Grog was out. Grog saw fire; Grog saw sneaky man-eating animal. Grog grabbed fire; Grob brandished fire. Sneaky man-eating animal froze; sneaky man-eating animal ran off. Grog felt fire burn fingers; Grog dropped fire. Grog went home; Grog saw Ewwl, Ewwl saw Grog. Ewwl ululated---nearby people came. Grog gesticulated; hands-waving in air for fire with crackle sound made; hunched back fingers down with snarls for sneaky man-eating animal; chest-out arms akimbo then right hand waving left then right for fire grabbing and brandishing with man-shouts; hunched back freeze, pirouette and small steps away with feared cowling and mewling; a shout, a shaking of right hand from pain of fire; a grabbing of Ewwl and hugging.
The people jumped in ecstasy. A story was made, and a story was told.
Grog and Ewwl grew old. They had children, who had children old enough to crawl around defenceless. Other's had gone out like Grog, and many had returned. They told stories too, a mixture of pantomime and sounds. They had moved several times since, but there were places where they knew there were others who stayed for longer. The berry shrubs were taken care of better, water was easily available, and sometimes someone passing by would swap some hunted meat for some of the berries. Grog, Ewwl, and their band passed through a few such places, and at one of them, Grog felt the need to stay, and Ewwl joined him.
The stories were told like the old ways. But there were some who were thinking far ahead of their time. They felt that the stories were important, too important to forget, and yet there was no easy way to remember them except to have someone tell it to them. The people discovered that some stones left stains when rubbed against another harder rock. Those who thought far ahead thought that maybe they could leave the stories as marks. As the people expanded and explored, some returned talking about large smooth surfaces of rocks were available in the form of caves. Those who thought ahead followed the explorers there, and some scratched out the stories with the marking stones.
Then they left; they all do.
------
The newly declared Emperor stood in front of his entourage, his eyes beaming with defiance at finally conquering all the other six states. The world-under-the-skies was finally his, and he knew that he no longer had to spend days on the march, and nights in tents as he strove to win the battle of hegemony from the previous failed state, as well as their greedy rivals.
He knew of the writings that came before, their stories, and the power of the words that were held within. He knew that his position of Emperor was unsecured as long as there were inklings of the past held in forbidden writings that were waiting for the right person to seize and exploit at the right time. He also knew of his immediate problem of managing the much enlarged territory---getting his officials to verbally convey information was both wasteful in time and susceptible to reinterpretations.
And so like the hegemon he was, he declared that only his state's language was to be allowed to exist, and all others were to be extinguished with extreme prejudice.
It began with the books---scrolls of bamboo that were the collective wisdom of the ages that had been penned down. All were confiscated and burnt in huge bonfires. Then came the people who owned the books---they were seen as the most likely to harbour rebellious thoughts in the future. Finally the scholars whose expertise in the languages that were not of the Emperor's---and thus the story tellers and keepers of an entire history were gone just like that, leaving only the Emperor's language and writings behind.
Sadly, despite his attempts at completing his hegemonical rule, it lasted for less than two decades before strife struck once more. The sordid attempt at extinguishing the old stories were left as an interesting footnote to history that left a great impact downstream, but did not fully achieve the effect that the Emperor was going for.
------
It was already well-known that reading was a privileged skill. The holy books were written down, of course, as well as anything relating to the law of the land that was agreed upon by the King in strong consultation with the Dukes who own the land and the people who lived on them. But those were just the important works that were needed to keep the gentry from killing each other---they were not the majority of the stories.
The people of the land, most of them could not read, nor write. But they could hold a conversation of sorts still, though it was more related to the vagaries of daily living. The stories though... the stories were still flowing through the land. Some might have been written down, but no one really cared except for the egg-headed scholars. For the stories were told like the old days in oral tradition, from the elder to the younger. The tales were dark and grim, many involved supernatural beings that needed to be feared and respected, but not worshipped. They told of what happened when children did not follow their parents' instructions, and what happened to those who fell afoul to what was considered the Right Thing To Do in society. The stories were as real to the people as getting hit in the head with a rock---and eventually there were those whose sole contribution to society at large was to tell these stories. They gesticulated, they made sound effects, they modulated their voices, and they moved the imaginations of those who were listening from point to point, enthralled. They seemed like ne'er-do-wells compared to those who worked the fields and husbanded the animals, but within their collective story-telling voices, they held the soul of the people that have lost theirs as they worked hard to fulfill the needs and wants of their feudal lords.
The gentry had their own stories too, naturally. But it was of valour, and gentleness, and chivalry, and all the other high-values that only the gentry knew, practised, and appreciated, nothing like the baseness of avoiding the witch of the woods that the low-born thought most of. The stories were about knights, and lords, of kings and queens, of court intrigue and human foibles that stem from the great conflict of one's baseness against the higher virtues of God. They were about loyalty to a cause, loyalty to the Crown, loyalty to God, and being exemplary of nature to befit their position of high-born.
As time went on, a new class emerged between the low-born and the high---the merchants. Many were low-born, but they had amassed the riches that used to be commonly associated with the high-born, and as such, were the first true middle class to be formed.
And they too, had their stories. But their numbers were larger, and they were from more varied backgrounds. And they had the money to boot too. And so the professional storyteller became more than just a single person---he became the weaver of tales that were then told by a troupe of players. He became a playwright, and the stories he wrote were now plays. It began with just a couple more people to portray the characters more vividly to accommodate the lack of a common background from the new middle-class. Then the set was made more colourful and vivid to bring to life the setting without having to rely on anyone's imperfect imagination. Soon the lower-class were enticed by what the middle-class has borne, thinking that it was a more fanciful way of hearing of new stories. And the higher-class were intrigued by the seemingly colourful lives of the commoners.
The plays grew in scope. They included music, singing, dancing, fanfares of every sort, in celebration of conquests, birthdays of the nobles, feasts of the Saints, propaganda of the ruling. They took up nearly the whole day, sometimes multiple days as part of a general set of festivals as the merchants remade society in their own image.
