth and practiced motion, Mr. Jordan pulled the Pre-Revival .44 revolver he kept next to his photo of Ms. Jordan and the Abrahamist sigil, placed the barrel in his mouth and pulled the trigger. As he pressed, he remembered what his wife had told him everyday of their life together: “You’ll be the death of me.”

“Goddamn sinner,” Mr. Ratsid mumbled to himself.

“You still got some on your collar,” Mr. Clem pointed a large finger at a reddish glob of biological material on the collar of his golf shirt, something the Archapostle was sure to notice. Damn, that was all he needed.

They had finally found the sigil after over an hour of searching just sitting in the drawer the sinner’s body was slumped over. After slapping a wig they found over the head to cover the rather nasty two inch hole tunneling through it, they were able to get the body past the mortuary and out to the sinners pit and rushed back to the Church of the Devout hoping to catch The Archapostle before he left for the day, get their reward and buy back their severance.

It wasn’t that Mr. Jordan had blown his own head off — Mr. Ratsid got that all of the time when a sinner was cornered. But there was always some pleading, some begging, some… hope. There was nothing Mr. Ratsid could do, even if he wanted to, which he didn’t. They were dead the moment the excommunication order was signed. He was the executioner, not the judge. But sinners might spend several minutes agonizing and rationalizing their special case before he would get to kill them. No, not with this one: wham, blam, no thank you ma’am.

“The Archapostle will see you know,” spoke the smooth but invisible voice of the Archapostle’s receptionist. It was an AI that handled every aspect of The Archapostle’s Office executive functioning, including reception. It was decided early in the Great Revival that all church administration needed to be handled by AI rather than living people in order to avoid the distractions and staff co-mingling that often occurred in church offices.

“You two are back soon!” The Archapostle spoke with glee, “And I hear you’ve brought another sinner to His glorious judgment!” Mr. Ratsid held the sigil in front of The Archapostle’s face who rapaciously snatched it and held it staring almost in disbelief.

“And many more to come!” he beamed at them.

“It was really no trouble Archapostle,” Mr. Ratsid said with a relaxed tone. Maybe too relaxed?

“Archapostle **TRIPPGOOD**, Deacon Ratsid,” The Archbishop spoke with the firm tone of a father who felt his son was getting too big for his britches.

“Please do not succumb to the deadly sin of over-familiarity with your superiors.”

“Yes, Archapostle Trippgood. Of course, Archapostle Trippgood. I apologize profusely for my lack of proper respect, Archapostle Trippgood,” Mr. Ratsid practically tripped over his words trying to apologize. Now was not the time to piss-off the Archapostle, not this close to buying his indenture back.

(The pansy little bastard.)

“Apology accepted,” The Archapostle said as his face softened into a forgiving smile.

“Just don’t let it happen again,” and just as quickly his face snapped back into his infamous glare.

“Now, let’s see… where’s this famous switch I’ve heard so much about…” The Archbishop pressed his finger to the control.

In the span of time it took for Mr. Ratsid’s eyes to bug out in shock and then lower to half shuttered disgust, the Archbishop pressed the switch to the right, and the sigil melted into a golden blob.

“OUCH!!!” The Archbishop, yelped in shocked pain, as the heat used to melt the sigil burnt his fingers.

“What is this, gentleman?” The Archapostle said to them holding the blob on the chain at them as an indictment.

“I asked for an INTACT sigil,” his face turned bright red as flecks of white foam flung from his lips.

“I! Wanted! It! INTACT!” The Archapostle pounded his fist on the table with each word.

“But Archapostle, you pushed…” Mr. Clem began to interrupt, but Mr. Ratsid stamped his foot to get him to shut up. The Archapostle was always right. Even when the Archapostle was demonstrably wrong, the Archapostle was always right. Arguing that the Archapostle was not right would only bring trouble and strife, especially when the Archbishop was foaming at the mouth.

