That’s right, my friends. This is a spidergoat thing.

Analog Nation has chronicled the spidergoat menace a couple of times, tracing a direct line from the pursuit of spider silk to the charred end of civilization. The short version is this: A) Spider silk kicks ass. B) Spiders are impossible to farm. C) The biotech sector is working on a way to genetically combine spiders with goats, so that silk proteins can be harvested from the goats’ milk. D) The spidergoats will become sentient and rise as one to cast off the yoke of humanity. E) Apocalypse. Whether we realize it or not, we are in a race to develop artificial spider silk before the spidergoats unleash their Day of Darkness, like a cross between Skynet and the Matrix, but with hooves. And fangs. Horrible, horrible fangs.

Given that the trenches of this invisible war have so far been in the laboratory, it was quite a surprise to learn that the first real breakthrough has been accomplished naturally. After centuries of failed attempts, someone has finally managed to spin spider silk into usable textiles the old fashioned way. No test tubes, no lasers, no sexy assistants in lab coats. Just a bunch of spiders spinning webs, and some patient people with an unreal threshold for creepage. The arachnid at the project’s heart is Nephila madagascariensis, the golden orb spider. This native of Madagascar weaves a web of gold silk, capable of spanning between telephone poles, or even (gulp) across roads. The French have taken a couple of cracks at spinning golden orb silk into thread, most recently in the late 1800s at the direction of a missionary named Jacob Paul Camboué. He toiled for many years, and reportedly managed to produce some usable cloth — but that cloth is lost to antiquity, as is the name Jacob Paul Camboué. A pity, because creating spider garments would have made him the coolest French missionary ever, hands down, by a country mile. (His closest competition would be Jacques Marquette, namesake of Marquette University. With all due respect to the Golden Eagles: Yawn.)

None of this deterred Simon Peers and Nicholas Godley from embarking on a new quest to learn the secret of the golden orb. Peers, a British art historian, and Godley, an American fashion designer, teamed up five years ago with a team of silk weavers in Madagascar. Their results, the aforementioned shawl-esque rug, went on display at the American Museum of Natural History in September, at a gala event featuring … wait a minute, Heather Graham? Really? How the hell did Heather Graham work her way into this story?

Godley, Graham, Peers. Not pictured: 40,000 spiders.

Maybe she knows one of them. Maybe she was a donor to the exhibit. Maybe she just loves the arachnarian arts and wanted to be involved. Regardless, Heather Graham was the marquee attraction at the gala event to unveil the golden orb cloth — which, in a way, makes her a spokesperson in the war against the spidergoats. Hey, if she wants to lend her name to the cause, that’s great, but you have checked out her IMDB page lately? There is an almost shocking lack of blockbuster sci-fi titles on there. One has to wonder, has she saved the world even once? From anything? Meteors? Aliens? Godzillas/Cloverfields? The answer is yes, kind of: “Lost in Space.” I’ve never seen it, but Wikipedia’s exhaustive plot spoilers on the matter indicate that the space-o-nauts in question are indeed attempting to save humanity. More to the point, they do so by defeating “carnivorous and cannibalistic silicon-based spider-like lifeforms” who plan to “spread [their] spider race across the Earth.” Ding! Welcome to the Spidergoat Resistance Front, miss Graham. You were great on “Scrubs.”

With so much riding on this mysterious piece of fabric, I decided to go to the museum and see it for myself. By standing in its presence, I hoped to get a feel for whether it truly represents an anti-spidergoat breakthrough. So on a sunny Sunday afternoon, I took the C train uptown, and paid the full suggested donation. Because that is how I roll, people.

Shoot it all you want, children, it’s bulletproof.

First of all, it is unquestionably a magnificent work of art. The weaving was done by hand, in a tradition called lamba Akotifahana, once practiced solely for the royal classes of Madagascar. It is sturdy, yet in places sheer enough to see the black felt background beneath it. Most museum guests walked right on by, but several noticed the display and stopped to look. One fellow actually said, “I did not know spiders made silk,” hitting the not the way one does when remarking about a curious fact that will soon be forgotten. I wrote in my notepad, “Webs? Anyone?” No one stayed at the exhibit for more than a minute, and I was starting to sense that I was the only one who had gone there specifically to see the spider silk. Starting, that is, until the spider couple showed up.