Then one war came. And another. The merchants lost their extravagance as the very survival of society was at risk. Storytelling that did nothing to advance the purpose of war was deemed as a frivolous waste of resources and time, and the mass-appeal started receding back. Stories became held in private once more, this time to more isolated pockets of social groups as the rise of urbanisation tore apart the old kinship structures that undergirthed how people once organised themselves. Mothers told stories to their children; men regaled each other with stories of bravado from the war. The nobles retreated into the background, avoiding attention to themselves even as the world order was turned first one way and then the next from the more power-hungry of their ilk.
Quietly, the authors continued to write their stories down like the old days, relying on Gutenberg's invention to help move their stories on to the other parts of society, in a most sublime form of subterfuge.
------
Electricity was discovered.
The motion picture camera was invented, and soundless films were soon made available. They began as stories meant for a single person to watch, like a person reading a book quietly were they literate, and eventually with electricity and advancement in recording technology, the films had sound, and could be seen by many in a purpose-built room for projection of the film. The stories could be told like the plays of old, but all the acting needed to be done only once, while the story can be played back indefinitely without change, forever. Some authors were consulted on such matters to bring their stories to life, while most were left well alone.
Wireless communications were founded, and the radio was born. Broadcast stations were invented, and with it came all forms of programming for the new medium. Naturally the government and the military had priority to guide the populace towards the correct interpretations of happenings around the world. In between the current affairs, news, and interviews, the storytellers slowly emerged from their cocoon once more. They started with readings of stories that had already been published in book form, then they brought back the idea of a play, but more suited for the radio. The players increased from just one storyteller to several people, and included at least one person whose role was to provide the additional sound effects that broadened the soundscape that was filled in by the words of the players. There was less space and time to dedicate to the previously decadent forms of storytelling at the theatre, but the radio plays that replaced them scratched that itch for needing to listen to a story.
Actors, both on film and radio, were celebrated in ways no different from the aristocracy of old by their serfs, even though they each told a small part of a story that was prepared by someone else.
And yet, the authors quietly wrote their books.
Television was invented. Yes, it was black and white, and very small. Yes, the recording environment was primitive, and the transmission only occurred during a few short hours a day. And yes, it was most definitely expensive, and only the richer ones among the people could even own one, and like the radio when it first came out, it was primarily a community affair. The radio plays were still extent, but they were slowly giving way to the slow path of bringing the motion picture from its hallowed form of the movie theatre back into the community.
A new brand of celebrities are born.
But still, the authors continued to quietly write their books.
------
The computer was invented. The computer network was formed. The integrated circuit miniaturisation revolution began, and Moore's Law kicked in.
The story has evolved. Written works within the past two hundred years are more easily accessible than ever, thanks to the existence of public libraries, and the overall exponential increase in literacy rates due to education. Stories were no longer held in thrall by its original gatekeepers of loremasters, playwrights, or storytellers. The old traditions were kept as a part of culture, but the printed word was the way to get ahold of stories for one's own consumption.
Literature of all sorts flourished, be it historical, anachronistic, righteous, smut, instructional, speculative. The rise of telling stories with primarily images instead of words came and fell as fast as they could, as each new medium story telling underwent the lifecycle of welcome, villification, reconciliation, and tradition.
The computer became more accessible to the common folk. The old upper, middle, and lower class demographics have since evolved with the times, and the new middle class that descended from the former merchant classes have come on their own in the form of the professional/managerial/engineering/technican (PMET) group. With the rise of the accessibility of the computer came a miniature explosion of self-expression of stories in the form of programmed responses from the computer to actions made by the user. It often began as just text, then it slowly involved moving computer imagery with sound, and then as the complexity of the available computers grew even as the prices dropped, the computer images and sound dominated the space, with the story acting as a weak framework that supported the primacy of the mechanics of the gameplay.
The computer network grew ubiquitous. Suddenly there was an explosion of the democratisation of storytelling, where no one would ever have zero audience available for whatever story it is they were intending to tell. Each tale as told by each person could be read by anyone on the computer network, and they could spin on whatever yarns they had in mind, in perpetuity. The authors were slowly sidelined, and the publishers' chokehold on the availability of stories was challenged. The motion pictures, television, and radio were still present, but were considered a tradition at this point, existing largely due to inertia than any specific technical reason.
As the computer network grew, there were those who demanded structure due to their inability to comprehend such an egalitarian construct. And there were those who were willing to provide said structure; they were rewarded with increased amounts of capital that made them the modern equivalent of the feudal lords of old. The thriving scene shrivelled up, leaving only the superficial walled gardens being seen as the only acceptible form of expression.
And the governments saw that it was now once again possible to influence their people in a more cost effective way, and jostled with the techno-feudal lords for power. Stories that did not meet the permissibility standard of the walled gardens were sent to the memory hole, and that some times included the story teller themselves.
The authors tried to continue writing their books, but the recent rise of the techno-feudal lords violating the social contract of copyright to further enhance their grip on the story of humanity under the guise of training artificial intelligences has slowed many an author down.
The stories are still there, but they are fast becoming the kind that one tells, in-person, to one's little group.
A little like Grog from back in the day.
Sunday, 20 July 2025
Thursday, 27 May 2021
Print Me: Part V
(Story begins here.)
He perused the thread list, trying to look for something that was interesting to print that had not been identified yet. He saw some threads that had been around for about two months with no positive identification---he put them aside as probably being ``impossible''. He saw some that had hundreds of positive identifications and ignored them since there was little fun in figuring out a mystery molecule puzzle that had already been solved six ways before dinner. Some of the threads had interesting mystery molcule puzzles that seemed to require quite a fair bit of precious metals printing gel; he dismissed them out of hand because he only had a limited amount of that.
After some more browsing with frequent intervals to check on the progress of the molecular printer's self-test, Liubo finally shortlisted a couple of mystery molecule puzzles to try, covering the middle and largest sizes that his molecular printer could assemble. They used mostly the organic and base metals gels, and were stated by their original posters to be identified using reagents that were available in the household.
The printer beeped three times in rapid succession and drew Liubo's attention back to it. `Ah, finally,' he thought to himself, `the self-test is done. Time to try the starch molecule.'