Although it hurt like a bone was broken, Mr. Clem immediately stopped making any sound. Mr. Ratsid only did that foot stamping thing when it was deadly serious or profit serious. He was pretty sure this was about the slightly more important one. Mr. Ratsid had once mentored him that: “There’s no ROI for you on being dead.”

“Archbishop Trippgood, my most profuse apologies. The sigil was intact when we found it, but…” Think fast. Think fast. Think fast, ”we believe there’s an Abrahamist mole in the building!” Ok. That was… something. He could build on that.

“An Abrhamist mole, you say?” The Archapostle stroked his chin with a new interest, his temper dampened, “Yes, I’ve been concerned about that possibility myself,” Mr. Ratsid knew he was on the right trail.

”But what does that have to do with the sigil, Deacon Ratsid?”

“Well, sir…” he paused to collect his story.

”Obviously!” He said with relief, unable to completely hide that this obvious explanation had only just this second occurred to him.

“The mole got hold of the sigil while we were going through Cathedral security downstairs. We had no choice but to pass it through the security scanner,” he paused just a second to catch up with his story, ”and sometime during that… uhh… uhh… process, the mole got to it and flipped the switch!” That was just plausible enough for the Archapostle to buy it!

“Hmmm… yes.” He said taking in the scenario for a few seconds intently before his face brightened, “Yes! That makes complete sense!” The Archbishop pressed a button on his desk and calmly said, ”By order of the Archapostle, the entirety of the security staff are herby excommunicated,” he let go of the button, and then almost immediately pressed it again, “Effective immediately.”

“Yes, well, now that that’s all sorted out, it sounds like you two have a lot of work to do,” the Archapostle looked down at the documents in front of him. The two Deacon’s stood frozen in front of his desk, not sure how to respond.

“So, get to it. Those sinners in security aren’t going to excommunicate themselves. Chop-chop. No time to lose.”

Mr. Ratsid’s joyous relief at having the Archapostle decide that he was not the Abrahamist mole was only slightly outweighed by his crushing grief that he would not be paying off his indenture today or anytime soon.

The silver lining was that there were at least six dozen sinners to collect now. That would put a small dent in his indenture. And, of course, Cathedral Security always confiscated the best stuff.

“And Mr. Ratsid,” The Archapostle spoke matter-of-factly as the two left the room, silent except for the sound of Mr. Clem’s new limp.

“Yes, Archbishop?”

”Please wear a clean shirt the next time you have an audience with me.”

“Yes, Archbishop.”

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Artificial Intelligence can not understand the milk of human kindness.

But, for that matter,

AI can not understand the bile of human cruelty either.

AI, as we know it now, can not “understand” humans.

AI can only regurgitate what we already know.

It is very good at that.

It is very fast at that.

It is mostly accurate at at that.

But AI does not

know you,

understand you,

or even have any care for your well being.

AI is simply a tool.

Like a hammer or a screw driver.

Nothing more, nothing less,

How you use that tool is up to you.

You can still help us out, though, and buy a fickle futures T-shirt!

Fickle Futures →

Trusted Filters →

← READ PART I: At the Sinners Pit

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“Thank God for the sinners,” Mr. Ratsid beamed watching as Mr. Jordan inspected the sigil over the glass display counter of his pawn shop, The Lord Saves.

“Yes, we are truly blessed today,” Mr. Jordan agreed distractedly while studying the sigil. Mr. Jordan had appraised the chain and pendant and made the seemingly reasonable offer of two-thousand and forty-six bits for both.

Mr. Ratsid could barely contain his joy.

“And if you slide that little button on the back, it collapses back into a cross,” Mr. Ratsid said trying to be helpful.

“You didn’t flip it to the right did you!?!” Mr. Jordan asked looking at him severely and with a note of panic.

“Well, no, just the one way — to the left — to open and close it,” he said slightly taken aback, “Why? What happens if you slide it the other way?”

“This will work, then…” Mr. Jordan said, opening and closing the object with fascination, ignoring Mr. Ratsid’s question, but he did catch Mr. Ratsid raising an eyebrow at his admission of needing it to ‘work’, “…in my collection… of degenerate art… for study… of course.”

