1849: The Factory Floor

Lily loved Trundlebot.

She knew she was very lucky to be allowed on the factory floor, because usually the children of the colony weren’t allowed anywhere near it. The fact that her father was the manager of the complex, overseeing the various automatons’ duties and making sure everything continued to run smoothly on a daily basis, meant that she enjoyed certain privileges, though: privileges that she didn’t take for granted.

The other children in her class sometimes teased her for spending so much time in the factory, but she knew that secretly they were jealous; she overheard them sometimes talking about the robots, and how interesting they were, and how they’d love to get up close to see how they really worked. But no-one but Lily was allowed to do that. She’d have let them come with her if they’d only ask — her father often said that she could bring her friends — but no-one ever did, and she wasn’t sure she wanted to.

That’s because Lily didn’t really have many friends. She’d always been somewhat distant, generally preferring the company of a book from Old Earth or a headset filled with classical music. But her father had seen how much she’d come to life the first time he’d brought her to the factory, and so he’d made special arrangements for her to be able to come and go as she pleased, so long as she was careful.

Trundlebot was particularly special to her, because Trundlebot was the first robot she’d encountered up close. Trundlebot wasn’t its real name, of course, but Lily had quickly christened the mechanical giant that after seeing it trundling leisurely around the factory floor, carrying things from one place to another as if it had all the time in the world.

Trundlebot wasn’t the most efficient or advanced model in the factory, but Lily’s father had kept it around for as long as it remained functional, since he knew how much the ageing robot meant to his daughter. Even as the rest of the factory was staffed by shiny white plastic automatons with more convincing humanoid forms, Lily still found herself fascinated by the browning metal of Trundlebot; the stereoscopic cameras that formed its eyes; its spindly, awkward yet vaguely humanoid arms; the caterpillar tracks upon which it made its way around the factory.

Lily wasn’t so naïve as to believe that Trundlebot knew who she was — she was nearly ten years old, after all; far too old for such childish fancies — but that didn’t stop her thinking of it fondly and always spending most of her factory floor visits following the automaton around. Trundlebot was the closest thing she felt she had to a true friend; often, when she knew no-one was watching her, she’d talk to it, spilling forth her deepest, darkest secrets that she didn’t even tell her father. She found the experience therapeutic; Trundlebot never judged her for the things she said, and she found sweet release from offloading her emotional baggage in this way.

One day, as spring was just starting to show itself in the colony, Lily headed to the factory after school as she always did, and immediately sought out Trundlebot. It didn’t take her long to find it, but something didn’t seem quite right: it didn’t seem to be “trundling” so much as rolling around the factory floor in a somewhat determined, almost aggressive manner, with a clear purpose. It had always had that sense of purpose about it — it always got the job done, after all — but there was also the distinct impression that it would do things at its own pace and wouldn’t be rushed. It reminded Lily in many ways of an elderly man pottering around his garden; plenty of things to do, and all the time in the world to do them one at a time.

Today, though, Trundlebot seemed to be moving with unusual efficiency and speed. It didn’t look at all right, and it concerned Lily somewhat.

“What do you think?” said her father, walking up behind her and placing his hand gently on her shoulder.

“What did you do to him?” asked Lily. “He’s… different.” Lily always personified Trundlebot as a “he”, despite the robot technically being completely genderless.

“We upgraded its drive components,” said her father. “They were getting a little worn, so we took the opportunity to put some more efficient parts in there.” Here he lowered his voice. “Plus between you and me, the bosses have been getting on my back to get it sorted out for a while. It’s the weak link in the process.”

Lily did not like this at all, but she just pouted and said nothing. Despite the new-found spring in its step, it was still Trundlebot, after all. She spent her usual few hours following it around the factory floor, this time having to jog to keep up with her mechanical companion. After a few short minutes, she found herself enjoying the exercise, and it wasn’t until she was on her way home that she started to think about the old Trundlebot and how the new one differed from it.

Lily continued to visit the factory every day, and eventually became accustomed to her robotic friend’s new-found burst of almost youthful vigour. But then something else changed, and she found herself once again feeling a little strange.

This time around, Trundlebot’s spindly arms had been replaced with what appeared to be more heavy-duty lifting apparatus: large metal claws on the end of thick, almost muscular-looking arms wrapped in flexible plastic tubing, like that seen on a vacuum hose but about five times the diameter. Lily watched it from a distance for a little while; its new arms allowed it to lift much heavier, more cumbersome objects, and when combined with its new drive parts, it was doing so with remarkable efficiency.