Liubo connected his laptop to the printer via the provided USB cable, and both the printer and his laptop chirped a beep to indicate that both devices have detected a new connection each. He quickly tapped on the on-screen menu on the printer to accept the connection and clicked on the dialogue box on his laptop to install additional drivers and software to make use of it. The molecular printer itself came with its own software for uploading the printing instructions to it, and the software was automatically made available on connecting it to a working computer. Liubo waited impatiently for the software to be installed, and when it was done, he started it up on his laptop and entered in the initial set of information that was needed to register the printer and the laptop to each other. This was a security feature to ensure that the molecular printer itself was always under control of only one computer at a time, a hold-over from the days when the molecular printe was only available in industrial settings. Back then a popular sabotage attack was to break-in to the factory, plug in a small form-factor computer to upload some contaminating/denial-of-service printing instruction to occupy/damage the molecular printer, and leave. The physical process was needed then because factories were smart enough to not connect their molecular printer controlling computers into the external facing network thanks to lessons learnt from bad SCADA implementations in the past.
The software loaded itself and showed an empty workspace in its main window. Liubo opened up the printing instructions file for the starch molecule, and activated the menu command to send it to the molecular printer. The program showed a small scrolling status screen while it was checking the syntax of the printing instructions and compiling it, before popping up a dialogue box to ask for the quantity (in grams) of the molecule wanted. The dialogue box also indicated that based on the existing amount of printing gels available for that model of a molecular printer, the maximum amount it could do in this batch was 10 g.
`Eh, I think 1 g should be enough,' Liubo thought to himself as he quickly entered the number before clicking on the ``send'' button next to it. The software acknowledged his input and showed a few more lines of output in its status screen, before showing a new window that indicated the time remaining to print.
It displayed a countdown timer of ten minutes.
Liubo sighed as he waited for it to complete.
The molecular printer was eerily silent as it was doing its work, a completely different experience from the regular filament 3D printer, where the whirr of the stepper motors was always present. It was to be expected though, since there was nothing really mechanically moving within the molecular printer.
The ten minutes passed swiftly and the printer beeped three times in rapid fashion. The on-screen menu showed the message ``attach container to solid output to continue''. Liubo scoured around his room for a test tube, and put it at the nozzle that was labelled ``Solid Output'' before he tapped on the rasterised ``continue'' button. A small huff was heard at the nozzle, and a white powder was deposited into the test tube that was attached to it.
Liubo pulled the test tube away from the nozzle and looked at it in awe. His first molecular printing, in a test tube! He quickly glanced at the on-screen display of the molecular printer. It showed nothing more than a single line of text saying ``job complete''. Ignoring it for the moment, Liubo took his test tube of freshly assembled starch towards the kitchen, where he had a small rack of reagents available. Reaching for the dropper in his bottle of tri-iodine, he dropped a couple of drops of the tri-iodine tincture into his test tube.
The white powder turned into a dark blue one on contact with the tri-iodine tincture.
Liubo grinned in glee: the molecular printer was working!
He perused the thread list, trying to look for something that was interesting to print that had not been identified yet. He saw some threads that had been around for about two months with no positive identification---he put them aside as probably being ``impossible''. He saw some that had hundreds of positive identifications and ignored them since there was little fun in figuring out a mystery molecule puzzle that had already been solved six ways before dinner. Some of the threads had interesting mystery molcule puzzles that seemed to require quite a fair bit of precious metals printing gel; he dismissed them out of hand because he only had a limited amount of that.
After some more browsing with frequent intervals to check on the progress of the molecular printer's self-test, Liubo finally shortlisted a couple of mystery molecule puzzles to try, covering the middle and largest sizes that his molecular printer could assemble. They used mostly the organic and base metals gels, and were stated by their original posters to be identified using reagents that were available in the household.
The printer beeped three times in rapid succession and drew Liubo's attention back to it. `Ah, finally,' he thought to himself, `the self-test is done. Time to try the starch molecule.'
Liubo connected his laptop to the printer via the provided USB cable, and both the printer and his laptop chirped a beep to indicate that both devices have detected a new connection each. He quickly tapped on the on-screen menu on the printer to accept the connection and clicked on the dialogue box on his laptop to install additional drivers and software to make use of it. The molecular printer itself came with its own software for uploading the printing instructions to it, and the software was automatically made available on connecting it to a working computer. Liubo waited impatiently for the software to be installed, and when it was done, he started it up on his laptop and entered in the initial set of information that was needed to register the printer and the laptop to each other. This was a security feature to ensure that the molecular printer itself was always under control of only one computer at a time, a hold-over from the days when the molecular printe was only available in industrial settings. Back then a popular sabotage attack was to break-in to the factory, plug in a small form-factor computer to upload some contaminating/denial-of-service printing instruction to occupy/damage the molecular printer, and leave. The physical process was needed then because factories were smart enough to not connect their molecular printer controlling computers into the external facing network thanks to lessons learnt from bad SCADA implementations in the past.
The software loaded itself and showed an empty workspace in its main window. Liubo opened up the printing instructions file for the starch molecule, and activated the menu command to send it to the molecular printer. The program showed a small scrolling status screen while it was checking the syntax of the printing instructions and compiling it, before popping up a dialogue box to ask for the quantity (in grams) of the molecule wanted. The dialogue box also indicated that based on the existing amount of printing gels available for that model of a molecular printer, the maximum amount it could do in this batch was 10 g.
`Eh, I think 1 g should be enough,' Liubo thought to himself as he quickly entered the number before clicking on the ``send'' button next to it. The software acknowledged his input and showed a few more lines of output in its status screen, before showing a new window that indicated the time remaining to print.
It displayed a countdown timer of ten minutes.
Liubo sighed as he waited for it to complete.
The molecular printer was eerily silent as it was doing its work, a completely different experience from the regular filament 3D printer, where the whirr of the stepper motors was always present. It was to be expected though, since there was nothing really mechanically moving within the molecular printer.
The ten minutes passed swiftly and the printer beeped three times in rapid fashion. The on-screen menu showed the message ``attach container to solid output to continue''. Liubo scoured around his room for a test tube, and put it at the nozzle that was labelled ``Solid Output'' before he tapped on the rasterised ``continue'' button. A small huff was heard at the nozzle, and a white powder was deposited into the test tube that was attached to it.