Mr. Jordan slid the ₿it¢oin hub intently across to Mr. Ratsid, hoping his little faux pas would pass unnoticed. Mr. Ratsid casually scanned his ring, and the two-thousand and forty-six crypto₿its were added to his private account, unseen by the powers that be.

“So, do you collect a lot of these trinkets?” Mr. Ratsid continued as nonchalantly as possible after a count of ten.

Mr. Jordan looked at him intently. They both knew that any such collection, no matter how small, would be cause for excommunication. Mr. Ratsid could tell that Mr. Jordan knew he had slipped up mentioning the collection. Mr. Ratsid also knew that he would never turn in Mr. Jordan, at least not as long as there was this much money to be made.

“Have no worries, my brother. We are both Devout Apostles of the One True God. If you had such a collection I could only assume you keep it as a reminder of the sinners’ wickedness so you do not fall for their pleasing words,” this was always his best tactic with nervous sinners: convince them that you understand that their wickedness was justified as long as it is in the name of the Lord. Mr. Jordan’s expression softened but did not completely relax.

“No,” Mr. Ratsid went on, “I simply ask because in my line of business, some of these little knick-knacks may come my way…” as Mr. Ratsid spoke he looked down at the heavily scratched glass surface of the counter display case, “from time to time.”

Mr. Ratsid could just barely make out a few pre-Great Revival objects through the stochastic patina of random scratches that frosted the entire surface of the glass counter top. Might be illegal to sell, but not enough for excommunication and really not worth the bother.

“…and it would be very convenient if I had a reliable, and, of course, righteous person,” Mr. Ratsid followed one particularly deep gouge in the glass counter with the edge of his thumbnail until a tiny sliver of glass stabbed under the nail. He savored the sharp prick of pain for a second.

“…with whom I might dispose of them,“ Mr. Ratsid, smiled, looking back up at Mr. Jordan to gauge his reaction.

Mr. Jordan was not smiling as he stared him straight in the eye and asked Mr. Ratsid to leave his shop immediately.

“Thank God for the sinners,” read the neon sign over the bar Mr. Ratsid had decided to spend a bit of his windfall in to celebrate. The bar was a favorite of deacons because it was an electronics dead zone and served real beer from Canada.

Life was good. He couldn’t use his ¢rypto₿its to pay off his indenture, of course. Only ¢hurch¢redits could be used for legal transactions, and they were almost impossible to exchange. But there was still plenty you could do with crypto₿its that was not, strictly speaking, legal.

Like play poker.

“I’ll… call,” Mr. Ratsid spoke with caution to belay his excitement and throw Deacon Davies off his game. Davies regularly cleaned the table with him, but Mr. Ratsid had him this time, holding the four aces.

Life was good.

“You sure, Ratsy?” Vapor poured out of Deacon Davie’s mouth while he spoke, like some noxious toad. He held his pipe tightly in one hand and his cards tightly in the other while grinning malevolently across the table.

That smug grin. Mr. Ratsid couldn’t wait to wipe it right off of his frog face with four aces.

“You know, Ratsy, that a lot of ₿its you can’t afford,” Mr. Ratsid’s internal temperature spiked at Deacon Davies’ use of that nickname. The one from seminary.

“I call,” Mr. Ratsid smiled definitively. There was no way Davies could beat this hand unless he had a…

“Read em’ and weep, Ratsy!”

…Royal Flush.

“Thank god for the sinners,” said The Most Holy Archapostle Barney H. Trippgood III, CPP, CPAC, OOTTC, MBA, DOT, PMH, and Senator of the Congress of the Devout, who was sitting behind his massive mahogany desk, “is a blasphemy I will not tolerate from my deacons. Do you hear me Deacon Ratsid!”

“Will! Not! TOLERATE!!!,” He thumped his desk with each word.

