by Kelvin Smith
Data hides in humming bunkers in the distant wastes: the cloud where there is often not a cloud in sight, except the memory of the mushrooming missiles the silos once sheathed. Air conditioned, energy-hungry, empty of every non-secure human, this badged, protected, fearful information space isn’t shared without payment or permission. It huddles in the desert protecting its privates, boasting of its prowess.
The boys and girls with perfect teeth and self-selected bodies build these concrete halls to keep the stuff that matches the minds that first fiddled with a keyboard, mouse or circuit board.
They do not glance at what is in their own heads, only at what is in private hands. The future tells them this is the future and they never look back.