“What did you do now?” she said, sensing her father walking up behind her.

“Well, I think you can see,” said her father. “It’s been working out.” He chuckled.

Lily pouted again, and said nothing. Her father, sensing something amiss, continued.

“We’ve been starting to deal with much heavier materials now that the Arcology project is underway,” he said. “It made sense to upgrade its lifting apparatus, as it just wouldn’t have been able to cope otherwise.”

Reluctantly, Lily found herself forced to agree; better that Trundlebot could continue doing its job than be consigned to the scrap-heap simply because it wasn’t able to do the work any more. As it passed by, its stereoscopic vision cameras looked right at her, and she felt like she had made “eye contact” with the machine; it was still her friend in there.

Once again, the weeks passed by, and Lily gradually became accustomed to Trundlebot’s new, more physically imposing form. On one occasion, her father took manual control of Trundlebot with the override device — essentially a remote control for any of the robots on the factory floor — and made it pick her up in its big, powerful arms. She was delighted, and found herself with an uncontrollable desire to fling her young, skinny arms around the cold, metallic neck of the automaton; it wasn’t quite a hug, but it was near enough.

Summer came, and the colony enjoyed a heatwave. It was delightful weather; the sun shone in clear skies, and it was pleasantly warm without being uncomfortable. Even Lily, who generally preferred to stay indoors if at all possible, spent some time out in the sun, though she quickly found that her pale skin was more inclined to burn than tan.

One particularly hot afternoon, Lily went to the factory in the hopes of cooling off. The air conditioning inside the building usually kept things pleasantly temperate all year round, but today she was surprised to discover that it was almost as hot inside the factory as it was outside. Still, the shade inside the building afforded some respite from the rays of the sun, at least; the skin on her arms was still a little tender and was peeling in a few places, so she had no particular desire to remain outside.

She looked around for Trundlebot as usual, but was surprised to discover that it appeared to be nowhere to be seen. She walked around, calling out its “name” a few times before realising how foolish that was and continuing her search in silence. All she saw were the more modern humanoid-form robots going about their business; they ignored her for the most part, only acknowledging her presence by stepping around her when she was directly in their path as they proceeded to their next task.

Eventually, eyes widening, she saw a figure that was simultaneously familiar and strange to her. There was the base with the caterpillar tracks; there was the body of browning metal; there were the big, powerful arms that she had grown used to, but atop the body was not the familiar cuboid “head” sporting the stereoscopic vision cameras she knew as Trundlebot’s “face”; instead, there was a white plastic ellipsoid atop the body.

With a mechanical whir, the robot turned around and revealed the front of its new “head”; a black screen sporting glowing green symbols clearly designed to resemble a face. As it turned to face Lily, the symbols changed to an approximation of a smiling, cheerful face, and then something very surprising happened.

“Hello. Lily,” said the robot in an awkward synthesised voice. Lily didn’t respond. She was frozen to the spot, but the robot was starting to advance on her; slowly this time, somewhat more akin to Trundlebot’s old pace.

As the robot got close enough to have grabbed Lily with its arms, she blinked away sudden tears, shook her head and took a step back. The robot advanced again, the smiling face still glowing on its screen.

“Li. Ly,” it said again.

“What do you think?” said her father, who had seen her come in earlier but had only just caught up to where she had ended up. He had a smile on his face. “Not strictly by the book, but I thought you’d like it.”

The robot stopped in front of her. She looked at its still-smiling face, then her lip started to quiver, tears started to fall from her eyes and an uncontrollable sob escaped her.

Then she ran; past the big factory machines, past the oblivious humanoid robots, out into the heat of the summer’s day. She kept running until she was no longer anywhere near the factory; she had come to the main recreational area of the colony, an area of lush greenery that sported a large tree she had spent many a time sitting under contemplating the meaning of life in as much depth as an almost-ten-year-old can muster.

She headed straight for the tree and sat down in the shade, her back resting against the trunk. She hugged her knees close to herself, then buried her head in them and began to cry in earnest.

She wasn’t stupid. She knew why all this had happened. She knew that Trundlebot had been on borrowed time for a long while now, and that her father had kept it around to appease her for as long as possible. She knew that this last modification was done entirely with her in mind, as a way to give her a true friend rather than an unthinking, unfeeling automaton who saw the world through primitive stereoscopic cameras.

