No Name Chapter 1
Montgomery walked over the threshold of the building he worked in. In that instant his mind was filled with images and instruction. The chip in the base of his skull hummed with the news and activity in the office today. The chip informed him of changes to his work schedule and told him to go to the Placer to begin the days work. It told him to do this every day but deep down in side Montgomery had the idea that if he were not told to go to the Placer he simple would not. He stepped into the small booth of the Placer and was lifted into the air up hundreds of stories. The building in which Montgomery worked was a simple design like all other office buildings. There was a main entrance and a line of placers. The rest of it was a honeycomb of rooms that were all separated by just enough space for the Placers to get threw. In each room there was a desk and an old fashioned interface. Many employees felt more comfortable using their hands to talk to the computer rather than their minds. Montgomery was one of these. He remembered in his childhood somebody saying that it was because to type is to access a different part of the mind. That was a long faded memory and did not matter now.
The Placer came to a sudden stop and the door opened to an unadorned office. It was not Montgomery’s office. It was not the office he had had the day before, or the day before that. It is quite possible that Montgomery have never worked in the same office in whole of the 15 years that he had worked there. But Montgomery had none of these thoughts in his 30 year old mind. He sat down at the terminal and began plugging away on the key board. He was writing part of a report. He did not know what it was about or why it was important and it did not matter. He was simple given the information he needed through the chip in his head and he was expected to synthesize it into the report. He did not know that the same section of the report was being written by almost 50 of his peers whom he had seen in passing and never met. The 50 versions would be put into a hand full of minds, possibly Montgomery’s and synthesized into one and this would then be passed onto an even smaller group of minds along with the other parts of the report and they would all be synthesized into one fluid report. The report would be handed, for the first time in paper, to the leaders of the world and they would take the required action. With the stroke of a key they would send people to fix this or change that or make that happen and the chips in those peoples minds would ensure that they do it.
But Montgomery had no concept of the part he played in the orchestra that was the human civilization. All he was aware of was that when he finished and did a good job the chip in his mind would trigger a release of dopamine as it deleted the information that was he was given for the report. He was not aware that he was looking forward to this reward just as he was not aware that he was part of something bigger. He was simple doing as he always had. He was part of a machine. He did not see that he was a machine. If he were conscious of it he might ask himself why a machine could not be build to do his job for him. Why could a collection of metal and wires and semiconductors not be build to take all the information and make it into a report? The truth of the matter was that they had tried. In a few cases they built machines that would simple spit out dribble. In other they found the writing to be bland and inconsequential. The fact of the matter was that they needed creativity. Now they could not wire creativity into a computer, but they did not need to, they had learned to wire a computer into the source of creativity. And so Montgomery sat typing away at his terminal, a machine, but a very special machine, a creative machine.
Montgomery typed the last word of a report and was rewarded once again. The chip informed him that a Placer was coming for him and he took it back to the door. It was not the door he had come in but he was not worried the chip told him to proceed to the transport at the front of the building. He had no doubt about which one he was to take he was sure that it would take him to where every he was suppose to be. He stepped out of the building and the buzz of the office faded to that of the city. He was still being told what to do and where to go but it was different not as strong and not as rewarding. He stepped onto the transport and sat down. There were other people on it. People he had never seen but he communicated with then threw the chip in his mind. The transport took off swiftly. It rose rapidly into the air and sped off. Montgomery’s apartment, if it could be called that, lay some 6000 km to the west over the mountain. Montgomery did not know this. His concept of geography was almost none existent. The transport sped rapidly over the high mountains with there jagged peaks and dense pine forests. He arrived at the door to his apartment and stepped from the transport into the one room that served as bedroom, bathroom, and kitchen. The transport sped off leaving a 100 m drop on the other side of Montgomery’s closing door.