“You would never hear me using such sacrilegious words, Archapostle Trippgood,” Mr. Ratsid said with relaxed self-satisfaction, “In fact, I was just correcting young Mr. Clem’s inappropriate use of language last night. He was referring to the sinners as ‘her’ and ‘him’, and I told him he better not let you hear him talking like that,” Mr. Clem, wearing his resting puzzled face, stood beside him in front of the desk at attention. Mr. Clem’s time in the Army of God had taught him never to relax around his superiors.

“Is this correct, young Deacon Clem?” The Archapostle tented his aged fingers in a contemplative manner, but his reddened face still showed the emotion of his earlier declaration. He looked at Mr. Clem with what he imagined to be a piercing stare.

“Umm… I guess… Archapostle,” Mr. Clem’s expression shifted slightly to uncomfortable puzzlement. The Archapostle was an imposingly round figure, even when not beet red.

“Well, young Clem, you are truly blessed to have such a pious, righteous, and…” The Archapostle looked wearily at Mr. Ratsid, “experienced partner as Deacon Ratsid overseeing your training,” The Archapostle picked up the invoice from the desk inspecting it.

“We’ll let this go,” he looked back up at Mr. Clem, who had relaxed slightly, bringing his piercing stare back to bore through him, “for now.”

Mr. Clem felt every sphincter in his body clench at the words.

“Now, to the matter at hand,” The Archapostle returned to their invoice, “Thirteen sinners judged and punished… very good work, gentlemen, very good,” The Archapostle handed them a receipt, “Your indenture will be credited directly from the Treasury of the Devout.”

“We won’t get the credits?” Mr. Ratsid asked, confused.

“You, will, but through me. We found it was too easy to game the system by paying deacons directly, so the Congress of the Devout, in our great wisdom, has decided that all future payments to indentured deacons will be made directly to their masters,” The Archapostle said as if simply confirming the obvious, “And then I will give you a monthly stipend for expenses, and the rest goes towards your indenture.”

Mr. Ratsid’s stomach sank.

“Here’s your next list of sinners to excommunicate,” He handed another piece of paper across to Mr. Ratsid, who immediately handed it to Mr. Clem who folded it and put in his jacket breast pocket, “and we have a new side-mission for the deacons,” Mr. Ratsid’s looked up with a gleam of hope in his eye’s as The Archapostle looked intently at them. Side-missions always meant more money; usually good money. His stomach began to be happy again.

“We’ve detected a rise in the Abrahamist cult and we will stamp it out, gentlemen.“

“Stamp! It! OUT!!!”

The Archapostle pounded his fist on his desk to emphasize his point, causing heavy objects on its surface to rattle and the two gentlemen in front of him to jump slightly.

After calming and re-tenting his fingers, The Archapostle continued, “but we are having… difficulty identifying the heretics.”

“We learned from one of these blasphemers — who we captured at no great expense to the Church — that they have a sigil they all wear; a cross with a Muslim crescent on one side and a Jewish star on the other.”

Mr. Ratsid felt his stomach leap into his throat pushing his heart roughly out of the way.

The Archapostle waved his hand across his desk and a hologram of the sigil appeared hovering over it, spinning slowly. Out of the corner of his eye, Mr. Ratsid noticed Mr. Clem’s puzzled face begin to open its big stupid mouth. Mr. Ratsid discreetly kicked Mt. Clem in the ankle, their universal signal that Mr. Ratsid is the one who does all of the talking. Mr. Clem’s mouth wavered slightly then shut tight.

“But the moon and star fold behind the cross, so that it just looks like a normal cross,” the holo of the sigil folded like a puzzle into a perfect cross, unrecognizable from the ones worn by the True Faithful.

“This sacrilegious sigil is how they identify each other, but only after a very particular signal is received that it’s safe for them to reveal their profanity to each other.“

“We learned from our source, during his confessional session, that when two of the sigils are in close proximity, they warm slightly. He also told us that if the switch to open and close the sigil isn’t pressed in the right way, it overheats, melting the sigil to a blob and destroying whatever it is inside that makes it react to other sigils. That’s why we haven’t been able to capture one intact yet. Whenever we get close, the damned blasphemers self-destruct it,” The Archapostle stared at the cross for a moment before whipping the holo away with a disgusted wave of his hand.

