As both Pilot and Elevator knew, failure at anywhere near this juncture was inadvisable and therefore it really was best to find a new stride: if only it was not difficult to balance into fresh equilibriums!
At the moment, the idea of being able to hold a discourse with a machine IS science fiction. For some people, the prospect of this technology frightens them. The principal and obvious reason the possibility of true opulence in our technical and communications fortitude can be frightening is likely because the existing global oligopoly business structure would, if it controlled such a thing, indeed make a mincemeat of our freedoms. Let’s set this one thing aside for now and address the issue at hand. What’s needed to increase the utility of language such that it can be both an accurate means of communicating with machines (and machines with us) AND the beautiful, poetic and emotional toolset that we already enjoy in day to day speech between every one of us?
Why not race it?? The thought kept circulating with Pilot throughout the day.
with more information and used to retarget more of the same. It was not the mining that caused the war.
Pilot, cool under pressure, found the needed mail missing and so sat back and paused, considering. For some reason he remembered the first time, as a small Elevator, no more than six years old, he had heard the term ‘plastic surgery’, overheard through an adult conversation. He remembers his reaction, as well, in the sameContinue reading “Pilot Battles his Interface”
Normally his Elevator would have braked smoothly, banking across the atmosphere at terrific speed but in a controlled and predictable manner. Instead, he could feel himself flipping end over end over end as the Elevator spun out of control, feverishly trying to right itself and brake by using its automatic stabilizers and powerful thrusters. He headed directly for a massive ditch below; and crashed into the earth there, pushing up mounds and masses of red earth in the process. The Elevator’s smoking chassis left a charred trail over a dark, grassy embankment, turning the wet wilderness into a steaming, slippery hell fit only for a fire demon. Not being a fire demon however, Pilot was shaken rather badly.
Shards of sunlight punctuated by sharp shadows, sliding and flashing across the paper as his hand gripped the pen and slid it rhythmically across the graduated lines. Dressed for the weekend’s summer weather in shorts, tank top, hat and glasses, and a green bandana worked around his neck and face as a mask.
The sun, flashing through the trees and the windows of the moving vehicle continued to trace shadows and shapes on his Brain Paper.
Prior to this, of course, he added lubrication liberally and did certain exercises designed to flush waste products out of his system. Enthusiastically thus applied, and equipped, Pilot proceeded to redress his entire apparatus, taking time for light documentation as he went. He liberally applied a recent ointment to his fascia, which was visibly in need of attention, he noted
Looking again, Pilot could see that space, still darkened, was lightening up. The purplish haze he had seen earlier was gone, replaced by a greay light.