The spider couple were in their 50s, she in a sensible toggle-fastened sweater, he in a more stylish leather jacket and jeans. They approached the display and immediately began reading the info panel out loud. Their enthusiasm was refreshing, but I started to suspect something was up when they both remarked that the photo of the golden orb spider wasn’t to scale. “Nope, definitely not,” the man said, holding up his hand for comparison. That’s when it hit me. These people were fans. They were golden orb spider buffs. For several minutes they examined the cloth, as if they were on “Antiques Roadshow.” She kept a lookout for museum staff while he surreptitiously took a picture of it on his Treo. He returned the favor while she did the same with her iPhone. It was starting to get awkward with the three of us standing there, but I didn’t want to have to do a lap around North American Mammals in the hopes that they would be gone. Suddenly the man and I made eye contact, and I was afraid that they were going to talk to me, that they would ask me about my notepad, about whether I, too, was a fan. Soon they would be inviting me to spider meetings, sending me spider newsletters. I would be a spider person. Thankfully the moment passed, and the spider couple moved on, probably creeped out by the unshaven guy with the notepad. As they headed for the Hall of Biodiversity, I realized that I should not have feared making their acquaintance. When the shit hits the fan, they will definitely be charter members of the Spidergoat Resistance Front.

Having seen the golden orb silk up close, the question now looms: Are we still screwed or what? Peers and Godley have made great strides in the silk collection process, which uses little contraptions to hold female spiders in place while silk is extracted. The spiders are then set free, and more are harvested from outside. But all told, it took eighty people, four years, and over a million spiders to produce fifty square feet of woven silk cloth. I’ll just pause for a moment and let the phrase “a million spiders” wash over you. Though the team plans to head back to Madagascar for more silk, they admit the limitations of the process, which right now can’t support mass production on a commercial scale. Artificial reproduction remains the most viable option, and that puts us back to square one. So yes, it appears that we are technically still screwed. The spidergoat threat remains.

“If we were doing all of this to make money,” Godley said recently, “I could think of much, much easier ways to do it.” Oh really? We’re all ears, big guy. We are all goddamn ears.

(Post-script 11/28: The original photo caption of Heather Graham claimed that the cloth was not spider silk. That turned out to be an error — it is in fact golden orb silk, made from the same process as the cloth on display at the AMNH. And who called this to my attention? That would be Nicholas Godley, who happened upon the article and very graciously dropped me a line. The Internet is a lot smaller than it looks.)

The arms race has always been Exhibit A in the case against humanity, so it was nice to learn that some other species is doing it for a change. A coalition of nerds from Wake Forest and Colorado State has discovered that certain moths deploy a hi-tech defense system in their war against bats. The technology? Sonar jamming.

Bats have been using echolocation to stalk the night sky for like a billion years or something. Scanning their hapless prey at frequencies no organism can detect — it’s not even really all that fair, if you ask me. It’s like they can lick the air and taste fear. Well it turns out that these particular moths, a species of tiger moth called Bertholdia trigona, emit a series of ultrasonic clicks as they fly around at night. The clicks serve as auditory chaff, concealing the moths in a cloud of please-don’t-eat-me goodness. They are, in short, stealth moths. This leaves them free to drift into an open flame and burn to death.

Who knew moths had their own little version of Northrup Grumman? Do the bats even know they’re being outwitted? Have they any intelligence assets in place to find out?

One of these is Bertholdia trigona, the other is an F-117 Nighthawk stealth fighter. Can you even tell which is which?

BEGIN TRANSMISSION — CODE LEVEL: TOP SECRET
I shall be swift, for I do not know how much time I have before they find me. SIGINT was correct, the moths have using echostealth technology. Do you realize what this means? If other moth factions were to get their hands on the technology … well, you are too young to remember the Fruit Bat Famine of ‘79, and I shall spare you the gory details. The Colonel was right all along. What fools we were to have stripped him of his rank. I will try to get this out through the Prague station chief. I fear I shall not see you again. Also, I asked around, and the others like to hang upside-down in caves as well. Does everyone do this? I honestly thought I was the only one.

Sadly, history provides a road map for what will come next. The bats will use stronger echolocation, at higher frequencies. The moths will waterboard bat operatives to learn the new frequencies. The bats will develop infrared vision. The moths will cloak themselves in styrofoam to mask their heat signatures. The bats will deploy air-to-air missile systems. The moths will flood the sky with decoy drones. The bats will build an A-bomb. The moths will sneak their missiles into Cuba. Suddenly it’s October 1962 all over again, and the Doomsday Clock is hitting one minute to midnight.

This is just like what happened with the fire ants and their ICBMs.

As a consequence, there’s really nothing they can prescribe that will make us flinch. The 21st century patient is prepared for anything.