“So, I want you both to pray for guidance to find one of these, these, sigils of Satan on any of the sinners you excommunicate. This is such a top priority that I’m authorizing a finder’s fee of ten-thousand credits for the first Deacon to bring me one… intact.”

“INTACT!” He pounded the desk again, “Understood, Deacon Ratsid?”

“INTACT!”

He bashed his fist down.

“Yes, Archapostle Trippgood,” Mr. Ratsid’s stomach was now in his shoes and his heart was about to erupt from his mouth.

“That’s enough to pay off both your indentures and have a tidy sum left over to rise in the church ranks,” The Archapostle paused briefly and looked straight at Mr. Ratsid, “isn’t it, Mr. Ratsid?”

“Yes, Archapostle. Yes, I believe that’s about enough,” Replied Mr. Ratsid as The Archapostle attempted a beneficent smile, but couldn’t completely obscure his predatory nature. He wanted his tithe.

“Check all the sinners you excommunicate thoroughly before burying them in the sinner’s grave yard. It is your exigent duty to find one of these sigils… intact. Do you understand? *INTACT*!”

“Yes, Archapostle. Completely. We won’t let you down,” Mr. Ratsid spoke calmly and confidently while his whole body boiled in unreleasable dyspepsia.

“God damns all sinners, Deacon Ratsid” The Archapostle waved them away and looked back down at the papers on his desk.

“God damns all sinners, Archapostle,” Mr. Ratsid responded emphatically, taking Mr. Clem by the arm and hurrying him out of the room.

“Amen, bro” the Archbishop responded perfunctorily, not looking up.

NEXT WEEK:

Part III: The Sigil

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“Thank God for the sinners, Mr. Clem, is all I have to say.”

“Yeah, well, you’re not the one has to bury them, Mr. Ratsid, is all I have to say,” Mr. Clem grumbled, annoyed by his partner’s casual dismissal of the hard work he was doing to get the corpses into the pit.

“Why, Mr. Clem! You should be more grateful,” Mr. Ratsid responded with nonchalant condemnation, his legs dangling over the back of the truck bed containing the pile of sinners they had recently collected and processed at the morgue. “It’s not like jobs are exactly falling from the sky.”

Mr. Clem paused while lifting the body he was trying to shift out of the bed of the truck, glancing up into the night sky as if looking for jobs falling in the light rain. The clouds reflected city lights miles in the distance, glowing just enough for the deep gash in the earth to stand out from the rest of the flat field they were in, the shapes of the dead sinners barley visible at the bottom.

“But there will always be sinners, Mr. Clem,” Mr. Ratsid said looking balefully into the pit.

Mr. Clem dumped the next sinner on top of the pile into the pit.

“Anyway, it’s not so bad,” Mr. Ratsid continued giving Mr. Clem’s activity no notice, “Pays the indenture and gets us outside for some nice…” Mr. Ratsid scrunched his nose at what he said next, ”fresh air.”

Mr. Clem lifted the brim of his red deacon’s cap and sniffed at the air for a few seconds finally taking a deep breath, “Smells like shit to me.”

“Yes, but it’s fresh shit, that’s my point.”

“And why aren’t you helping me dump any of these peeps’ bodies?” Mr. Clem asked while lifting the next body and tipping it into the pit.

“Sinners’, my bro, sinners’, not peeps’. Don’t let the Archapostle hear you call them anything else,” Mr. Ratsid’s concern was well placed. Just last week Archapostle Trippgood had excommunicated one of their fellow deacons for suggesting sinners should be allowed to defend themselves before the Court of the Devout. Or, at the very least, be informed that they were being tried before being excommunicated.

“Besides, I’m the one who caught them all. If not for me, these poor sinners would still be roaming free.”

“Caught them!?! You were the bait. I’m the one who has to sneak up and knife‘em in the back,” despite his grousing, Mr. Clem kept lifting and dumping bodies into the pit.

