By the mid-21st Century, the landscape of human technology—our celebrated H-Tech—has undergone a profound transformation beyond the aspirations of the earlier two decades of the 21st Century. Humanity has not merely advanced; it has surged forward into an era of exponential growth, where the digital and physical realms intertwine with seamless grace.
Artificial intelligence, once a burgeoning offspring of the human mind, now thrives with nearly full sentience, orchestrating the rhythms of daily life with an elegance that borders on the artistic. Autonomous vehicles don't just populate the streets; they redefine urban landscapes, eradicating the age-old gridlock and creating a new symphony of silent, efficient motion.
The sky pulses with the wings of drones, an intricate dance of machines that deliver both necessities and niceties, contributing to a pervasive network of connectivity. Cities, transformed into smart ecosystems, pulse with responsive infrastructure, drawing breath from clean, renewable energies that flow like lifeblood through their core.
Medical marvels unfold at the cellular level, where genetic engineering human circuit integrations are used to repair and improve with reliable precision. Diseases that once haunted generations are now mere memories, defeated by the alchemy of gene editing and bioengineering.
Inside the sanctuaries of our homes, the Internet of Things has matured into a symphony of devices that anticipate and cater to human whims and, with gestures and voice commands meet most of our needs. Virtual reality, now liberated by enhanced body suits, offers immersive universes that provide realistic sensory inputs, inviting some to spend much time exploring boundless digital landscapes.
Yet, for all the splendor of H-Tech, as 2047 unfolds, it teeters on the brink of antiquity in the face of alien technologies that reveal a cosmos brimming with new sciences, new connections, and the promise that our place in the universe is just one note in a grand intergalactic symphony.
In 2047, four alien vessels entered the solar system, signaling the unenviable realization that we are not the masters of our own destiny alone in the universe. This unexpected arrival raises mass fear and hysteria as our attention is turned from our individual technologically driven microworlds to the sky. Only no invasion fleets come out of the sky. No little green people abduct us from our homes. Instead, we get only one piece of news. The ships are emitting a patterned signal that we have no idea how to interpret. The world quickly turns from soldiers and space marines to scientists and software engineers. The only relevant question seems to be, “What are they saying.”
As the experts work tirelessly to decode the alien transmissions, the rest of humanity watches and waits, filled with excitement and anxiety. Conversations everywhere are dominated by talk of aliens, and the media coverage is non-stop.
The efforts to establish communication become a global fixation, with every breakthrough and setback making the headlines. This isn’t just about making contact; it’s about understanding our place in the universe and preparing for how everything could change.
The national fixations on identity politics, counteracting global warming, putting people on Mars, fighting cybercrimes, and leveling our characters in our ever more immersive games turn to reading binary data and attempting to decode the messages.
Slowly, between 2047 and 2052, we learn that through these four ships, we are connected to the galaxy’s myriad civilizations. Each of these ships has a instantaneous long-distance radio, and they have transmitted the science and technology of how they work and how to make them to us.
With the start of manufacturing the first alien technologies - the exalted A-Tech - humanity embarks on a metamorphosis of cosmic proportions as the veil separating us from the galaxy’s other populations is lifted. By establishing a communication protocol with extraterrestrial intelligence, Earth's societies are touched by the sublime, ushering in of changes that redefine our existence.
From the outset, instantaneous long-distance radio reshapes the multiverse of our virtual realities. No longer bound by Earth's mental models, conversations traverse the void, allowing a mingling of thoughts across light-years in a heartbeat. The impact is profound and immediate; civilizations separated by light years of space can share moments as if standing face-to-face, and scientists exchange ideas with alien scholars, unlocking secrets of the universe in collaborative whispers.
By 2052, the advent of the Supergalactic Internet weaves humanity into a vast tapestry of alien races. More than a mere network, it is a superhighway of cultures, technologies, and philosophies. Our collective knowledge base, once a terrestrial archive, now expands at a staggering rate with alien contributions that redefine physics, biology, and art.
By 2108, the daily lives of humans have transformed under this interstellar influence. Education systems overhaul their curricula, integrating alien mathematics and sciences that stretch young minds to the furthest reaches of the imagination. Industry and economy, too, find themselves revolutionized as alien technologies catalyze new forms of energy, transportation, and manufacturing, birthing jobs that were once the domain of fiction.
The average household blooms with alien appliances and interfaces, our IOT devices enhanced with A-Tech radios and material sciences. We now experience everyday solutions that operate on principles which once seemed magic to Earth’s children. Entertainment transcends previous limits, with virtual experiences that draw from the wealth of hundreds of alien cultures, each more dazzling and immersive than the last.
Medical facilities leap decades ahead, equipped with diagnostic tools that scan with unparalleled precision, and therapies that treat the once-incurable, often with a simple application of energy or a concoction of alien medicine.
The average person, waking to the chime of an interstellar newsfeed, is not just a citizen of Earth but a denizen of the cosmos, living a life once dreamt of in the whispers of the night sky.
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That is to say that we are talking about the people who want the advancements, those who value the connections beyond our solar system. For the rest, it is a dystopian future devoid of a soul.
For example, the Amish community, known for intentionally avoiding modern conveniences, faced profound transformation. As the world embraced increasingly sophisticated technologies, moving from human-to-human interaction to predominantly human-to-machine interfaces, the Amish faced unprecedented challenges.
Initially, their communities continue to thrive on simplicity and face-to-face engagement, as they always have. They cultivated their lands, maintained their traditions, and kept their social structures intact, all while the world outside accelerated technologically. As most of humanity embraces A-Tech, the Amish remained an enclave of resistance to such rapid changes.