Liubo pulled the test tube away from the nozzle and looked at it in awe. His first molecular printing, in a test tube! He quickly glanced at the on-screen display of the molecular printer. It showed nothing more than a single line of text saying ``job complete''. Ignoring it for the moment, Liubo took his test tube of freshly assembled starch towards the kitchen, where he had a small rack of reagents available. Reaching for the dropper in his bottle of tri-iodine, he dropped a couple of drops of the tri-iodine tincture into his test tube.
The white powder turned into a dark blue one on contact with the tri-iodine tincture.
Liubo grinned in glee: the molecular printer was working!
Friday, 30 April 2021
Print Me: Part IV
(Story begins here.)
Liubo perused the list of available molecules for printing. The forum's repository of printing instructions for molecules were loosely grouped according to molecular weight in atomic mass units, then by number of atoms, then roughly according to the proportion of the types of atoms that were used so as to conform to the type of molecular gel (organic, base metals, precious metals) that needed to be used.
It was a veritable trove of interesting information that chemists would have killed for a century ago. A catalogue of chemical compounds was one thing that even the mighty Dupont Corporation had amassed for a long time, but to have them catalogued in such a manner, complete with synthesis information that an automated device could use for absolute replicability, it was the type of standard that any chemist or chemical engineer would kill for. Part of the difficulty of synthesising molecules was the need to work out what source materials could be used in terms of their associated binding energy and unit price on the market; the other part was dealing with by-products of the associated chemical reaction that was considered waste. In many ways, chemical synthesis of molecules was the micro-economic version of regular economics, since there was no way to absolutely destroy waste by-products, since matter was never truly created or destroyed---they could only be combined in a myriad of ways according to their chemical properties.
`Maybe I should start with something small and easy to confirm. Something like glucose? Ah, I don't have the right reagents to test for that. Let me see... oh I can do a simple starch. It's not that small, but I do have a bottle of tri-iodine that I could use to test for its presence. Okay, that's settled then,' Liubo thought to himself as he looked at the repository of chemicals and settled on one of the many starch molecules for synthesis.
He downloaded the instruction file to his laptop's desktop, and continued to scour through the database for something fun to print in the future. He gave a quick glance to the molecular printer---it was still running through its paces, and the screen glowed with ``45 minutes left''.
Liubo shrugged his shoulders and continued to look through the forum.
In one of the newer conversation threads, there was a post that had a ``mystery'' molecule printing instruction uploaded. It was in one of the puzzle forums, where the goal was to print the mystery molecule using the printing instructions, and then, based on whatever chemical/physical tests that one could muster, deduce what the molecule was. It was a fun game that was played by many owners of molecular printing devices, because it served as a great way to build up skill in qualitative analysis, as well as using other physical chemistry tools that were available to improve the chemical deductive knowledge. Such games were possible because the instructions for the molecular printer were not exactly human readable---while there had been decompilers that could convert the binary-encoded information into a set of mnemonic instructions that could, in theory, be read by a human, the reality was that the instructions were to control quantum-mechanical parameters, which meant that even though one could read the the translated instructions, what they actually ended up synthesising was still a mystery until the end product was synthesised.
There was always some risk that the mystery molecule was something that could be termed as a biohazard, but those were far and few. There was a budding industry of ``molecular anti-virus companies'' who were full-blown testing labs whose sole purpose was to take various molecular printing instructions, synthesise the molecules, and then test them for safety. Those that were deemed safe would have a digital signature assigned to it to assure others who downloaded the same instructions that they were unaltered and were safe. The whole industry revolving around such anti-virus capabilities was still nascent, since the number of tests that were needed to deem a synthesised molecule as relatively safe was always increasing, with ever-increasing complexity.
So despite all the efforts, there was always some residual risk involved.
But that was part of the fun of the mystery molecule puzzles anyway---to be a sleuth in figuring out what the molecule was. There had been various efforts to simulate the mnemonic instructions in a computer, but due to the large numbers of quantum-mechanical effects involved with the sometimes stupendously large number of atoms, only the smallest molecules' behaviour could be thus simulated.
Liubo was well aware of the risks that were involved, but the draw of being the first to identify the molecule from the provided printing instructions was too big to resist, and so he spent much of the remaining time looking through them for mystery molecules of various sizes.
(Story continues here.)
Liubo perused the list of available molecules for printing. The forum's repository of printing instructions for molecules were loosely grouped according to molecular weight in atomic mass units, then by number of atoms, then roughly according to the proportion of the types of atoms that were used so as to conform to the type of molecular gel (organic, base metals, precious metals) that needed to be used.
It was a veritable trove of interesting information that chemists would have killed for a century ago. A catalogue of chemical compounds was one thing that even the mighty Dupont Corporation had amassed for a long time, but to have them catalogued in such a manner, complete with synthesis information that an automated device could use for absolute replicability, it was the type of standard that any chemist or chemical engineer would kill for. Part of the difficulty of synthesising molecules was the need to work out what source materials could be used in terms of their associated binding energy and unit price on the market; the other part was dealing with by-products of the associated chemical reaction that was considered waste. In many ways, chemical synthesis of molecules was the micro-economic version of regular economics, since there was no way to absolutely destroy waste by-products, since matter was never truly created or destroyed---they could only be combined in a myriad of ways according to their chemical properties.
`Maybe I should start with something small and easy to confirm. Something like glucose? Ah, I don't have the right reagents to test for that. Let me see... oh I can do a simple starch. It's not that small, but I do have a bottle of tri-iodine that I could use to test for its presence. Okay, that's settled then,' Liubo thought to himself as he looked at the repository of chemicals and settled on one of the many starch molecules for synthesis.
He downloaded the instruction file to his laptop's desktop, and continued to scour through the database for something fun to print in the future. He gave a quick glance to the molecular printer---it was still running through its paces, and the screen glowed with ``45 minutes left''.
Liubo shrugged his shoulders and continued to look through the forum.