“Because that’s your skill, Mr. Clem, that’s your skill,” he said as if explaining the mind numbingly obvious to a young child. “Mine is to lure them in so you can do your job.”

“Without me, we’ve got nothing.”

“Yeah, well, I could just sneak up behind them without you.”

“Without me!” Mr. Ratsid sounded like the idea was as preposterous as thinking jobs would fall from the sky. “With… out… me.”

Mr. Ratsid gave the heavy sigh of someone having to explain for the umpteenth million time something simple to a simpleton.

“Without me they would hear those great big monster feet of yours coming from miles away! And where would you be then, eh?“

Mr. Ratsid softened his tone but not his intent, ”Now finish with these last two so we can collect my fee. I’m freezing…”

“OUR fee,” Mr. Clem interrupted without stopping his disposal of the last two bodies.

“Yes, of course, our fee,” Mr. Clem had apparently not forgotten their last sortie when Mr. Ratsid had taken the entire fee for “project expenses”.

Mr. Ratsid hopped from the back bed of the truck and got in the truck’s cab. He checked over the mortuary receipt by the feeble yellowish light from the cabin’s overhead dome: Thirteen bodies collected. Check. Thirteen bodies registered. Check.

Thirteen bodies deposited. Check. At ten credits a head, that would be twenty-six credits paid-off for Mr. Clem and one hundred and four for him.

Mr. Ratsid muttered, “Let’s see, that just leaves three-thousand two-hundred and twenty-six credits remaining to be paid against the ol’ indenture and I’ll be a free-agent again,” Mr. Ratsid smiled to himself, ”Not bad for a week’s work.”

“What’s this?” Mr. Clem thrust something in front of Mr. Ratsid’s face.

“What’s what…” Mr Ratsid glanced distractedly at the chain and pendant Mr. Clem was holding. “Oh, that? It’s a…,” Mr. Ratsid at first turned back but then did a double take and inspected the pendant more closely. It was a standard crucifix like the ones all of the Devout Faithful wore, but with a six sided star on one side and a crescent moon on the other.

Once recognized, Mr. Ratsid immediately lost interest again.

“It’s a crescent, star, and cross,” Mr. Ratsid said absently picking back up on the invoice.

“It’s the sigil of the Abrahamists,” his voice displayed no interest in the topic except for slight annoyance at being interrupted with something so trivial, “Blasphemers. They believe that Islam, Judaism, and Christianity are all one faith.”

“Where did you get it?” He continued to check over his

figures.

“Last body had it grasped in her hand. We must have missed it,” Mr. Clem stared at it entranced.

“It’s hand, it’s, it’s, it’s, not her’s. I’ve told you already: they are sinners not people,” Mr. Ratsid sounded disinterestedly annoyed. He continued making notes next to the inventory of the spoils from this sinner round-up. Not much: A few cheap rings and an old watch. Five bits if he was lucky. Sinners never had much in the way of spoils anymore. Not like when the excommunications were starting out during the Great Revival. There had been an abundance of wealthy sinners then and the spoils of that had made a lot of people’s career in the church. If only he hadn’t… no. Mr. Ratsid knew that dwelling on past mistakes was, as the church taught, a path to continued failure.

Noticing Mr. Clem’s continued interest in the object, Mr. Ratsid immediately went into full remonstration mode.

“Now, you throw that in the pit with the sinners,” Mr. Ratsid waged his finger directly at Mr. Clem who continued to stare at the sigil with a puzzled expression. Then again, thought Mr. Ratsid, Mr. Clem had resting puzzled expression face.

“It’s gold, though, Mr. Ratsid. Gotta’ be worth a few bits,”

Mr. Clem put the pendant between his teeth and bit down.

“14K at least. Bet it’s worth at least a few hundred,” Mr. Clem was now beyond saving.

Mr. Ratsid looked at the sigil with renewed interest. He hated throwing away money only slightly less than he hated throwing away his own life. But if they could just pawn it, no one in the church would be any the wiser.