The apartment was bland, but clean. Gray walls matching his gray jumpsuit. It was little more than a cube with lines on the wall and ceiling were the necessities lay in hiding until needed. Montgomery was informed that he was hungry and food appeared out of the wall to his right. After his finished eating he was informed that he needed to relieve himself and the toilet unfolded from the wall opposite where the food had come from. He was informed to sleep and the bed descended from the ceiling. He lay down and the light went out as he himself instantly fell asleep. He slept a dreamless night like he always did and was awaken at some point in the future. Montgomery had no idea that the sun rose and set, or that the moon had phases or that the constellations moved threw the sky with the changing of the seasons. He did not even know that there was a sun or moon, or that there were stars to make constellations. He did not know about the smells of the seasons or the way that snowflakes seem to dance on your face as they fall from the heavens. Montgomery had, at one point, known these things but on his fifteenth birthday he had forgotten all of that.
The transport sped away from his apartment on his way to work again. Threw the small windows that nobody every looked out, it was raining and the transport was flying between bolts of lightning. Every one simple sat there in silence, talking about nothing threw the network that they were always connected to. Nobody even flinched when there was a loud bang and the transport lurched forward and tipped downward. The people on that transport did not make a sound when the transport smashed into the side of the mountain. Those that were still alive did not move or say anything they simple continued their conversation as the transport was consumed in flames. When the flames lept to their flesh they were calm and continued to interact with one another. If there was pain to be felt their chips inform them of it. It was not until the chips began to heat up that they started informing their hosts of the danger by that point they were already dead. Their creative mind boiled within there own heads.
Montgomery opened his eyes. It was the first time he could remember doing so. He laid very still waiting for his chip to inform him of what to do. He was suddenly aware of the passage of time and found himself to be an impatient man. For the first time in fifteen years he made a decision on his own. He sat up. He looked over to the smoldering wreckage of the transport some 50 m away. He felt something on his head. He was not sure what it was he had not felt anything like it in a very long time. He put his hand to the spot and pulled it away. In the early morning sun he could see that it was blood. His mind flashed to when he was a child and realized that the sensation in his head was pain. When it finally sunk in the pain was immobilizing. He kept hoping that his chip would kick in and tell him that it was something else but deep down he knew that the chip would never tell him anything again. For the first time Montgomery felt alone and sat there curled in a ball wishing for death as the sun burnt the last of the storm away and cast light on the world.
The Placer came to a sudden stop and the door opened to an unadorned office. It was not Montgomery’s office. It was not the office he had had the day before, or the day before that. It is quite possible that Montgomery have never worked in the same office in whole of the 15 years that he had worked there. But Montgomery had none of these thoughts in his 30 year old mind. He sat down at the terminal and began plugging away on the key board. He was writing part of a report. He did not know what it was about or why it was important and it did not matter. He was simple given the information he needed through the chip in his head and he was expected to synthesize it into the report. He did not know that the same section of the report was being written by almost 50 of his peers whom he had seen in passing and never met. The 50 versions would be put into a hand full of minds, possibly Montgomery’s and synthesized into one and this would then be passed onto an even smaller group of minds along with the other parts of the report and they would all be synthesized into one fluid report. The report would be handed, for the first time in paper, to the leaders of the world and they would take the required action. With the stroke of a key they would send people to fix this or change that or make that happen and the chips in those peoples minds would ensure that they do it.
But Montgomery had no concept of the part he played in the orchestra that was the human civilization. All he was aware of was that when he finished and did a good job the chip in his mind would trigger a release of dopamine as it deleted the information that was he was given for the report. He was not aware that he was looking forward to this reward just as he was not aware that he was part of something bigger. He was simple doing as he always had. He was part of a machine. He did not see that he was a machine. If he were conscious of it he might ask himself why a machine could not be build to do his job for him. Why could a collection of metal and wires and semiconductors not be build to take all the information and make it into a report? The truth of the matter was that they had tried. In a few cases they built machines that would simple spit out dribble. In other they found the writing to be bland and inconsequential. The fact of the matter was that they needed creativity. Now they could not wire creativity into a computer, but they did not need to, they had learned to wire a computer into the source of creativity. And so Montgomery sat typing away at his terminal, a machine, but a very special machine, a creative machine.