In one of the newer conversation threads, there was a post that had a ``mystery'' molecule printing instruction uploaded. It was in one of the puzzle forums, where the goal was to print the mystery molecule using the printing instructions, and then, based on whatever chemical/physical tests that one could muster, deduce what the molecule was. It was a fun game that was played by many owners of molecular printing devices, because it served as a great way to build up skill in qualitative analysis, as well as using other physical chemistry tools that were available to improve the chemical deductive knowledge. Such games were possible because the instructions for the molecular printer were not exactly human readable---while there had been decompilers that could convert the binary-encoded information into a set of mnemonic instructions that could, in theory, be read by a human, the reality was that the instructions were to control quantum-mechanical parameters, which meant that even though one could read the the translated instructions, what they actually ended up synthesising was still a mystery until the end product was synthesised.
There was always some risk that the mystery molecule was something that could be termed as a biohazard, but those were far and few. There was a budding industry of ``molecular anti-virus companies'' who were full-blown testing labs whose sole purpose was to take various molecular printing instructions, synthesise the molecules, and then test them for safety. Those that were deemed safe would have a digital signature assigned to it to assure others who downloaded the same instructions that they were unaltered and were safe. The whole industry revolving around such anti-virus capabilities was still nascent, since the number of tests that were needed to deem a synthesised molecule as relatively safe was always increasing, with ever-increasing complexity.
So despite all the efforts, there was always some residual risk involved.
But that was part of the fun of the mystery molecule puzzles anyway---to be a sleuth in figuring out what the molecule was. There had been various efforts to simulate the mnemonic instructions in a computer, but due to the large numbers of quantum-mechanical effects involved with the sometimes stupendously large number of atoms, only the smallest molecules' behaviour could be thus simulated.
Liubo was well aware of the risks that were involved, but the draw of being the first to identify the molecule from the provided printing instructions was too big to resist, and so he spent much of the remaining time looking through them for mystery molecules of various sizes.
(Story continues here.)
Tuesday, 27 April 2021
Print Me: Part III
(Story begins here.)
Dinner was hurriedly had, and Liubo quickly hooked up the power supply to the molecular printer. Double checking all the connections and assemblies against the mangled Chinglish instructions, he was satisfied at their correctness and stopped for a moment to stare at the technological marvel that sat in front of him at his main work bench. Hesitating just slightly with that remnant bit of doubt, Liubo flipped the switch on the power extender that he had connected the molecular printer to, before pressing on the literal Big Red Switch that was on the molecular printer itself.
The click of the switch engaging was soon overtaken by a low frequency hum that was close in frequency to that of the mains supply but was off in timbre just by that bit---within it was a kind of high pitched squeal that was not unpleasant.
Liubo looked on eagerly as the machine went through its power on self-test, beeping confidently at the end of it to indicate that there were no obvious issues that it had detected since the last time it was on. Next to the Big Red Switch was a small coloured LED display that showed a single line of ``Ready'' followed by some rasterised buttons on actions that could be done with it.
Liubo checked the instructions and followed it to navigate the on-screen menu to get to the more in-depth diagnostics and calibration. The instructions suggested that the in-depth diagnostics and calibration be run at least once a month or after every one hundred hours of operation, whichever came first. It explained that it was necessary to ensure that the internal quantum systems were within parameters that the built-in error correction could account for. Liubo knew that it was a vast improvement over the milli-second decoherence that the very first systems had. Sure, it did not have the same level of consistency and reliability as that of a filament-based 3D printer, but then again, it was using technology more complex than the electro-mechanical ones.
The on-screen menu was now on the in-depth diagnostics and calibration menu item, with an indication that it would take about an hour to complete, with an option to run a more superficial one that would take only ten minutes. It also said that it had detected that it was the first time that the molecular printer was activated in the local environment (`How did it know that?' thought Liubo to himself), and that the full version was recommended to ensure proper operation.
Liubo sighed and tapped on the rasterised button that said ``Run Full''. A confirmation screen came up and he replied positively to that as well. With the acknowledgements in place, the printer showed one final message reminding Liubo to not power off the machine for any reason while the in-depth diagnostics and calibration was taking place. The machine beeped off a final confirmation and went on its merry way, humming and shrieking at various durations throughout the whole hour.
Liubo wanted to go away and do something else, but felt obliged to sit around to observe---it was, after all, the first time that he was operating such a device. While doing research for the purchase, he had already learnt of the basic principles that guided the operation of the molecular printer. Among those principles included the astronomically small probability that the quantum-mechanical system house within could create a strange black hole that could cause a localised gravitational anomaly that would lead to a runaway effect of wiping out matter within a one kilometre radius, but there had been quite a few safety features built in to reduce the likelihood of that happening to even lower than the probability of being simultaneously struck by lightning while getting knocked down by a car off a mountain road with a shark biting on one's left ankle.
In short, it was safe to use, but the novelty of the device could not draw Liubo away from it.
After staring at the printer for nearly ten minutes, Liubo finally decided that there was nothing to observe from the outside while the printer was going through its diagnostics and calibration, and that it was probably a better use of his time to look for molecules to print with it.
Liubo pulled up his laptop from one of the other tables, and turned to the molecular printer owners' forum, where other enthusiasts of molecular printing hung out and shared their knowledge and gossip.
Among those was some printing instructions for some interesting molecules.
(Story continues here.)
Dinner was hurriedly had, and Liubo quickly hooked up the power supply to the molecular printer. Double checking all the connections and assemblies against the mangled Chinglish instructions, he was satisfied at their correctness and stopped for a moment to stare at the technological marvel that sat in front of him at his main work bench. Hesitating just slightly with that remnant bit of doubt, Liubo flipped the switch on the power extender that he had connected the molecular printer to, before pressing on the literal Big Red Switch that was on the molecular printer itself.
The click of the switch engaging was soon overtaken by a low frequency hum that was close in frequency to that of the mains supply but was off in timbre just by that bit---within it was a kind of high pitched squeal that was not unpleasant.
Liubo looked on eagerly as the machine went through its power on self-test, beeping confidently at the end of it to indicate that there were no obvious issues that it had detected since the last time it was on. Next to the Big Red Switch was a small coloured LED display that showed a single line of ``Ready'' followed by some rasterised buttons on actions that could be done with it.
Liubo checked the instructions and followed it to navigate the on-screen menu to get to the more in-depth diagnostics and calibration. The instructions suggested that the in-depth diagnostics and calibration be run at least once a month or after every one hundred hours of operation, whichever came first. It explained that it was necessary to ensure that the internal quantum systems were within parameters that the built-in error correction could account for. Liubo knew that it was a vast improvement over the milli-second decoherence that the very first systems had. Sure, it did not have the same level of consistency and reliability as that of a filament-based 3D printer, but then again, it was using technology more complex than the electro-mechanical ones.
