been spikes.”
“Spikes?”
“There’s a software program that can track and predict memecomplexes. Spikes occur during certain critical times in our culture, when there’s a shift in thinking. It only takes about ten percent of the population to accept a meme before it becomes mainstream. Just like a biological outbreak, when a certain amount of the populace has it, it’s impossible to stop it from infecting everyone.”
“We’re undergoing a shift in thinking?”
“Yes. A very powerful one. It’s unlike any other time in our history.”
“Is that bad?”
“Most memes are harmless, but sometimes collections of powerful memes gather together like a tornado. It’s what we call a memetic storm. Often the result is total political or social upheaval.”
“Wait a second. A meme is an idea, right? What idea could possibly do all that?”
“Historically, fascism in Nazi Germany would have caused spikes like these. The mounting disenchantment with British rule over America, leading to the Revolutionary War . . . the civil rights movement.”
“If you really think the world is coming to an end, why don’t you go to the media?”
“What am I supposed to say, ‘Ideas are coming, run for your lives’? I can barely get the backing of the mainstream scientific community. I tried a website for a while, but people only saw it if they wanted to see it, and most of the time I just looked like another crackpot with an end of the world theory. Getting my book published was my last shot at legitimacy.”
“What you’re telling me is, not only did I just get fired from my job, but the world is coming to an end? Great fucking day.”
She took his humor as a sign he was making light of her claims and said, “Before you think I’m crazy, you might be interested to know that I’m not the only one studying this. The government has a department dedicated to memetic game theory. Their hope is to combat harmful memes, such as religious extremism, but memetics is a powerful and often misunderstood science. Put the wrong ideas in a noosphere and all hell could break loose.” She lowered her head and whispered to him, “The cause of the spikes, the life and death shift in thinking I was referring to, may have been inspired by a mutated meme put into the noosphere by the military.”
Part of Kurt believed her concerns had merit, but even if the world was coming to an end because of bad ideas, he didn’t care. All he could think about was the dismal state of his career, the impending doom that would soon shatter his dreams.
“I’ve been having some issues getting my book published too, so I know how you feel,” Kurt said.
“Are you a writer?”
He chuckled ironically, “Not anymore.”
“Ah, come on. What type of writing?”
“Science fiction.”
Ursula suppressed a guffaw, and then she said, “You mean you indulge the aliens?”
“As a matter of fact I do,” Kurt said, throwing back the remainder of his drink. He then searched out the waitress to bring him another.
Ursula’s reaction to his admitting to being a science fiction writer came as no surprise to him. He was used to the pretentious literary sects reacting to him like that. Science fiction wasn’t taken seriously, especially in New York; in fact, he had a fellow writer friend who had told him that he would have been better off staying in California and trawling Comic Con for a publisher. But Kurt always subscribed to what Gregory Benford had said: “Science fiction is perhaps the defining genre of the twentieth century, although its conquering armies are still camped outside the Rome of literary citadels.” But even in the twenty-first century, science fiction was still regarded with an upturned nose by the literati. Kurt hoped to one day be one of the soldiers storming into those citadels, armed with a work that would level the place. He considered himself a truth teller. Even when he wrote about aliens and alternate dimensions, about
“Spikes?”
“There’s a software program that can track and predict memecomplexes. Spikes occur during certain critical times in our culture, when there’s a shift in thinking. It only takes about ten percent of the population to accept a meme before it becomes mainstream. Just like a biological outbreak, when a certain amount of the populace has it, it’s impossible to stop it from infecting everyone.”
“We’re undergoing a shift in thinking?”
“Yes. A very powerful one. It’s unlike any other time in our history.”
“Is that bad?”
“Most memes are harmless, but sometimes collections of powerful memes gather together like a tornado. It’s what we call a memetic storm. Often the result is total political or social upheaval.”
“Wait a second. A meme is an idea, right? What idea could possibly do all that?”
“Historically, fascism in Nazi Germany would have caused spikes like these. The mounting disenchantment with British rule over America, leading to the Revolutionary War . . . the civil rights movement.”
“If you really think the world is coming to an end, why don’t you go to the media?”
“What am I supposed to say, ‘Ideas are coming, run for your lives’? I can barely get the backing of the mainstream scientific community. I tried a website for a while, but people only saw it if they wanted to see it, and most of the time I just looked like another crackpot with an end of the world theory. Getting my book published was my last shot at legitimacy.”
“What you’re telling me is, not only did I just get fired from my job, but the world is coming to an end? Great fucking day.”
She took his humor as a sign he was making light of her claims and said, “Before you think I’m crazy, you might be interested to know that I’m not the only one studying this. The government has a department dedicated to memetic game theory. Their hope is to combat harmful memes, such as religious extremism, but memetics is a powerful and often misunderstood science. Put the wrong ideas in a noosphere and all hell could break loose.” She lowered her head and whispered to him, “The cause of the spikes, the life and death shift in thinking I was referring to, may have been inspired by a mutated meme put into the noosphere by the military.”
Part of Kurt believed her concerns had merit, but even if the world was coming to an end because of bad ideas, he didn’t care. All he could think about was the dismal state of his career, the impending doom that would soon shatter his dreams.
“I’ve been having some issues getting my book published too, so I know how you feel,” Kurt said.
“Are you a writer?”
He chuckled ironically, “Not anymore.”
“Ah, come on. What type of writing?”
“Science fiction.”
Ursula suppressed a guffaw, and then she said, “You mean you indulge the aliens?”
“As a matter of fact I do,” Kurt said, throwing back the remainder of his drink. He then searched out the waitress to bring him another.
Ursula’s reaction to his admitting to being a science fiction writer came as no surprise to him. He was used to the pretentious literary sects reacting to him like that. Science fiction wasn’t taken seriously, especially in New York; in fact, he had a fellow writer friend who had told him that he would have been better off staying in California and trawling Comic Con for a publisher. But Kurt always subscribed to what Gregory Benford had said: “Science fiction is perhaps the defining genre of the twentieth century, although its conquering armies are still camped outside the Rome of literary citadels.” But even in the twenty-first century, science fiction was still regarded with an upturned nose by the literati. Kurt hoped to one day be one of the soldiers storming into those citadels, armed with a work that would level the place. He considered himself a truth teller. Even when he wrote about aliens and alternate dimensions, about
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