Montgomery typed the last word of a report and was rewarded once again. The chip informed him that a Placer was coming for him and he took it back to the door. It was not the door he had come in but he was not worried the chip told him to proceed to the transport at the front of the building. He had no doubt about which one he was to take he was sure that it would take him to where every he was suppose to be. He stepped out of the building and the buzz of the office faded to that of the city. He was still being told what to do and where to go but it was different not as strong and not as rewarding. He stepped onto the transport and sat down. There were other people on it. People he had never seen but he communicated with then threw the chip in his mind. The transport took off swiftly. It rose rapidly into the air and sped off. Montgomery’s apartment, if it could be called that, lay some 6000 km to the west over the mountain. Montgomery did not know this. His concept of geography was almost none existent. The transport sped rapidly over the high mountains with there jagged peaks and dense pine forests. He arrived at the door to his apartment and stepped from the transport into the one room that served as bedroom, bathroom, and kitchen. The transport sped off leaving a 100 m drop on the other side of Montgomery’s closing door.
The apartment was bland, but clean. Gray walls matching his gray jumpsuit. It was little more than a cube with lines on the wall and ceiling were the necessities lay in hiding until needed. Montgomery was informed that he was hungry and food appeared out of the wall to his right. After his finished eating he was informed that he needed to relieve himself and the toilet unfolded from the wall opposite where the food had come from. He was informed to sleep and the bed descended from the ceiling. He lay down and the light went out as he himself instantly fell asleep. He slept a dreamless night like he always did and was awaken at some point in the future. Montgomery had no idea that the sun rose and set, or that the moon had phases or that the constellations moved threw the sky with the changing of the seasons. He did not even know that there was a sun or moon, or that there were stars to make constellations. He did not know about the smells of the seasons or the way that snowflakes seem to dance on your face as they fall from the heavens. Montgomery had, at one point, known these things but on his fifteenth birthday he had forgotten all of that.
The transport sped away from his apartment on his way to work again. Threw the small windows that nobody every looked out, it was raining and the transport was flying between bolts of lightning. Every one simple sat there in silence, talking about nothing threw the network that they were always connected to. Nobody even flinched when there was a loud bang and the transport lurched forward and tipped downward. The people on that transport did not make a sound when the transport smashed into the side of the mountain. Those that were still alive did not move or say anything they simple continued their conversation as the transport was consumed in flames. When the flames lept to their flesh they were calm and continued to interact with one another. If there was pain to be felt their chips inform them of it. It was not until the chips began to heat up that they started informing their hosts of the danger by that point they were already dead. Their creative mind boiled within there own heads.
Montgomery opened his eyes. It was the first time he could remember doing so. He laid very still waiting for his chip to inform him of what to do. He was suddenly aware of the passage of time and found himself to be an impatient man. For the first time in fifteen years he made a decision on his own. He sat up. He looked over to the smoldering wreckage of the transport some 50 m away. He felt something on his head. He was not sure what it was he had not felt anything like it in a very long time. He put his hand to the spot and pulled it away. In the early morning sun he could see that it was blood. His mind flashed to when he was a child and realized that the sensation in his head was pain. When it finally sunk in the pain was immobilizing. He kept hoping that his chip would kick in and tell him that it was something else but deep down he knew that the chip would never tell him anything again. For the first time Montgomery felt alone and sat there curled in a ball wishing for death as the sun burnt the last of the storm away and cast light on the world.
posted by The Golden Retirver at 12:48
2 Comments:
Two distinct thoughts came to me, reading this.