The on-screen menu was now on the in-depth diagnostics and calibration menu item, with an indication that it would take about an hour to complete, with an option to run a more superficial one that would take only ten minutes. It also said that it had detected that it was the first time that the molecular printer was activated in the local environment (`How did it know that?' thought Liubo to himself), and that the full version was recommended to ensure proper operation.
Liubo sighed and tapped on the rasterised button that said ``Run Full''. A confirmation screen came up and he replied positively to that as well. With the acknowledgements in place, the printer showed one final message reminding Liubo to not power off the machine for any reason while the in-depth diagnostics and calibration was taking place. The machine beeped off a final confirmation and went on its merry way, humming and shrieking at various durations throughout the whole hour.
Liubo wanted to go away and do something else, but felt obliged to sit around to observe---it was, after all, the first time that he was operating such a device. While doing research for the purchase, he had already learnt of the basic principles that guided the operation of the molecular printer. Among those principles included the astronomically small probability that the quantum-mechanical system house within could create a strange black hole that could cause a localised gravitational anomaly that would lead to a runaway effect of wiping out matter within a one kilometre radius, but there had been quite a few safety features built in to reduce the likelihood of that happening to even lower than the probability of being simultaneously struck by lightning while getting knocked down by a car off a mountain road with a shark biting on one's left ankle.
In short, it was safe to use, but the novelty of the device could not draw Liubo away from it.
After staring at the printer for nearly ten minutes, Liubo finally decided that there was nothing to observe from the outside while the printer was going through its diagnostics and calibration, and that it was probably a better use of his time to look for molecules to print with it.
Liubo pulled up his laptop from one of the other tables, and turned to the molecular printer owners' forum, where other enthusiasts of molecular printing hung out and shared their knowledge and gossip.
Among those was some printing instructions for some interesting molecules.
(Story continues here.)
Monday, 1 February 2021
Print Me: Part II
(Story begins here.)
The disassembled molecular printer was neatly packed by its component box-like constructions that looked like they were machined out of some nice blocks of stainless steel, with a simple user manual placed on top of them, almost as an after thought.
Liubo took out the user manual, scanning through it cursorily, and set it aside. He would refer to it later for the actual assembly.
Carefully, Liubo removed each of the components from the carton (except for the base), weighing each gently in his hands as he took his time to wonder at the intricacies of each part that he was not completely able to see. Unlike the 3D printer, which used purely physical parts only, the molecular printer had a lot of quantum mechanical components that were fabricated with larger and more sophisticated industrial scale sub-molecular printers---these parts were not directly serviceable by the home consumer, and more importantly, were too intricate to be allowed to exist out of the specific homeostatic conditions in which the components were deliberately fabricated in.
The quantum mechanical components were what made it possible for massive miniaturisation of the molecular printer that allowed it to reach the consumer market. Liubo remembered the time where the first molecular printer was invented---it was nearly twenty years ago, and it took up the whole building where it was first put together, and it took an entire power sub-station just to provide it with enough energy to assemble any molecules of up to five different atoms. It was that large because the molecular printer (called the general purpose molecular assembler then) had to rely on high energy physics with some chemistry to force-align the electron clouds to allow arbitrary atoms to be combined in any of the possible types of bonds to create molecules. It was also limited to only five different atoms because the order and intensity of the process of molecular assembly itself grew super exponentially with the number of atoms involved, and beyond five was when the digital computers of the day could not keep up with tracking of all possible states and thus maintaining the right equilibria to perform the assembly.
But the package that lay before him could easily assemble one billion atoms together into molecules that used all the known forces that could be called a molecule, at a significant fraction of the energy cost. It was such a significant fraction that it could be powered from the standard 220 V AC socket found at home. Truly a marvel of technological advancement.
Liubo placed each component of the molecular printer on the ground near him, and retrieved the user manual that he had set aside earlier.
``Congratulations on your Molecular Printing Device (small), bring to you by the Shenzhen Molecular Printing Company! May your molecular printing needs be meet with good and efficient!''
Liubo cringed. It was typical Chinglish, an unfortunate bastardisation of the English language brought about by the helpfulness of automated machine translators that worked with the original Chinese source text. `All the technology in building quantum mechanical components for consumer electronics and they cannot even fix the machine translation,' Liubo thought to himself sardonically as he flipped through the user manual more.
The assembly instructions were quite straightforward. The largest component that was in the bottom of the carton was the molecular printer's base. It was, incidentally, also the most massive.
Liubo opened up the carton more thoroughly to expose the built-in handles of the base before carefully lifting up from the floor and placing it on a scale nearby. The scale read ``20.0 kg'', which matched the stated mass number in the assembly instructions. The mass of the molecular printer's base was very important---it served as a proxy to indicating if the quantum mechanical components were kept intact from the shipping.
Happy with no obvious damage, Liubo carefully lifted the base up seventy centimetres to place it on the freed up table space on his main work bench. He then picked up each of the other components and carefully assembled them on to the base according to the assembly instructions, surprised that they were accurate despite having more of the Chinglish. There was little need for the application of screws and the like---the parts fit together using various built-in clasps and magnetics.
The last to be added where the three molecular printing gels, and there were exactly three slots in the molecular printer where each of the sealed cannisters could go. Staring intently at the assembly instructions for a while more, Liubo realised that other than the general uprightness fit of the cannisters in the slots, there was no other alignment needed. Satisfied with the finding, he finished up the assembly of the molecular printer.
The powering up of the printer for self-diagnosis tests had to be deferred till after Liubo had his dinner.
(Story continues here.)
The disassembled molecular printer was neatly packed by its component box-like constructions that looked like they were machined out of some nice blocks of stainless steel, with a simple user manual placed on top of them, almost as an after thought.
Liubo took out the user manual, scanning through it cursorily, and set it aside. He would refer to it later for the actual assembly.