Doctor: You have hexamalephasia of the carotid lukeplantic ganglia.
You: Roger that.
Doctor: Eat plenty of beets, rub igneous rock on your thighs, and lift a saxophone over your head after every meal.
You: Sounds good.

For example, the last time I saw a doctor we had a brief conversation involving several words of fifteen letters or more, during which he effortlessly convinced me to hold my mouth open for half an hour so that he could jab the inside of my head with syringes and scalpels. Did I flinch? Nope. Well, I might have flinched once or twice from the actual scalpel jabbing, but not from the suggestion that it was a good idea.

It begs the question, is there a point at which we will flinch?

Here I would postulate that A) such a point does exist, and B) it occupies the place in space/time where doctors start telling us to eat robots.

This point may not have occurred yet, but it’s coming, and sooner than you might think. Say hello to Ares, the sort-of-but-not-really acronym that’s short for Assembling Reconfigurable Endoluminal Surgical System. The theory behind Ares is that invasive procedures increase risk, recovery time, and external scarring. If surgeons can do those same procedures without the cutting open the patient, it would save time, pain, money, kittens, you name it. That means building little robots to access our innards through existing orifices like the navel, and if that sentence didn’t make you nervous, you need to go watch “The Matrix” again.

Endoluminal: from the Greek, endo- “internal” or “within,” and luminal “droids in my lung”

In short, Ares is a series of botlings that the patient swallows one by one. Once inside, they combine to form some sort of Ph.D. Voltron (the cars, not the lions) and start assisting the surgeon. Different botlings have different tools, so the system can be reconfigured as needed. Oh, and the assembled system looks an awful lot like the face-hugger from “Alien.” So, good news there.

Ares was developed at Scuola Superiore Sant’Anna, which is either a university in Pisa or a restaurant in Park Slope. It may be both, I’d have to check Urbanspoon. Dr. Arianna Menciassi is one of the biomedical robotics experts heading up the research, and given that she’s an Italian scientist with a supervillain name, I can only assume that she is unspeakably sexy.

You can practically hear the accent: “We are working on the real possibility of building a robot inside the person, inside their abdomen or stomach and there would be several module which are very small like pills and that can combine together inside and the idea is to introduce these robots from the mouth or anus or the umbilical. This is the dream.”

Well, that’s … not quite as sexy as I was expecting. No offense, Dr. Menciassi, but your dream kind of sounds like the premise of “Saw IX.”

The article leaves one question eerily unanswered. What exactly happens to Ares when the surgery is complete? Does it stay in there? Does nature take its course? Do they send even smaller robots in after it? Who performs the robotomy? My guess is that the answer will involve rooster entrails.

And you know what? We may be putting that track record to the test pretty soon. A while back, I shone a harsh and unwavering light on the sad truth that our society is more than likely doomed to live out our days as the indentured servants of spidergoats. So far that has not happened (that I can tell), and for that we can thank the fact that spidergoat research — centered around the idea that spider silk proteins can be produced in the milk of genetically engineered goats — has stagnated. Just when I was starting to think that the danger may have passed, I came across this tidbit, courtesy of the BBC:

First of all, if this isn’t a supervillain’s origin story, I don’t know what is. Here we have a woman named “Dr. Sara Goodacre,” a fairly cool name all by itself, who conducts research on some of the largest spiders in the world. She is a kind and gifted scientist, who did not intend to get into arachnology but says herself that she is increasingly drawn to the creatures. She is pregnant.* That kid’s pretty much growing up to be a spider-themed supervillain, right? One who blames society for the accident that claimed his/her mother’s sanity, and takes it out on Batman? The odds of that happening have got to be in the mid-90s.

But the real issue is that Dr. Goodacre and her associates are studying these particular beasts because they produce a high volume of silk. The more silk they produce, the better chance one has of discovering an artificial replica. Therein lies the threat. If Dr. Goodacre’s research falls into the hands of the spidergoat people, that means we are facing a brand new invasion:

Trantulagoats.

And if we’re just figuring this out now, the bad guys definitely know already. It’s the missing piece of their plan.

We need to set up a conference call with Aragorn, Indiana Jones and Optimus Prime. Stat.

*If it turns out that Dr. Goodacre actually is not pregnant, and if for any reason Dr. Goodacre should happen to read this, I would like to take this opportunity to apologize. Profusely. In a very non-jerk-like fashion.