In Timequake, Kurt Vonnegut wrote a (very) short story about an architect who discovered new building-design software. He gave it a style and purpose (Jeffersonian parking garage), and it asked for location (to get building codes and demographics), surrounding buildings, number of cars, etc. When the architect realized that it did his job better than him, hundreds of times faster, he went home and killed himself. That story may have been the most depressing single (fiction) page I've read in my life.
The other thing that I thought of was about information systems. When you look at a computer, what makes it great is that the bits all work in a predictable and identical manner, and under a centralized control system (even with parallel processing), that exactly does what it needs to do. Things work together because they have no other option.
When you look at a person, or at a society, the greatest things that happen are the ones that are unpredictable and new, and which arise spontaneously from individuals' desires before the goal is even really specified. People work together because they have similar desires.
I think this is so important, that in my short story writing (as yet totally unreleased) I refer to the first type of thinking as "demonic" and the second as "angelic" (which does not make so much sense in the Christian tradition where angels have no free will, but it's my universe). There's a third type: "natural" or "taoist", in which some ordering principle opposes itself on random components to achieve a partially-specified end-goal. Things work together because the ordering principle aligns them.
Demonic = uniform, dictatorships, central control, computers
Angelic = diverse, small states controlled by many entities (political parties, companies, NGOs, whatever), individual autonomy, art galleries
Naturalistic = chaotic or fractal patterns, separation and anarchy, control imposed only by rules of system, evolution
Computers have started to use naturalistic thinking, but they can't approximate anything near angelic yet (that would require them to set their own goals).
So there are three problems in my opinion:
1) If society is completely demonic we'd all be better off dead.
2) If society is too naturalistic it ends up like anarchy. Many people end up like animals (in a bad way), and we have famine, disease, etc.
3) If society is angelic (my favorite option), some entities (people, computers, w/e) eventually get much better than others in certain areas. You either have to make them catch up, or let them fall behind (and die? or just stop developing). That is, in an angelic society, one ideally gets people the tools to do what they need or want to do, and encourage creativity or improvement. But if someone doesn't want to be creative or improve, you are stuck. Also, it's hard to decide when something really is "improving".
Also, your story reminds me of how scared I am sometimes of that mechanical thinking (that's what it was called in GEB, I just realized he brought up exactly this issue, but he called it mechanical, intelligent, and non/zen modes of thinking instead of demon/angel/natural).
I feel very apologetic and embarrassed about how long I talked there. I've been writing a lot recently, partly because of break, on blogs and this or that. I've come to realize that this sort of thinking and writing are the only thing I feel completely confident in. I can lose anything else through failure or accident, but not this. If I lost this, I wouldn't be me.
That said, I think I need to branch out in some way. My life is without clear overall purpose. I might not need a purpose, but I think I need confidence that I'm doing something that's not going to lose its value for me. This applies kind of to school, but kind of to everything. I need experience, but since I don't know what kind, I don't change much. I very slowly dip a toe in everything, doesn't get me anywhere. We'll see if I change that over the coming months.
I don't know how much sense that made, but to completely reset the topic, I liked your story a lot. It's an effective dystopia. The only thing is the editor in my head wanted to rearrange a lot. But it was stylistic/punctuation stuff, there weren't major grammar issues.
Random question, what do you think of it when I go on and on like this? I've come to realize more and more that it's for my own benefit. I really like having responses, but if I'm getting long-winded or not that interesting I should probably get better at shutting up, at least in text. I think in hindsight that I really should have rearranged this and put it elsewhere. It makes little sense to be so intrusive on your blog. I'll fix it next time, but tonight I'm too tired so I'll just submit this. See you soon!
Woah. Ron, you never cease to amaze me. I definitely agree that it's easier when your decisions are made for you, but I probably don't share your views on this one. We'll just have to see how chapter 2 and beyond go. That said, "No Name" was bad-ass. I'm going to have to work on putting together stories that say what I'm feeling because they are so much more enjoyable to read than the crap I put down.
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