Deep in contemplation, Mr. Ratsid was only jarred back by the sound of smooth metal sliding on smooth metal. He looked at Mr. Clem still holding the sigil, but it was now a simple cross, indistinguishable from the one he himself wore on his lapel if a bit larger and thicker.

“What happened?” Mr. Ratsid asked staring with concern at the sigil.

“I just pushed this button on the back and it slid together,” Mr. Clem sounded confused by his own answer.

“Show me.”

Mr. Clem turned the sigil to show him an almost invisible switch on the back which could toggle left or right. Mr. Clem slid it left, and the sigil once again slid open. He slid it back to the center and the sigil collapsed back. Well that solved their problem. The sigil was now safe to carry unless you knew

its secret.

Mr. Clem began to put the necklace into his jacket’s breast pocket, “I’m keeping it. I’ll melt it down and sell it to Benny.”

“Benny!?! No, no, no, no. Not Benny. Benny would rob us blind.”

“Us?!? I found it.”

“And what’s our agreement?”

Mr. Clem sighed loudly, “All spoils are shared.”

“That’s right, and don’t you forget it,” Mr. Ratsid said with vigor, “I’ve shared a pretty penny of my findings with you in the course of our partnership.”

“What’s a penny?”

It was at times like this that Mr. Ratsid regretted engaging such a young partner, but he didn’t keep Mr. Clem around for his knowledge of arcane monetary units.

“Never mind. Here, let me have a look.”

Mr. Ratsid snatched the sigil as it dangled from Mr. Clem’s hand and looked more closely, feeling its weight, texture, and coolness. Between the chain and the pendant it had to be at least an ounce or two of gold.

He bit it. Mr. Clem was wrong. It was 24k. His mind reeled. Had to be worth at least a few thousand bits.

“You’re stroking your chin Mr. Ratsid.”

Mr. Ratsid startled, only to realize he was caressing his short beard between his thumb and forefinger. He quickly pulled his hand away from his face and glared at Mr. Clem.

“What Mr. Clem!?! WHAT!?!” Mr. Ratsid spat out, unhappy to be interrupted while in deep thought.

“You’re stroking your chin. You only ever stroke your chin when you’re planning something,” Mr. Ratsid’s gaze softened. He smiled at Mr. Clem but his eyes were still focused on the sigil.

“So, what’s the plan Mr. Ratsid?” Mr. Clem asked as Mr. Ratsid’s smile grew deeper and his gaze more intent.

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NEXT WEEK:

Part II: Profit & Loss

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All images are just a fragment of the reality they pretend to report. A photograph is only an instant in time cut-off from the context of the moment before and after or around the subject. Video, although temporal, only looks in the direction the camera is pointing.

Yet so many people intrinsically trust these images as reality. They trust that, even imperfectly, the image represents reality.

That is about to change.

With the growth of AI created images and video, what can appear to be a perfectly legitimate photograph of an actual event or even a video seeming to show the events might be complete fantasy. Right now we can usually tell the difference, but this will not last. Soon AI generated “reality” will be indistinguishable from live recorded reality making us suspicious of everything we see that did not happen directly in front of us.

How can we exist in a reality that can be edited and recreated? How can we learn to be more skeptical of the images we are constantly being fed without losing all trust in recorded images? Will we be able to adapt to this new reality?

A “Hero” is an ordinary person who rises above the average. Someone who overcomes their own fears to do what is right for others. A hero might be a daily job, like a fireman; a constant risk, like an airline pilot; or simply someone who steps up in a “dare-to-be-great” situation. Our culture is full of tales of mythical, fictional, and historical heroes. But it feels like it’s getting harder to be a hero.

Heroes may not always be perfect, but heroes can always be trusted to do the right thing. Right?

But when we find out the secrets of our heroes, the ones they keep carefully pinned behind their public facade, what are we to make of our heroes when they are not doing the right thing, and maybe even doing evil and harm?

How can you have heroes in an age where every action is public, scrutinized, and criticized? Who can you trust to be a hero anymore?