But she found herself resenting her father for that. He had tried to make Trundlebot better: a better worker; a better robot; a better friend for Lily. But in doing so he had gradually eroded the things that made Trundlebot Trundlebot in Lily’s mind, until now there was all but nothing left of the robot she had loved.

She wept for her lost mechanical friend with an intense sadness she hadn’t felt since the loss of her mother a year ago. The feelings were all too familiar: a sense of abandonment, of things being beyond her control, of the universe being just so damned unfair all the time. She wept until there were no more tears to cry, then she watched the sun set, the clear blue skies giving way to pinks and golds, and eventually fading away completely to reveal the starry sky. She had never felt more alone and insignificant.

Lily never went back to the factory after that, and she never quite forgave her father; but Trundlebot as he once was lived on in her memory, and would remain there for as long as she lived.

1755: Dad Rock

I have a playlist on my phone called “Dad Rock”. The title will be fairly self-explanatory to most of you, I’m sure, but for those wondering why I would call it that when I’m not a father (and have no intention of being one, either), the explanation is actually relatively simple. It’s a playlist full of stuff that I secretly quite enjoyed listening to when I was young and impressionable, but which during my teenage years I steered well clear of owing to the fact that it’s not at all cool to be into records from your Dad’s collection. Not that I was cool at all during my teenage years anyway, but that’s beside the point.

Anyway, the point is, my Dad Rock playlist contains a selection of stuff from artists like Pink Floyd; Yes; Emerson, Lake and Palmer; and the Electric Light Orchestra. It’s a playlist I intend to build on over time as I recall things from the past that I actually quite enjoyed, and ultimately will become a pleasing collection of somewhat retro music (largely erring on the prog rock side of things) that I can listen to at my leisure.

One of the first albums that I added to the mix was Time by ELO. I’m not entirely sure why this album has stuck in my mind all these years, but downloading a copy and listening to it on the way to and from work recently has confirmed to me that yes, it really is a cracking album and one that I’m very happy to have rediscovered.

Time, if you’re unfamiliar, is a concept album based around the theme of a man from 1981 (the year of the album’s original release, and the year of my birth) who somehow finds himself in 2095. The theme is rather flimsy, to be honest, but it’s a good excuse for a selection of vaguely sci-fi-themed tracks about The Future — or at least The Future as imagined in 1981.

What I love about Time is how unabashedly earnest and unironic it is about everything. It features lyrics that would be used in a cynical, sarcastic or parody manner today, but it takes them seriously. Take this wonderful little bit from Yours Truly, 2095, referring to an apparently emotionless robotic woman that reminds the narrator of someone he left behind back in 1981:

She is the latest in technology,
Almost mythology, but she has a heart of stone
She has an IQ of 1,001,
She has a jumpsuit on,
And she’s also a telephone.

Wonderful stuff. And it doesn’t stop there, but I won’t bore you with too many quotes.

What’s interesting about Time is how its vision of the future actually isn’t too far off the mark in a few situations. The above example from Yours Truly, 2095 is extreme, of course, but the prospect of the latest technology having “being a telephone” thrown in almost as an afterthought is already a reality thanks to smartphone technology and software like Skype. Similarly, these lines from Here is the News accurately predicted the launch of round-the-clock rolling news coverage and the subsequent banality that comes with it when there’s not all that much going on.

Here is the news,
Coming to you every hour on the hour,
Here is the news,
The weather’s fine but there may be a meteor shower.
Here is the news,
A cure’s been found for good old rocket lag,
Here is the news,
Someone left their life behind in a plastic bag.

More than anything else, though, Time is an evocative work that uses a variety of different musical styles, some well-crafted (if occasionally cheesy when viewed through a 21st-century lens) lyrics and some genuinely catchy themes. Despite the fact that the “narrative” of the album is somewhat shaky and unclear, it certainly does manage to evoke an uncommonly vivid image of the future — not quite dystopian in nature, but certainly a rather alien existence to that which we know even now in 2014.

Early in the morning,
The sun was up and the sky was very blue,
Without a warning,
As I looked out, my thoughts returned to you,
A noise in the city made the children run,
And hide themselves away,
And thunder boomed and lightning filled the sky.