As the years progressed to 2067, the disparity between the Amish way of life and the outside world grew starker. When Pod Cities emerge, a significant portion of the global population moves to live entirely within virtual reality, supported by a web of A-Tech automation. This shift fundamentally altered the economic and social fabric of society. Traditional skills and direct human labor lose their place in the mainstream economy, which now orbits around virtual experiences and digital currencies.
For the Amish, the technological escalation makes it harder to interact with non-Amish, sell their goods, obtain necessary services, and even coexist with the infrastructure of the world around them. Their self-sufficiency shielded them for a while, but as their dependency on the rest of society collapsed, so did their economy, and the Avatar Realities became dominant; even the most steadfast communities faced a crossroads. They were forced to adapt. While it didn’t mean going online and living in A-Time, it did mean serving as the part of the human race that maintains the physical reality—the electricity, the roads and tracks, and of course, the plumbing.
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I shove the break room door open, its hinges squealing like they're begging for an oiling or retirement, whichever comes first. As I scan the room, my face flushes red. It's been three hours since I started the day and my attempt to organize the lunch room has already been undone.
As I enter, I see one of the cleaning bots exit into this 1-meter hatch on the far wall. Too late to confront it directly, I yell through the room, “Put the fucking tables and chairs back where they belong.”
The sight inside is a familiar mess—a sort of abstract art installation courtesy of our cleaning bots, which have no damn clue about human needs or the function of furniture. Instead of looking like a place to eat, it looks more like a storage room. The tables and chairs are ordered by size and weight, not by their purpose.
“Fucking brilliant,” I mutter under my breath, my voice dripping with sarcasm. These Gen1 H-Tech bots, I swear they’re the brainchildren of someone who thought human life was just a game of Tetris.
Straightening this out is on me, as usual. I start hauling the tables back, arranging them in a way that actually makes sense for, you know, eating lunch. A slight grin breaks through as my eyes catch the defiant gleam of the microwave, that hulking relic of 20th-century defiance. "Old-school cool," I think.
With the room looking more like a break room and less like a bot's idea of a furniture warehouse, I make my way to the fridge. That glorious, humming behemoth from the days when 'manufactured with pride' was a label worth putting on something. I open it, and there's my lunch, not sorted into the refuse pile by some bot’s algorithm but right where I left it. I grab my Mickey Mouse lunchbox with a nod of thanks to the universe.
Taking a bite of my sandwich, the flavor hits, and suddenly, emotions flood in. It's like a gut punch of sadness mixed with a bit of nostalgia—mom's home cooking. Her kitchen feels so far away now, her presence just a lingering warmth. I can't help but pause, lost for a second in the midst of my grief.
I wrestle with the sudden surge of loss that tightens around my chest. It’s like I’ve hit a wall, the reality of mom being gone crashing into me with a weight that steals my breath. I push out a deep, trembling sigh, fighting to claw back into the present. Shifting my eyes from the sandwich, I drag them across the room, desperate to anchor my mind away from the swell of emotions.
As my eyes fall on the bottles of synthetic condiments, I find the answer. Cover grief with anger. Red and yellow plastic bottles stand in mock formation on the counter, emblems of a world that’s lost its taste for the authentic. I know it’s just me looking for a way to cut off the sadness, and the crappy condiments are just a convenient distraction, a focus for my simmering frustration.
But I let myself indulge all the way. “Can’t we get something other than this lab-crafted garbage?” I think to myself. "The earth hasn’t stopped producing.” Humanity just isn’t connected to nature anymore. Only it’s clear that most of humanity is lost. Lost to reality and lost to the earth.
The clock on the wall pings a 5-minute warning. I look up, and the anger kind of drains from me. The clock is a relic in this room of relics, a bastion of the past I feel has been taken from me with the loss of my mom. The clock's alarm is really a lifeline, pulling me back from the edge of my grief and anchoring me to the present.
I look down at my sandwich in hand, with the past heavy in my heart; I've lost my appetite. Wrapping it back up and shoving it in my lunchbox, I get up and put the box back in the fridge.
I'm still deep in thought when the bot’s hatch opens, and one rolls in, set on its mission to restore my orderly lunchroom layout back into its own nonsensical version. "Hey! Not again," I call out, but it's no use. The thing operates according to its programming, and no amount of me yelling at it will change its course.
Past any sense of acceptance, I stomp over and aim for the perfect kick at the bot. Ultimately, it's a misguided attempt, which is clear because the result isn't the disciplinary action I'd envisioned. Instead, my foot ricochets off its metallic hide, pain shooting through my toes.
As I’m hopping around, yelling and holding my foot, of course, my boss Dave walks in. Dave takes in the room in a second. His right-hand landing on his sidearm, he quickly realizes that there isn't any active threat.
Holding up his hand to cut me off mid-curse, he shakes his head. "Eli, another tantrum? Maybe it's not the bots that need reprogramming," he suggests, half in jest, half-serious.
I grind my teeth, throw my pack over my shoulder, and glare at the bot, now diligently lining up chairs by weight against a wall. "Let’s just go. The sooner we’re done, the sooner I can go home."
Dave shakes his head, probably pitying my stubbornness. "You might want to adapt a little, Eli. Modernization isn't going anywhere, and neither are we."
I let out a heavy sigh, knowing he's not wrong, but not ready to admit it. I settle my pack on my back, a silent concession to his righteous comment.
Walking out, I cast a final look at the clock, a comforting reminder of a time when things were simpler, at least to me. Maybe it's nostalgia, maybe it's stubbornness, or maybe it's just the pain in my foot, but as the door shuts, and I hobble away, I can't shake the feeling that maybe I don't want to fit into this new world after all. Maybe, just maybe, it's the world that's got it wrong.