Humanity has learned more about the universe in the past 50 years than in all of history before that, and we have more ways of getting to that information than ever before. In a century we have seen to the furthest edges of the universe and time. We have created a global system of information dispersal that brings everything humans have ever known to you with a mouse click.

So, why do we all feel so stupid? 

Despite the unlimited information at our grasp, humans require motivation to learn; a need or reason. But even when that arises, most people just aren’t very curious. It’s easier to have someone think for you and hand you your opinions, leaving more time to ignore the realities of life.

We have the abilities to talk with virtually any other human being anywhere in the world at anytime, but does this globally integrated communication encourage people to engage more or think less?

Does too much information lead to people shutting down from information overload?

The Internet is precipitating the greatest shift in what it means to be a trusted filter since the invention of the printing press, and possibly the greatest shift ever. Where once the filters were “big media” companies, now anyone with a computer and a decent Internet connection can set up shop.

Although “big tech” may be taking over from Big Media as the central controlling force for trusted filters, we are just exchanging one gate keeper for another. But the promise of the Internet is still alive and (at least in theory) anyone can now set themselves up as a global trusted filter.

And everyone wants you to trust them whether they are an expert on the topic or not, whether their opinion is informed or not, even whether they are human or not.

What are we basing that trust on, then? Have we lost trust in “expertise” and experience as the basis for trust? Is this diversity of voices a positive change, and can we even judge at this point in time whether this change will be for better or worse? And finally, do we still need gate keepers to help us find trusted filters?

There is just too much information in the universe — too much to know, too much to see, too much to do — for one person to experience even a small fraction of it it all first hand. To handle our lack of omniscience humans have always turned to the people around us to help sift through and synthesize data (turning information into knowledge) and to help us learn what’s going on (turn knowledge into understanding).

We have always relied on our trusted filters.

At every major shift in the way technology is used to transmit information, we see a parallel shift in not only who our trusted filters are, but also the very nature of what it means to be a trusted filter.

With the rise of the Internet, and the shift away from the one-to-many paradigm of trusted filters to a many-to-many paradigm, some alarmists are sounding the fall of civilization as we know it. However, we must view the period we are in now as one of transition—a transition that may last several decades—and consider it against the background of other significant historical shifts in culture and technology. Doing so, you’ll realize that the future of communication, knowledge, and understanding our children will know will be nothing like what we know today, even for the so-called digital natives.

The Internet is precipitating the greatest shift in what it means to be a trusted filter since the invention of the printing press, and possibly the greatest shift ever. Where once, the filters where “big media” companies, now anyone with a computer and a decent Internet connection can set up shop. Is this diversity of voices a positive change, and can we even judge at this point in time whether this change will be for better or worse? 

Possibly the greatest human achievement is counting. While there is plenty of evidence that some animals can count individual objects, humans are the only species we know of that have not only taken the art of counting things to a level no other species can even come close to, we have even learned how to create abstractions of numbers through algebra and calculus.

But here’s the thing: numbers do not create reality, they only blearily reflect a small part of it.

Numbers allow us to better understand and describe reality, but to think that we can “count reality” to fully understand it or even that these numbers are reality itself is not only a fool’s errand, it is killing us.

We rely on counting everyday, and have even created marvelous machines to help and even surpass our own ability with all of this counting. And yet, how can you count an infinite reality? From an infinite number of angles? At an infinite number of times?

There is a famous story which is used way too often to illustrate the point of human narcissistic ignorance (we are so sure in our ignorance) of several philosophers standing around an elephant blindfolded (turn your willing suspension of disbelief filter on), each holding a different part.

The first holding the trunk says, “This is a snake”.

The second holding a leg says, “No, this is a tree”.

The third holding an ear says, “No, this is a banana leaf.”

When we think measurements of reality tell us the absolute truth, we fool ourselves into believing we understand the truth of our reality when we really only have the smallest distorted fraction of a piece of the truth, and this reliance on counting reality is killing the human species.