Since I’ve always known Time as a complete experience — and there’s very much a feeling of a “journey” throughout the tracks, even if the narrative itself is a little muddy — it’s one of those albums that I absolutely can’t listen to on random play, even though I like most of the tracks individually. It’s a work designed to be experienced as a whole, and it’s one that still — for me, anyway — holds up remarkably well today. So I have a feeling there’s going to be at least a few more journeys to and from work with it blasting from my speakers, yet.

#oneaday Day 826: No Kind of Atmosphere

I’ve been watching Red Dwarf on Netflix recently. In the process I’ve discovered that there’s actually a hell of a lot of that series that I’d never seen before, so I’ve been delighted to (re)discover it.

Red Dwarf was one of those series that That One Guy At University Who Endlessly Quoted Things endlessly quoted. Well, perhaps not endlessly — sometimes he was quoting Blackadder. I’m only just now, some ten years later, coming around to the idea that I can actually watch those shows again without hearing That One Guy At University Who Endlessly Quoted Things’ voice in my head.

That’s beside the point though. And the point is that Red Dwarf is still an excellent series, for more reasons than one.

First up, it’s quite simply an excellent comedy series. The small cast of exaggerated characters makes for some excellent comic situations. The fact that all of the characters have at least one major flaw in their personalities is what makes them entertaining, too — Lister is arguably the closest we get to a “straight man” in the show, but even he’s flawed; he’s gross, he’s selfish and his reliance on curry as his primary form of sustenance doubtless makes him rather unpleasant to live with. Rimmer, meanwhile, is by turns arrogant and crippled by self-doubt; The Cat is vain to a fault; and Kryten has difficulty with acting independently when it conflicts with his programming. Put these dysfunctional characters together and you have a recipe for plenty of comic conflict.

The less-considered side of the show is that it’s actually a surprisingly decent sci-fi show, too. While it doesn’t have anywhere near the budget of what we might be used to from more recent titles — or even shows like Star Trek: The Next Generation, which ran at a similar time — it manages to convey a convincing feeling of what Life Is Like In The Future. The show doesn’t batter the audience over the head with lengthy descriptions of what things do or how they work; rather, it simply drops things into conversation that make it clear that we’re absolutely not on 21st century Earth any more.

Part of this comes from the show’s use of language. Its use of terms like “smeg”, “gimboid”, “goit” and numerous other faux-expletives was initially to get around the fact that it wasn’t okay to say certain things on television, but over time these words became part of the show’s identity. Numerous other shows have taken a similar approach since — Firefly features Chinese swearing, for example, while Battlestar Galactica features the multi-purpose invective “frak” at regular intervals. (It’s not clear how much Red Dwarf’s use of fake swear words influenced these titles, if at all.) Initially, the presence of these words is jarring as you wonder what they mean and why they’re not simply using regular expletives. But over time, as you become invested in the worlds created by the writers, you begin to let these words wash over you and enter your vocabulary even though, in most cases, they’re completely made up, portmanteau words or “loan words” from another language.

Ultimately, Red Dwarf succeeds due to the fact it never tries to get ideas above its station. It knows that it’s a low-budget sci-fi comedy with a small cast, and rarely attempts to deviate too much from that formula. Some may argue that the later seasons do deviate from this formula and are consequently weaker as a result, but having not (re)watched them yet, I’m not going to comment on that right now. One thing the show doesn’t do, however, is rest on its laurels; each season has its own distinctive identity, and it’s quite fascinating to see the changes it goes through as the years pass by and the budget increases.

It’s still great, then, in short, and if you’ve never had the pleasure of watching it, then you should check it out. It’s all on Netflix (in the UK, anyway), so be sure to check it out if you’re a member.

#oneaday, Day 12: Welcome Home

[Disregard the above. It is nothing to do with the below. This is a short piece of fiction that I promised I’d write. It is late and I have been out all evening. But this is no excuse to not write something. So here is… something. I feel I should not have bothered with this disclaimer as it probably diminshes the atmosphere. Still, it separates the prose below from the cartoon about a man getting his penis out above. Which is, I suppose, a good thing. Now. Shut up and read.]

He sat in the chair by the big windows that looked out over the pristine courtyard below. The chair was comfy, his apartment was immaculate and the lush foliage down below looked completely perfect. If there were such a thing as Paradise, this planet was surely as close to it as Man was ever supposed to get.