The whole affair came vividly to mind this week when I read about the continuing troubles that have befallen the Large Hadron Collider. It turns out that building something, be it the most advanced scientific facility in the world or an underwhelming 1/100 scale Doric column, is sometimes a lot harder than it sounds.

Back in September, when the LHC made its debut, we here at AN examined the possibility that the world would be sucked into a singularity. In lieu of its ongoing setbacks, we wanted to take a few moments to continue the conversation.

Okay, so … no black hole in Switzerland?
Not so far, no. A black hole is pretty much something everyone would have noticed by now.

And that means we’re safe? The alarmists were over-alarmed?
Well, technically the LHC is still not a fully armed and operational battle station. There are problems with the magnets used to accelerate particles, and the system has been completely offline. Engineers hope to have it up and running this winter.

Which would be a delay of over a year, correct?
Sure, but it took fifteen years to get it this far. What’s another year, give or take? That’s like a six-month project being delayed by twelve days. (Math, bitches!)

Still, this is a complete disaster, right? After all this hype, physicists are abandoning the LHC for other facilities, and it might be years before the is fulfills its potential. Is there any precedent for this?
There most certainly is. In a way, the LHC is the Hubble Space Telescope of the 21st century. Years in development, loads of hype, and right when the whole world was watching, a goose-egg on the scoreboard. Did we shrug our shoulders and move on? Hell no, we fixed it. We fixed that thing, and it’s not even on this planet.

At a cost of … ?
… Hm?

I said, how much did it cost to fix the Hubble?
Oh, it was … something like … mumblebumblegrumble …

I’m sorry, I couldn’t quite hear you just then.
(Ahem.) I said, it cost billions of dollars. But to focus solely on the dollar signs is to miss out on some of the most spectacular astronomy that’s ever been conducted. Take a look at the photos they get from that puppy. The Hubble may have been comically flawed when it was launched, but the time and resources used to set it right have yielded groundbreaking science. Bear that in mind when considering the near-term prospects of the LHC. Yes, it’s disappointing, and yes, the economy is in a plastic shit-house. In the long run, however, we will be glad to have it.

Because it will be crushing all matter on Earth into a single point in space that occupies no area and has infinite mass.
Exactly.

Between the September post and this one, how many times have you misspelled Hadron as “Hardon?”
Something like forty.

How did you and your Dad end up fixing the Parthenon?
My Mom handed us a glue gun.

Do you think that would work for the Hadron guys?
Oh come on, now you’re just being silly. You don’t honestly think that a glue gun … would … uh …

Crap. Can someone in Switzerland run a glue gun over to those guys?

Thankfully, we have a pretty good roadmap for this sort of thing, courtesy of Hollywood. Movies have demonstrated with 99% reliability that two courses of action will greatly increase the likelihood that your machine will conquer humanity.

• Give it artificial intelligence: Skynet, HAL 9000
• Give it the ability to reassemble itself when blown into a million pieces: T-1000, Iron Giant*

(It also probably helps if the machine eats biomass that may or may not include human flesh, depending on whom you ask.)

Artificial intelligence is the marquee name, of course, but its current level of development hovers somewhere around having a conversation with a head trauma patient. Who just began studying English a few weeks ago. And is distracted by butterflies.

On the reassembly front, however, there is apparently progress. Researchers at the General Robotics, Automation, Sensing and Perception Lab, who design robots and are good with acronyms, have been working on a module-based system that can put itself back together after impact. The GRASP lab is based at the University of Pennsylvania, which I believe is the Nittany Quakers, or the Panther Lions, or something. Whatever they are, if I had known they were working on world-ending technology I would have had them higher in my March Madness bracket.

The modules are equipped with LED displays, and cameras. When separated, the modules run a pre-set routine that allows them to find the other LEDs with their cameras, realign themselves, and scurry back into position. Once unified, they tear off your face.

Here’s an excerpt from the lab’s demonstration of the modules in action:

“If at any time a cluster senses a change in the direction of gravity, it starts the self-righting maneuver. Once two clusters are docked, they move as a unit, searching for the third cluster. The docking mechanism is a series of eight magnets arranged with alternating poles, allowing attachments at ninety degree rotational intervals. While magnetic misalignment is possible, it is unlikely.”