Carefully, Liubo removed each of the components from the carton (except for the base), weighing each gently in his hands as he took his time to wonder at the intricacies of each part that he was not completely able to see. Unlike the 3D printer, which used purely physical parts only, the molecular printer had a lot of quantum mechanical components that were fabricated with larger and more sophisticated industrial scale sub-molecular printers---these parts were not directly serviceable by the home consumer, and more importantly, were too intricate to be allowed to exist out of the specific homeostatic conditions in which the components were deliberately fabricated in.
The quantum mechanical components were what made it possible for massive miniaturisation of the molecular printer that allowed it to reach the consumer market. Liubo remembered the time where the first molecular printer was invented---it was nearly twenty years ago, and it took up the whole building where it was first put together, and it took an entire power sub-station just to provide it with enough energy to assemble any molecules of up to five different atoms. It was that large because the molecular printer (called the general purpose molecular assembler then) had to rely on high energy physics with some chemistry to force-align the electron clouds to allow arbitrary atoms to be combined in any of the possible types of bonds to create molecules. It was also limited to only five different atoms because the order and intensity of the process of molecular assembly itself grew super exponentially with the number of atoms involved, and beyond five was when the digital computers of the day could not keep up with tracking of all possible states and thus maintaining the right equilibria to perform the assembly.
But the package that lay before him could easily assemble one billion atoms together into molecules that used all the known forces that could be called a molecule, at a significant fraction of the energy cost. It was such a significant fraction that it could be powered from the standard 220 V AC socket found at home. Truly a marvel of technological advancement.
Liubo placed each component of the molecular printer on the ground near him, and retrieved the user manual that he had set aside earlier.
``Congratulations on your Molecular Printing Device (small), bring to you by the Shenzhen Molecular Printing Company! May your molecular printing needs be meet with good and efficient!''
Liubo cringed. It was typical Chinglish, an unfortunate bastardisation of the English language brought about by the helpfulness of automated machine translators that worked with the original Chinese source text. `All the technology in building quantum mechanical components for consumer electronics and they cannot even fix the machine translation,' Liubo thought to himself sardonically as he flipped through the user manual more.
The assembly instructions were quite straightforward. The largest component that was in the bottom of the carton was the molecular printer's base. It was, incidentally, also the most massive.
Liubo opened up the carton more thoroughly to expose the built-in handles of the base before carefully lifting up from the floor and placing it on a scale nearby. The scale read ``20.0 kg'', which matched the stated mass number in the assembly instructions. The mass of the molecular printer's base was very important---it served as a proxy to indicating if the quantum mechanical components were kept intact from the shipping.
Happy with no obvious damage, Liubo carefully lifted the base up seventy centimetres to place it on the freed up table space on his main work bench. He then picked up each of the other components and carefully assembled them on to the base according to the assembly instructions, surprised that they were accurate despite having more of the Chinglish. There was little need for the application of screws and the like---the parts fit together using various built-in clasps and magnetics.
The last to be added where the three molecular printing gels, and there were exactly three slots in the molecular printer where each of the sealed cannisters could go. Staring intently at the assembly instructions for a while more, Liubo realised that other than the general uprightness fit of the cannisters in the slots, there was no other alignment needed. Satisfied with the finding, he finished up the assembly of the molecular printer.
The powering up of the printer for self-diagnosis tests had to be deferred till after Liubo had his dinner.
(Story continues here.)
Saturday, 26 September 2020
Deja Vu
Ashton sat at the bar, nursing his stout stoically. The bartender across him was busy wiping down the glasses, dutifully following his request in leaving him alone.
Friday night. A typical night of reverie and fun, as people take a break from the week-long work-fest, but for a couple of hours.
The bar was as dead as a nun's sex life. Pandemic rules. There was a limit of no more than twenty five people allowed at a bar the size of this one, and even then, there was still a hard limit of table sizes of no more than five.
That ruled out the usual TGIF after work gatherings. So most people did not even bother to come out.
Ashton didn't care. He just wanted his stout. He had been deprived of it for nearly six months when he was forced to be working from home. It wasn't that he missed the stout, but that he missed the autonomy that he had from just going places after work that was not his home.
His girlfriend of five years had left him. Said that it couldn't work out. He thought of protesting, but gave up in the end.
What was there to protest? A relationship involved two people; if one did not have the commitment, how could the other change anything?
It also did not help that it happened during the time when the city was forced to do a month-long lock down to curb the rise in infected cases as emergency legislation and budgets were being put together to reduce the socio-economic impact of it all.
How could he do anything in those circumstances?
Ashton took a gulp of his stout.
The sole waitress was lounging about at a corner near the bar, responding to someone's requests every now and then. There were less than fifteen present, and it was clear that she was more than enough for them, especially since the bartender did double duty and helped with serving as well.
Ashton saw, but he did not care enough. That was just how things were, nothing for him to care about there.
Life was slightly less meaningless before when he had a future life with her to look forward to. But with her having left him, and the great pause in social life from the pandemic, and the rising economic uncertainty that was bound to come, life was more meaningless than before.
But what was Ashton to do?
Friday night. A typical night of reverie and fun, as people take a break from the week-long work-fest, but for a couple of hours.
The bar was as dead as a nun's sex life. Pandemic rules. There was a limit of no more than twenty five people allowed at a bar the size of this one, and even then, there was still a hard limit of table sizes of no more than five.
That ruled out the usual TGIF after work gatherings. So most people did not even bother to come out.
Ashton didn't care. He just wanted his stout. He had been deprived of it for nearly six months when he was forced to be working from home. It wasn't that he missed the stout, but that he missed the autonomy that he had from just going places after work that was not his home.
His girlfriend of five years had left him. Said that it couldn't work out. He thought of protesting, but gave up in the end.
What was there to protest? A relationship involved two people; if one did not have the commitment, how could the other change anything?
It also did not help that it happened during the time when the city was forced to do a month-long lock down to curb the rise in infected cases as emergency legislation and budgets were being put together to reduce the socio-economic impact of it all.
How could he do anything in those circumstances?
Ashton took a gulp of his stout.
The sole waitress was lounging about at a corner near the bar, responding to someone's requests every now and then. There were less than fifteen present, and it was clear that she was more than enough for them, especially since the bartender did double duty and helped with serving as well.
Ashton saw, but he did not care enough. That was just how things were, nothing for him to care about there.