He stood and walked solemnly up to the window pane, gently sliding it open with his free hand and letting the cool, clean air of this new world flow in through the gap, filling his lungs with purity.

He closed his eyes and breathed deeply. This was a far cry from the overcrowded, polluted atmosphere that was the Earth he left behind. For a brief moment, he wondered what state the planet was in after their long voyage, but the image soon faded, and the darkness started closing in. He opened his eyes to escape it, if only for a moment.

I should be happy, he thought. This should be the happiest moment of my life. I am part of history. Never again will anyone get the chance to do what I am doing right now. A virgin world that was ripe for colonisation, prepared for Man’s arrival by the machines and now inhabited by the first humans ever to step forward and volunteer themselves to live permanently away from Mother Earth? There are people who would kill for that opportunity—there were people who killed for that opportunity—but there was no happiness here, no pride. Nothing could erase the pain he felt.

Everyone knew the risks when they signed up. The stasis chambers had been successful in small-scale, short-term laboratory tests, but all the colonists knew that they were really test subjects for use of the chambers on a voyage of many years in length. The potential rewards outweighed the risks for many participants in the program, most of whom were unemployed, or living in the dirtiest, most run-down areas of the cramped, overcrowded cities. The chance of a new life on a virgin Utopia was too good to pass up, even if it meant relying on an unproven technology.

He recalled the last time he had seen her before the voyage began. As husband and wife, their pods had been next to each other, so they had the chance to be together right up until the last moment.

“Sweet dreams,” she had said to him, kissing him lightly on the lips and touching his nose playfully with her fingertip. “We’ll be in our new home before you know it.”

He had smiled at her, held her close and kissed her back, and gazed into her eyes as she lay back into her pod, the Space Corps officer closing the lid, ready for her journey into the unknown. She had blown him a kiss just before the lid had clicked shut.

Smiling, he lay back into his own pod, closing his eyes and picturing her face. The sight of her always brought him comfort. He knew that wherever she was, that was home. And the thought of starting a new life with her on this exciting, unknown new world that they’d heard so much about on the NewsWire—that was a thought that had kept him going. The knowledge that they’d be escaping the constant struggle to survive in post-War London. The fact that they’d be able to start a family without having to deal with the bureaucracy of the Overpopulation Act of 2342. It felt like their life was starting again, like they were being given a second chance, and one which wasn’t doomed from the outset.

He felt the cool air of the pod bay stop caressing his face, and he heard the “click” of the lid closing. He opened his eyes, and all was darkness. It was beginning, and he knew that this would be the last memory he would be having for a while. He closed his eyes again and pictured her face smiling at him; those beautiful blue eyes, those luscious, kissable lips that he could never resist, the cute dimples on her cheeks when she grinned.

Then, nothingness, like a sudden and involuntary sleep. He had no idea how much time passed between the complete loss of all his senses and the moment he became aware again, hearing the “click” of the pod unlocking and seeing the lid open into the darkened bay.

He had known as soon as he saw the face of the Space Corps officer opening his lid that something was wrong.

“What is it?” he said, his voice croaking. “What is it?” he said again, louder this time. The officer said nothing, but clearly looked worried.

He braced himself against the sides of the pod and hauled himself to his feet. The lights of the bay had been lowered so as not to dazzle the awakening colonists, but he still felt the need to squint as he stepped out into the cold air. The officer offered him help in getting to his feet, but he brushed it aside, looking over to that all important pod next to his own. Her pod.

It was still closed. The lid was still firmly atop it, even though it seemed that most of the other colonists were now waking up, starting to mill about and speak to one another hesitantly. He knew that something was very wrong, and he turned to the officer again.

“Tell me,” he hissed. “Why haven’t you woken her up?”

Footsteps behind him. The sound of his approach—the man who would say the words that would change his life forever. The sound of the shoes clanking on the metal floor got closer and closer, then stopped.

“I’m afraid we have some bad news,” came a voice from behind him. He felt a hand on his shoulder, but he was already starting to feel dizzy, nauseous and afraid. He turned around to face the source of the voice and found himself looking at a short man in a white lab coat, a messy mop of grey hair atop his head, a grim expression on his face.

He could barely form words. He didn’t want to ask the question, but it came out almost involuntarily.

“What… what happened?” he asked, his voice quavering. The extremities of his vision seemed to blur, and his head was pounding. He couldn’t take not knowing any more, whatever this bad news was.