The strict narration of a scientist can at times lack nuance, so allow me to translate that paragraph:

“They will come for you at night. You swore you would stay awake, but to fight sleep is to lose a war by inches. Ever since the television signals cut out, you and your neighbors have relied on rumors and hearsay, or at least you were until you heard the neighbors’ screams. That was thirty-six hours ago. When they come, the motion detector lights in the front yard will not be enough to wake you — it is only when the first of your propane tank proximity mines detonate that you will come to your senses. You will rush to the window and peer through the blinds, watching as the first wave is blown to hell. The smirk will die on your face, because in that moment you will learn that the rumors were true. The pieces really do find each other. They really do reassemble. And while magnetic misalignment is possible, it really is unlikely.”

Hollywood has been warning us for years.

(Watch the video all the way to the end, it’s worth it.)

*Technically not a human creation, but absolutely would have iced us if it hadn’t chowed down on that power plant.

To the editors of Nature:

While it is not in my nature to sow discord, I find it difficult to remain silent at this juncture. The treatise by Messrs. Watson and Crick (“A Structure for Deoxyribose Nucleic Acid,” Watson J.D. and Crick F.H.C., Nature, vol. 171 pp 737-738, April 25, 1953), which proposes a new theory on the structure of DNA, is a misguided attempt to solve the key riddle of genetics. Though undoubtedly well-intentioned, the gentlemen have taken a step backwards. I believe it to be my solemn duty to demonstrate where they have failed, and how.

Let us begin at the very beginning. “We wish to suggest a structure for the salt of deoxyribose nucleic acid,” the authors intone with their first sentence. A weak overture, sirs. You sound like a student at the back of the class, feebly holding a hand aloft because they think they might know the answer, while praying the teacher will call upon someone else. Have you found a structure or haven’t you? I could “suggest” something for you as well, featuring the sun, and the coordinates from which it does not shine.

The authors then set the groundwork for their theory by assailing Fraser’s model for a three-chain DNA structure, with phosphates linked by hydrogen bonds. Their summation: “This structure as described is rather ill-defined, and for this reason we shall not comment on it.” Gentlemen, if your intent is to take passive-aggressive potshots at the superior work of your competitors, save it for the New England Journal of Medicine. While you’re at it, why not just leave Fraser a hastily-scrawled note affixed to the bathroom mirror?

It is here that the article begins to groan under the weight of its errors. “We have made the usual chemical assumptions, namely, that each chain consists of phosphate diester groups joining β-D-deoxyribofuranose residues with 3′,5′ linkages,” our intrepid authors state. This would be fine, had it not been repeatedly shown in field trials that β-D-deoxyribofuranose residues cannot be joined with 3′,5′ linkages. One can forgive them the mistake, but if that is the basis of their entire model, I hesitate to think where this affair is heading. Imagine a beautiful herd of buffalo stampeding towards a cliff, over ground littered with Nazi landmines. This is worse.

Furthermore, they claim that “the two chains (but not their bases) are related by a dyad perpendicular to the fibre axis. Both chains follow right-handed helices, but owing to the dyad the sequences of the atoms in the two chains run in opposite directions” Okay first of all, don’t talk down to us. We are not the insipid housewives you seem to think we are. Second of all, both chains follow right-handed helices? For the dyad to run perpendicular on that axis, the intra-helical bonds would force the chains to twist left. How else would the chains run in opposite directions? Even my nephew understands that, and do you know what my nephew is doing right now, as I type this? Sitting two feet in front of the television in the next room, watching “Howdy Doody” while excavating his nose. Hey look, he found something! Whoops, under the coffee table it goes.

In this increasingly fantastical model, the helical chains “are joined together in pairs, a single base from one chain being hydrogen-bonded to a single base from the other chain, so that the two lay side by side with identical z-coordinates.” Deoxyribose protein molecules bonded by hydrogen would cause a degenerative spiral of polar opposition, initiating a fission reaction within the hydrogen that technically finishes before it starts. Congratulations, gentlemen, you’ve just ripped open the continuum of space-time and filled it with atomic fire. The children of the world thank you.

Finally, Watson and Crick manage to arrive at the conclusion that their slipshod house of cards points directly to the secret of genetic reproduction. “It has not escaped our notice that the specific pairing we have postulated immediately suggests a possible copying mechanism for the genetic material.” Well thank the nine hells it has not escaped your notice. What else has not escaped your notice? That six times seven equals a pound of sugar? That a dog sniffing his own fart means rain tomorrow? Here’s something that has not escaped my notice: You two couldn’t science your way out of a wet grocery bag.

I have read their article from beginning to end no fewer than four times, foolishly hoping that at some point the pieces would fit together. With each reading, the words sound more and more like the cackles of a circus clown, heard through a fog of morphine. To lend these ramblings credence by printing them in such a venerable journal is a disservice to society.

