Salon Magazine has been running a series entitled "Silicon Follies", very readable with the occasional Extropian meme. Enjoy.
Chapter 25
The Doom Server atop the Throne
of Infinite Logic
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BY THOMAS SCOVILLE
June 9, 1999 | As the darkness deepened, the
abandoned overpass loomed like a concrete
basilica over the setting for Psychrist's
cybernetic passion play.
It was a forebodingly apocalyptic scene. A
bizarre arrangement of monoliths suggested a
venue for some abstractly grave final
judgment.
A roughly circular perimeter of waist-high
concrete barriers -- appropriated by some
Caltrans highway construction crew
confederates -- enclosed a circular arena of
cryptically placed, vertical concrete cylinder
segments.
In the center of the ring was an
ominous-looking pit. From this rude breach
in the earth rose a more massive pillar with a
capstone -- a 20th century industrial facsimile
of a Roman column.
Atop the column sat a computer: beige
minitower sans monitor or keyboard, its
stark enclosure sculpturally complementary.
Ten feet directly above that, a shockingly
large rock hovered in the air, suspended by a
cable from the steel substructure of the
derelict overpass.
In each quadrant of this grim theater,
cheerfully surreal in juxtaposition to the
oppressive surroundings, stood a small,
fuzzy stuffed animal.
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A German video crew documented the event.
Nearby, the director -- shaved head and tiny
tortoise-shell glasses -- interviewed Psychrist
while a cameraman swooped and tilted the
camera for an arty, video vérité effect.
"It's a kinetic meta-parable about technology
and life on earth," Psychrist explicated. "The
four silicon bots represent the hazards of the
information age: passivity, detachment,
alienation and hubris. All electrically
powered, computer-controlled, wirelessly
networked. They're just kid's toys, really --
those remote-controlled monster trucks --
that we've upgraded with motherboards,
wireless networking and a spring-loaded
claw in the front."
"They receive their instructions from the
Doom Server sitting atop the Throne of
Infinite Logic." He pointed to the minitower
mounted dramatically in the center of the
arena. "The transmissions are all radio
frequency, but we're also doubling the 'bot
transponders through hopped-up red diodes
on their backs. Makes it more visually
interesting. Especially with the flames."
"There will be fire?" the director asked in his
best postmodern Alsatian deadpan.
"Oh, yeah. We call the moat around the
throne 'the Abyss.' It'll be full of flaming fuel
oil during the performance."
"The vehicle here will be carbon-guided."
Psychrist pointed to a menacing device that
looked like an off-road lawnmower bristling
with armaments. "In front, you got your
high-speed, rotating tungsten saw.
Flame-throwers out either side." He tugged
on a long, springy metal antenna arching
from the top of the vehicle. "There's also the
Chip Whip -- constantly rotates, 360 degrees.
Ultra high voltage contact on the end. Just
right for frying semiconductors." Psychrist
slapped the mechanical beast's flank. "But it's
all consistent with its nature: carbon-guided,
fossil-fuel-powered, all analog. No digital
machinery of any kind."
Faux Herzog gave Psychrist a quizzical look.
"Carbon-guided?"
"A rat."
"Rat. Is this some sort of new technology?"
the German queried earnestly.
"It's a very old technology, if you want to
think of it that way. It's a resilient, massively
parallel, fault-tolerant, hairy little critter
with
four legs and a tail. A marvel of engineering.
More than that. Art. They're all around this
neighborhood. You should check 'em out
sometime."
The videographer gaped. Psychrist decided a
clarification was in order.
"The control mechanism is an actual rat,
inside one of those transparent plastic
hamster-balls. The little guy has spent a
couple of weeks in a Skinner box. We've
been auto-shaping the rat to roll the ball
toward flashing lights -- which ought to
come in handy, since all the bots will be
strobing their LEDs as they transmit packets
to the Doom Server. As long as they're
strobing, rat'll be tracking 'em, the Carbon
Buggy will hunt 'em down and hopefully one
of the weapons'll sort 'em out."
The German scribbled in a
notebook, then accepted an
offering of Evian from a
production assistant. "Where did
you get this rat?" he asked in a
low voice.
"Local boy," Psychrist cheerfully
volunteered. "We trapped him in
a dumpster only a couple of
blocks away from here. He's got
the home-field advantage."
The director was clearly starting
to lose his grip on the translation.
"Home field?" he asked meekly.
Psychrist kicked himself into
semiotic high gear. "The area
surrounding the Throne is
conceptualized as the Field of
Cultural Production. It's divided into four
quadrants: Self-determination. Aesthetics.
Affect. Perversity. Each one has a virtue
proxy -- a little stuffed animal. Bear, pig,
frog, unicorn. The bots receive directives
from the Doom Server to search them out
and deliver them to the flames of the Abyss.
We put in a bunch of randomly placed
concrete pylons just to make things more
challenging for the transit logic."
"The bots are blind, but the Master can locate
them within the field with a grid of sensors.
The bots troll until they grab something, then
the Server guides them into the Abyss."
"I see," asserted the director, though he
didn't.
Psychrist pointed to the massive boulder
hanging over the mini-tower. "This guy we
call 'Heisenberg's pebble' -- it represents the
uncertainty of the outcome. The suspending
hardware is rigged with special explosives.
They blow as soon as all of the bots fail to
check in within a 500-millisecond interval."
He smirked a little sadistically. "Snaps the
cabling hardware. About three tons, straight
down."
The director gripped the Evian bottle, flexing
it in his hands. "And what will be this
outcome?"
"Carbon Rat's got five minutes of fuel to stop
the silicon bots from robbing the Field of
every human virtue." Psychrist shrugged.
"Your guess is as good as mine."
The rest of the story can be found at Salon.com
Best, Jeff Davis
"Everything's hard till you know how to do it."
Ray Charles