“I’m sorry,” said the grey-haired man. “But your wife… she didn’t survive the voyage.”

He let out a loud cry, the support of his legs gave out, and he collapsed to his knees. He stared straight ahead, the man’s words echoing around his mind, over and over again. “She didn’t survive the voyage.” So cold. So clinical. And over there, in the pod that had become her coffin, there she was.

There was a long silence. The other colonists milling around the bay had stopped, watching this strange scene unfold in front of them. A few of them looked like they’d figured out what was happening, some of them gesturing to the closed pod and whispering to one another, but the low buzz of conversation seemed to have ceased.

He closed his eyes, tears running silently down his cheeks, and he breathed deeply in a vain attempt to compose himself. Opening his eyes again and looking to the grey-haired man through his distorted, tear-filled vision, he spoke uneasily.

“Can… Can I… see…”

The grey-haired man stroked his chin and looked solemnly at him.

“If you wish,” he said. “However, I feel I should warn you that the contents of that pod… may not be how you wish to remember your wife.”

He staggered to his feet, tears still running down his face, and walked slowly over to the pod.

“Show me,” he growled. The grey-haired man nodded to the officer, who looked very uncomfortable, but silently walked over to the side of the pod, pressed a button and started to open the lid.

Instantly, he knew that his wife was gone. He turned away in disgust at that which he had but glimpsed. She had clearly been dead for a very long time, and that was not how he wanted to remember her. The grey-haired man had been right. He couldn’t sully the memory of her beautiful face with what she had become thanks to the failure of technology.

But it was too late. It had been but a glimpse, but it was already seared into his memory. And even now, standing here, breathing in the crisp, cool air of this virgin planet, he could not be happy. His new beginning had been cut short by cruel Fate.

As he raised the barrel of the gun to his temple, he closed his eyes and whispered one simple phrase, one which he had hoped he would be saying for the rest of his life.

“I love you.”

#oneaday, Day 304: Head-Up Display

I’m a big sci-fi fan, as many of you will know. But one thing always confuses me when it comes to visual design for sci-fi movies, TV shows and games.

I am, of course, talking about the “information overload” screen displays. Take this example:

vanquish2 — Look at all that shit all over his face. What does it mean?

And, from the same source (SEGA’s Vanquish, if you were curious):

vanquish-61 — Look at all that shit floating around her. What does it mean?

The future, it appears, will be filled with masses and masses of information floating around us in 360-degree 3D, very little of which we’ll actually need. And this is a pattern that is by no means limited to video games. We see it in movies, too. Any time you see a first-person view from a robot/android/cyborg/guy with mechanical penis that shoots lasers from the bellend, there’ll always be some inexplicable spinning numbers, wireframe graphics, text (inevitably in blue or green), blips or markers implying “scanning”.

Now, consider what a world where you’re bombarded with that much information in one go would be like. It’s bad enough having a hand-held device like an iPhone that showers you with push notifications, text messages, emails and all manner of other nonsense 24/7, but at least you can turn that off, switch it to silent, hide it in your sock drawer, whatever. But it seems that visual designers for sci-fi movies, TV shows and games believe that the future is filled with unnecessary, redundant and, often, meaningless information.

You don’t get sci-fi writers indulging in this, though, usually. Asimov’s Elijah Bailey never spent five pages worth of exposition staring at a green-hued computer screen wondering desperately which set of jiggling alphanumeric characters allowed him to open the door to his apartment, for example. If Charles Dickens wrote sci-fi, his protagonists might well do that. But, well, he’s not around to inflict that on us. Thank God.

In actuality, what we’re more likely to get, should we ever end up with head-mounted displays or computers in our brains, is something akin to a first-person shooter’s head-up display. Perhaps with the capability to install apps. So while you’re sitting in a boring meeting and not paying attention, you can be playing Snake instead. And no-one will be any the wiser, except when they see your eyes darting around to find the next apple. And when curious sound effects start emanating from your nostrils.

Actually, given the amount of time people waste with plain-sight devices like computers and smartphones, perhaps the ability to install apps into your own brain might not be the best idea.

So, the future then. Somehow I doubt it’s going to be quite the way it’s been represented to us in movies over the years. And that’s probably a good thing, since popular representations of the future often end up with most of us being horribly mutilated, raped and/or killed by machines/robots/aliens/demons from another dimension/the government.

The only hope is, of course, Star Trek.