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Doer of things, sometimes.
Boosts things if they are generally interesting, since fediverse discoverability sucks.
I’m probably not upset about what you’re creating - only about what you’re destroying to make room.
It’s illegal to be pro-Palestine in Germany since the government equates it with pro-Holocaust.

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Joined 1 year ago
Cake day: July 10th, 2023
  • immibis@social.immibis.comtoProgrammer Humor@programming.dev•Devotion to duty
    11·
    10 months ago

    @IsoKiero @Diabolo96

    [AI generated. NovelAI Euterpe, “hard sci-fi” module, increased randomness]

    The opening scene of “Server Down” begins with the sound of a doorbell, and an elderly woman answers it. She is dressed in slacks and a blouse, her hair neatly combed back.
    “Good evening,” says a young woman who looks not much older than fifty. “May I help you?”
    “I’m here to see Mr. Jitendra Gupta.” The young woman wears a corporate suit; she must be from an information-technology firm or maybe a security company.
    “Mr. Gupta isn’t available at the moment. May I take your name?”
    “Call me Annette.” She shows the woman into the apartment, which is a modest one-bedroom on the ground floor of a three-story building. In the corner there’s a bookcase that contains some of the books that Mr. Gupta likes to read: works by Isaac Asimov, Arthur C. Clarke, and Isaac Babel. A chess set sits on top of the bookcase, although it has been unused for weeks. It will remain untouched until late in his life when he finds someone willing to play him. On either side of the room are two black metal cabinets, both of them filled with computer equipment—server racks holding several sets of fiber-optic cables, multiplexers, trays stuffed with silicon chips. Annette glances through each cabinet. “This place looks like an Internet exchange point.”
    “It is, but I don’t have anything to do with the ISPs. My employer does maintenance for them.”
    “You work for an ISP?”
    “No, I’m a freelance specialist.”
    “Oh, well, then, what exactly is it you do?”
    “We fix problems they can’t get fixed elsewhere.”
    She opens a drawer in the bookcase containing books and produces a business card. “Annette Smith, Pico Infotech. If you ever need help with anything, just give us a call. You know how to reach me?”
    “Thank you,” Mrs. Gupta says. “My husband was very pleased to meet you.”

    In the kitchen, Mr. Gupta is working on a bowl of stew he made earlier. He doesn’t look up as Annette enters, although the faint background noise suggests that he has heard her footsteps. His hands move deftly over the controls of a touchscreen display affixed to a workbench above the sink, tapping out commands like a pianist testing notes. He is wearing blue jeans and a T-shirt emblazoned with the logo of the Pittsburgh Pirates baseball team. His feet rest on a portable footrest, resting on a stool positioned next to the sink.
    Mrs. Gupta says, “Can I offer you some tea while you wait? Would you care for a piece of cake?”
    “No thanks, dear. I’ve got something to finish before the end of the shift.”
    “Would you mind if my guest took a seat?”
    “Not at all.”
    Annette takes a seat facing Mr. Gupta. From where she sits, she has a good view of the screen on the bench. On it, a giant purple octopus is slowly making its way around a 3D map of the solar system. The tentacles are pointing at various objects and then disappearing. When one tentacle reappears, however, it is pointing at a space object of some kind.
    “Here we go again,” Mr. Gupta murmurs. “The damned thing keeps doing this.”
    “Is it an asteroid?” asks Annette.
    “That’s what the news service said last time, but I can’t tell from here. Looks like a gas giant to me.”
    “What about the other three tentacles? Is one of them pointing at Jupiter?”
    He rubs his forehead. “Damn it, I wish the news outlet had labeled that image. I want to know why it keeps doing that.”
    Mrs. Gupta brings in another cup of tea. “Nandu, what are you doing on this screen in the first place? Don’t you have a better use for your time?”
    “You’re asking the wrong person, dear. This is what I do for a living.”
    On the screen, one of the four tentacles points to Jupiter. Another moves to Mars and disappears. That leaves just the final two tentacles, each of them still pointing at a different destination.
    “Maybe it’s telling us where it wants to go?” Annette suggests.
    “Yeah. Maybe we should ask it.”
    The fourth tentacle continues to point to Jupiter. One of the remaining tentacles seems to hesitate. Then it changes direction slightly.
    “Can you imagine the conversation,” Mr. Gupta muses aloud, “if that were really possible?”
    “If aliens wanted to talk to us?”
    “Sure. How would they send their message?”
    “Well, if you want to communicate with anyone on Earth, there’s a protocol known as SETI—”
    “—which stands for…” Annette trails off.
    “The Search for Extra-Terrestrial Intelligence,” he supplies. “They listen for radio signals at frequencies below 3 gigahertz. They’ve been listening since the '50s but haven’t found any response yet.”
    “But we already know aliens exist,” Mrs. Gupta insists. “There’s no doubt in anybody’s mind about that.”
    Annette smiles. She knows it isn’t good manners to interrupt, so she waits until Mr. Gupta has finished talking before saying, “Uh… yeah, sure, you could say that.”
    “Don’t you think there’s a possibility, even a likelihood, that this octopus is trying to communicate with us?”