Life was slightly less meaningless before when he had a future life with her to look forward to. But with her having left him, and the great pause in social life from the pandemic, and the rising economic uncertainty that was bound to come, life was more meaningless than before.
But what was Ashton to do?
Friday, 17 July 2020
After Work
Aaron sat on the hard bar stool at the bar, nursing the sole shot glass of Jamesons while the crowd around him started coming in. It was a Friday evening, and work for the day was just completed. He could have gone home, but why should he? There was nothing there waiting for him anyway---Lucille had just passed on a couple of weeks ago, and he had cremated the only living creature other than his mother who had loved him unconditionally. She was an old dog who had been with him since his late teens, when it was not quite the age that was popular for holding on to pets, let alone getting a brand new one.
He was lonely then. He and his mother lived together in a small one room apartment that was left behind by his father, who had died about ten years earlier. It was the one good thing that he could remember him by, the leaving of the apartment. It was small, no doubt, but at least it was home. His father was always out working at odd hours of the day, so Aaron never really had a chance to know him. Even on weekends, he would barely see his father at all.
Aaron took another sip from his shot glass, feeling a little sorry for himself for no real reason at all.
In many ways, he was lucky. He was middle-aged, but he still had the one room apartment to call home, especially during this time when the economy was tanking due to the global recession that came from the trade wars between China and the US. His mother had gone two years prior and left the apartment to him---he had cried himself ugly at her wake, but he didn't expect to be crying himself to sleep that night after he got back from the cremation. Lucille had snuggled up to him for the whole night, being extra tender, as though she knew that something terrible had happened.
But now Lucille was gone too.
Aaron stared numbly ahead. At least he still had a job. Sure, they had given him a pay cut as part of their overall cost control measures, but he still had a net income after all---the same thing could not be said for quite a few people.
But what's the point money in a job when there's almost nothing to look forward to after it all?
When Lucille was around, he'd happily spend money on getting treats for her, and for getting toys for her. He would do his job in the office, then when he was done for the day, would quickly grab dinner before rushing home to meet Lucille, who would always great him with the most enthusiastic of reactions. She would literally brighten up his day---no matter how bad the day was, there was always Lucille to look forward to at the end of the day. He would play with her, take her out to the park for a long walk, sometimes bring a frisbee or a ball to play catch with her.
It was the happiest days of his life.
But she's gone. And everything was just different.
Aaron didn't have many friends to begin with. It wasn't so much of him being antisocial, but more that he found little in common with most people. He preferred reading over everything else, spending a lot of his free time not playing with Lucille being deeply engaged with a book, sometimes with Lucille in his lap, or more often, napping at his feet. It became more and more of a problem as time went by when people he knew slowly drifted off along their own paths when they found that they could not really click with him that well---most of those whom he knew had given up on reading in general ever since they were done with school.
A pity.
Aaron took another sip from his shot glass, stared at it forgetfully, before just downing the whole shot. The fierce fire from the concentrated alcohol burned in a pleasant way as it went down his gullet and into his belly, where a satisfying warmth spread its way throughout his body, tingling his senses. He savoured the fleeting moment, and contemplated getting another shot.
It was tempting to do so.
But he decided against it---it just wasn't worth it. He had to face reality eventually, and it was better to face it on his terms than to be forced to.
Aaron signalled to the bartender to close his tab. The latter came by with the bill. Aaron gave a quick glance at it before passing him his credit card. The transaction was quickly concluded and Aaron left the bar for home.
It was going to be a long night again.
He was lonely then. He and his mother lived together in a small one room apartment that was left behind by his father, who had died about ten years earlier. It was the one good thing that he could remember him by, the leaving of the apartment. It was small, no doubt, but at least it was home. His father was always out working at odd hours of the day, so Aaron never really had a chance to know him. Even on weekends, he would barely see his father at all.
Aaron took another sip from his shot glass, feeling a little sorry for himself for no real reason at all.
In many ways, he was lucky. He was middle-aged, but he still had the one room apartment to call home, especially during this time when the economy was tanking due to the global recession that came from the trade wars between China and the US. His mother had gone two years prior and left the apartment to him---he had cried himself ugly at her wake, but he didn't expect to be crying himself to sleep that night after he got back from the cremation. Lucille had snuggled up to him for the whole night, being extra tender, as though she knew that something terrible had happened.
But now Lucille was gone too.
Aaron stared numbly ahead. At least he still had a job. Sure, they had given him a pay cut as part of their overall cost control measures, but he still had a net income after all---the same thing could not be said for quite a few people.
But what's the point money in a job when there's almost nothing to look forward to after it all?
When Lucille was around, he'd happily spend money on getting treats for her, and for getting toys for her. He would do his job in the office, then when he was done for the day, would quickly grab dinner before rushing home to meet Lucille, who would always great him with the most enthusiastic of reactions. She would literally brighten up his day---no matter how bad the day was, there was always Lucille to look forward to at the end of the day. He would play with her, take her out to the park for a long walk, sometimes bring a frisbee or a ball to play catch with her.
It was the happiest days of his life.
But she's gone. And everything was just different.
Aaron didn't have many friends to begin with. It wasn't so much of him being antisocial, but more that he found little in common with most people. He preferred reading over everything else, spending a lot of his free time not playing with Lucille being deeply engaged with a book, sometimes with Lucille in his lap, or more often, napping at his feet. It became more and more of a problem as time went by when people he knew slowly drifted off along their own paths when they found that they could not really click with him that well---most of those whom he knew had given up on reading in general ever since they were done with school.
A pity.
Aaron took another sip from his shot glass, stared at it forgetfully, before just downing the whole shot. The fierce fire from the concentrated alcohol burned in a pleasant way as it went down his gullet and into his belly, where a satisfying warmth spread its way throughout his body, tingling his senses. He savoured the fleeting moment, and contemplated getting another shot.
It was tempting to do so.
But he decided against it---it just wasn't worth it. He had to face reality eventually, and it was better to face it on his terms than to be forced to.
Aaron signalled to the bartender to close his tab. The latter came by with the bill. Aaron gave a quick glance at it before passing him his credit card. The transaction was quickly concluded and Aaron left the bar for home.
It was going to be a long night again.
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