Last year, my daughter informed her mother and me that she wanted a horse. She cried every night until we got her one, which is stabled three towns away at a cost that reads like a line item in the Defense Department’s budget. This afternoon I went to the stables with a steel bucket, lifted that damn horse’s tail, and held the bucket aloft until such time as it was full to the brim. Perhaps I shall submit this bucket of offal to Nature, because that is apparently what they are publishing these days.

See you in the funny pages, assholes.

Sincerely,

Edgar H. Masterson, Ph.D.

ENERGY

The world ran on fossil fuels for centuries, but now looks elsewhere to shoulder the load. Renewable sources such as solar, wind, hydro, temperate fusion, and chaos-fire now make up half of all energy consumption. Most remaining fossil fuels are comprised of “überdiesel,” an amalgam of traditional diesel, natural gas, and hydrogenated corn syrup. Majestic expanses of solar arrays and windmill forests are a common sight. The 300-meter Arecibo Radio Telescope now stands atop the Chrysler Building to act as a solar reflector, the telescope itself having been replaced by a two-inch plate of selenium with eight times the dish’s radio capacity. Japan generates most of its electricity from volcanoes, which turns out to be even more bad-ass than it sounds. Natural lighting is more prevalent than ever with the development of building materials that behave like Transitions® Lenses. Flexible solar panels can be found on on hats, backpacks, strollers, pet clothing etc., with USB adapters to charge electronic devices on the go. Not all parts of the world are as ready to embrace renewable energy sources — China has built four coal plants, each the size of Toronto.

TRANSPORTATION

Automobiles are alive and well, though most are more modestly sized than some of their 20th century ancestors. Motorists in dense metropolitan areas favor two- and three-person “subcars,” which can be linked together for more efficient propulsion. A new breed of carpooling emerges as neighbors join four and five cars at a time on their way to work. Calling “shotgun” now means being the lead subcar — an archaic term, as shotguns were long ago replaced by arc-plasma repeaters. The greatest advancement in transport has come from matter teleportation. The technology still has a ways to go, and can only be used safely on inanimate solids. No liquids or gases, and certainly no organisms. However, international shipping has undergone a revolution. Cargo vessels returned to port by the dozen, trucks came off the road by the hundred. Thousands of truck drivers lost their jobs, but were re-tasked either to operate transporter units, or to clean stray animals out of the solar arrays and windmill forests. They still wear leg-mounted devices to urinate freely.

A vocal minority among our “tank of thinkers” feel that we are morally (perhaps even legally) obligated to mention jet packs. There are none. Get over it.

COMMUNICATIONS

The airwaves crackle with cellular frequencies, joining distant corners of the Earth in conversation. They literally crackle, many people have been needlessly killed. Communicator devices are no thicker than a few sticks of gum and weigh only a few ounces, yet each has the processing capability of five Cray supercomputers. Location- and activity-aware applications keep all of your friends and family up to date with a real-time feed of your status, whether they want to know or not. Tiny microchips embedded in contact lenses let you control your communicator via eye movements. Everyone you meet can be added or blocked on your list of social contacts by blinking one or both eyes, giving rise to such lingo as, “I thought she was into me, but she gave me the full blink.” Nerds are used to the full blink, jocks not so much. Each household is networked from top to bottom. Homeowners have 24-hour access from anywhere in the world, and can start the laundry, get a pot of coffee going, check what’s in the fridge, or activate their workerbot. Workerbots hardly ever go on murderous rampages anymore.

MEDICINE

Physicians now diagnose diseases prior to their contraction by a statistical algorithm that factors vital signs, environmental factors, and genetic predisposition. Patients learn of their impending illness by teleported mail, then receive medicine and lollipops. Freed from 99% of patient contact, doctors seldom wear pants. For limb and organ replacement, there are two options. Fully organic limbs are grown in “arm farms,” made possible by synthetic stem cells. Meanwhile, cybernetic implants offer a more stylish, high-end alternative. The cyberlimbs come with special features and abilities, such as mood alteration fields, a place to put your keys, or a GAU-8 Avenger. The result is that the affluent and trendy have brand name cybernetics, while low- and middle-class workers — many of whom lost their limbs operating matter teleporters — have generic cell-grown replacements that don’t always resemble the recipient. Wearing the latest in cybernetics is known as “dropping tech.” Still no cure for the common cold, though.

