16 posts tagged with "Sci-Fi"

No one remembers exactly when or how the "Harmonizer" (some, privately, with a trace of ineffable fear, call it the "Machine Towards Goodness") quietly embedded itself into the fabric of our lives. Like a silent spore, it seemed to spread invisibly with every extension of the city's fiber optics, every system upgrade. The earliest records, scattered deep within the archives of long-forgotten tech forums, mention an experimental project aimed at "optimizing social welfare" and "enhancing civic morality." The project codename was vague, its funding sources obscure, its initiators even more indistinct, like a group of anonymous deities sowing seeds of well-being from behind a digital mist.

Old Li had been looking at the starry sky above his head for nine months. To be precise, he had been floating and looking at it for nine months. This was no romantic affair, it was like being locked in solitary confinement with only a toilet and compressed biscuits. The only difference was that outside this confinement was a vacuum, and some coldly gleaming stars.

The whole thing was just damn frustrating. Old Li, a seasoned astronaut, was supposed to return to Earth three months ago, hug his grandson he'd never met, drink a little wine, and brag about how the farts he released in space changed the course of human history. But now, he could only listen to those bureaucrats on Earth bickering through a dilapidated communicator.

Li Tiegen felt like a sardine stuffed into a can, squeezed into the classroom of the "International Space Station Chinese Intensive Course." Outside the window was the dark universe, dotted with a few "worthless" stars. He thought, this thing isn't even as bright as the light bulb hanging on the electric pole in his old village.

"Classmates, today we are going to learn the word '奋斗' (fèndòu - struggle/strive)," the teacher, with a thick northeastern accent, shouted at the top of his lungs, "Repeat after me, 奋——斗——"

Chicken number 9527 opened its eyes.

To be precise, it didn't know if it had "opened" its eyes, because there was no light. There was only the endless sound of clashing metal, and an indescribable, humid, nauseating smell. It instinctively felt that it was in a narrow space, surrounded by beings like itself – crowded, trembling, exuding the same fear.

Old Wang was "optimized" again. This was the third time he received a termination notice from the artificial intelligence "Deep Blue." The first two times, he managed to find new jobs with his years of experience and a bit of "human touch," but this time, the entire industry was crushed by "Deep Blue's" algorithms, and the demand for human labor had almost dropped to freezing point.

"Deep Blue's" efficiency was too high, the code was written fast and well, and bugs were almost non-existent. Bosses no longer needed human programmers who made mistakes, slacked off, or took time off. Old Wang couldn't understand why, after working hard, burning the midnight oil, and nearly losing all his hair, he was being eliminated by a cold, unfeeling program.

At six-thirty in the morning, before the alarm clock went off, Anqi was already awake. To be precise, it was her subconscious "short video alarm clock" that woke her up. She didn't even need to open her eyes to feel the vibration of the phone beside her pillow, a vibration like some invisible command, making her immediately reach out and light up the screen.

The familiar interface popped up, the brightly colored icons jumping on the screen like a group of excited little sprites. She opened TikTok, which had become almost the first thing she did every day, more important than brushing her teeth or washing her face. The first video pushed to her today was "2025's Trendiest Makeup," and Anqi skillfully followed the steps in the video, applying various colors of cosmetics to her face.

When Lao Li woke up, the world had changed. He lay in a sterile white hospital bed, his mind a blank slate, like a desert swept by the wind. The doctors said he had suffered sudden amnesia, the cause unknown. The only thing proving his identity was an old smart wristband on his wrist, displaying the name "Li Wei."

"Li Wei, programmer." This was the only information he could piece together from the blurry fragments of his memory. He didn't know what kind of code he had written, why he was lying here, or even why he was called Li Wei.

Li Ming discovered the hidden folder while organizing his old hard drive. The folder was named "Backup," and it contained only three files, with timestamps indicating they were created on their wedding anniversary. Puzzled, he opened the first file. It was filled with dense data, resembling some sort of arcane code. The second file was a facial scan of his wife, and the third file was an unnamed audio file.

He clicked on the audio file.

Uncle Zhang first noticed something was amiss when he went downstairs to buy groceries. He habitually glanced at the doorplate of his unit - 302, the silver numbers reflecting a cold glint under the sunlight. Today, it was empty, leaving only a bare wall.

At first, he thought his old eyes were playing tricks on him, or that it had simply been blown off by the wind. He rubbed his eyes and carefully felt the wall; there was indeed no trace of it. He went to the door of 301 next door, and the doorplate was still firmly attached. His heart skipped a beat.

The streets were crowded, data streams flickering across everyone's retinas, precisely labeling each person's identity, interests, and spending potential. This was 2042, where algorithms ruled everything. Everyone was assigned an exclusive "life trajectory," from breakfast to partner, all efficiently planned by algorithms.

Li Ming, 28, a data engineer, maintained this system day in and day out. His life trajectory was perfect: stable job, comfortable apartment, and a 98% match recommended partner. Until one day, he discovered that his data stream had disappeared.