ENTERTAINMENT

With the television broadcast system taken completely offline to free up frequencies for controlling the swarm of giant weaponized bees (a division of the Coast Guard), all entertainment is delivered through the Internet. The only thing distinguishing TV shows from movies or webisodes is length. Many popular programs are less than three seconds long. Full-immersion 3D technology allows anyone to experience any performance live. Artists from around the world reach audiences in the tens of thousands, who are represented at the physical venue by holograms resembling the crowds in “Guitar Hero.” Sports teams enjoy the same exposure, with the intriguing side-effect that allegiances are no longer strictly tied to geography. A random sports fan from Anytown USA might follow the Houston Rockets for basketball, the Chunichi Dragons for baseball, the Miami Dolphins for American football, FC Barcelona for world football, and Dynamo Moscow for hockey. Anytown USA, of course, being the state-less district established to house irradiated “sorrowgazers” from the Uranium Wars of the ’30s. Advertising is delivered in pill form. Reality programming remains staggeringly popular, especially shows about antiquing.

SPACE

Tourists regularly make trips to the International Space Station Mark II. ISS Mark II, funded by a global tax on heroin, has a hotel and casino, featuring new zero-gravity betting games like Dual-Axis Craps and Endless Twirling. There is a mining settlement on the Moon with a population of around thirty. All United Nations members take turns sending their best and brightest for 18-month shifts. This is seen as a privilege or a sentence, depending on the country. A coalition of the US, South Korea, and the EU-5 maintain an outpost on Mars operated by robots. The robots perform the exact same tasks as the astronauts on the Moon, though they send messages to the lunar colony along the lines of “Hey, can you build us some more robots? There’s some really cool shit going on out here and we could use an extra pair of hands” and “Good morning! We’re on Mars and you’re not.”

LIFE IN GENERAL

Global warming has slowed but not yet abated, save for the Ice Age of 2028 that meteorologists agree was just a statistical anomaly. Military conflicts became more and more urban, culminating in a mid-scale war that was fought entirely indoors. A sentient computer made tabloid headlines by giving birth to quintuplets. Paper money still exists, but changes value depending on how much available funds you have in your account. Children are paired with a genetically engineered companion animal, which protects them and serves as a tutor. Venice has been rescued from its slow descent into the sea and sits upon a new system of stilts, putting it at the same altitude as Denver. Parts of California fall into the Pacific Ocean once per year, as decided by popular vote among the other 49 states. There have probably been no alien attacks, but don’t hold us to that.

The page-turner, the blockbuster, the serial drama that sends us diving for the DVR — they sink their hooks into our fleshiest bits, and keep piercing until they hit daylight on the other side. Having witnessed my Dad get a fishing lure caught in his hand once, I can say with authority that those hooks don’t come out easily, no sir.

What is it about pop-fiction that draws us in? Clearly there’s no proven formula, given how much utter crap litters the landscape. However, one particular tactic that seems to help is the “Wait, is that real?” factor. If the audience thinks there might be a sprinkling of truth in the premise, the hooks will often sink just a little bit deeper. Nobody did this better than Michael Crichton — I didn’t actually realize “The Andromeda Strain” was a novel until about a quarter of the way through. “The Blair Witch Project” pulled millions into the theater by passing itself off as real. Sprinkle in just enough facts, and you’ve got ‘em. It’s a trick that’s earned Dan Brown more money than General Motors.

I bring this up because nature just bounced Hollywood an easy layup. The deepest lake in the world has sprouted mysterious ice circles, that no one noticed until the International Space Station flew overhead. The lake in question is Lake Baikal, and its resume is tailor-made for the setting of pop-fiction’s next blockbuster.

• It’s the deepest lake in the world, reaching more than a mile into the Earth.
• It’s also the largest freshwater lake by volume.
• It’s in Siberia, a foreboding and distant land.
• It’s near Irkutsk, which is one of the regions on a “Risk” game board, so hey, bonus there.
• To top it off, it’s among the oldest lakes anywhere, with waters that have been churning for 25 million years.

Into this setting comes a pair of unexplained circles melting through the lake’s surface. Oh sure, there’s more than likely a logical, fascinating explanation for the phenomena. But until geologists figure it out, this is prime real estate. Hollywood, I’ll give you five ways to use it. Let me know where to pick up my check.

One) The circles are the final warning of an invasion. Aliens have been hiding in Lake Baikal ever since the Tunguska event of 1908, a massive meteoric explosion that occurred not far to the north. A cagey scientist who’s separated from his wife is the first to figure it out, and has to argue his way up the chain of command. No one in the military believes him except a reckless fighter pilot and a sexy cryptographer/hacker. Together they discover the aliens’ master plot, but not before the aliens burst from below the ice and begin the invasion. The cagey scientist reconciles with his estranged wife before sacrificing himself to save the day. The pilot and the hacker, presumed dead, ride a snowmobile off into the sunset, to start a new life together.

Two) The circles are a sign that something has gone terribly wrong within the Earth’s core. The military’s top unit investigates the lake, only to be wiped out by a torrent of lava. To get the job done, they need the best of the best. They seek out a cagey scientist who’s separated from his wife, and tell him to put together a team of misfits to travel through the lake’s floor and save the planet. The team includes an awkward nerd, a crazy Australian, a grizzled old drunk, a brunette bombshell who can fix any engine, a zen-like martial arts master, a Hispanic demolitions expert from the Bronx, his younger brother, and the cagey scientist’s dog. The Australian banters with the martial-arts guy, the drunk kicks booze, the nerd gets the brunette, one of the brothers dies, the scientist reconciles with his estranged wife before sacrificing himself to save the day. Not so much as a hair on the dog’s head is harmed.

Three) The circles are a nexus of paranormal activity. At the intersection of coincidence and fate, a group of strangers with diverse backgrounds encounter one another on the shores of the lake. They must rely on one another to survive, but don’t know who to trust. Alliances form and are shattered. Each week, another piece of the puzzle falls into place … what are the circles? Who is controlling them? Why can they hear the thoughts of an expedition that perished there in the 1850s? And above all, who is “The Czarina?” The more we learn of these characters, the more they become blurry shades of gray on the black and white scale of morality. Also, one of them stutters.

Four) The circles are hidden by a secret order of knights. A young girl from a broken home discovers that she is one of them, and must leave her life behind to train in their mystic ways. The circles must be protected from the evil intentions of the Red Mark, a faction of deadly assassins that splintered off from the knights hundreds of years ago. The girl is gifted, but repeatedly defies the elders by using modern technology to help solve mysteries. Each book takes her to a different locale, where other ice circles are forming. Africa, South America, London, Berlin, Tokyo — she travels the world, but inside she is still the girl from the broken home. The series is pre-planned at eight books; the sixth one turns out way too long.

Five) The circles are opposite ends of a powerful battle ground. Their appearance heralds the emergence of an ancient race of super-beings. Robots, or sentient dinosaurs, or maybe animal-people that ride futuristic airbikes. Something collectible, which may or may not be tied to an established franchise cherished by Gen Xers in their youth. The super-beings have good guys and bad guys, who must fight. The bad guys seek only chaos and destruction, while the good guys have the help of four ethnically mixed children who are best friends. The military is powerless to intervene. One of the friends betrays them because the bad guys have promised him glory, but in the end he does the right thing. For some reason the lake is in America and everyone involved is American, even though the fate of the entire world is in the balance.

After that, jack shit happened until the 1950s.

By then, someone had the good sense to start spelling it Dounreay, which is closer to a language pronounceable by humans. Its geographical isolation made it the perfect place for every first world government’s favorite 1950s pet project — an experimental nuclear reactor. Thus was born the Dounreay Nuclear Power Development Establishment, which opened its doors in 1955. For almost forty years, the reactor went about the business of nuclear fission, contentedly frying up uranium as if it were scallops wrapped in bacon.

The United Kingdom Atomic Energy Authority shut down the Dounreay reactor in 1994. Scots everywhere rejoiced, Scottish national pride swelled, “Braveheart” went into production. There was one tiny little problem. You’re never going to believe this, but four decades of nuclear power generation at a prototype facility had created a bit of a mess. Enough of a mess, in fact, that the demolition of the reactor was too dangerous to be done by ordinary workers. But let it never be said that the United Kingdom Atomic Energy Authority leaves a job undone. No sir.

So they made the only logical choice. They said, “Screw it, let’s build a huge robot to destroy the reactor.”

The robot will take several years to build. It will weigh 75 metric tonnes. Its arms will be over 50 feet long, equipped with diamond-studded blades, hydraulic shears, and plasma cutters. It will be so audacious, so terrifying, so completely off-the-charts awesome that its designers are giving it a worthy name. They have dubbed it Reactorsaurus. No, seriously.

Normally I counsel caution in these scenarios, and we shouldn’t rule out the possibility that we will one day look out over the ruins of Edinburgh and think, “Okay, maybe not so much with the 75-tonne helldroid.” But even I have to admit, this right here is ballsy. This is Science-with-a-capital-S, the kind of Science that gets shit done and gets guys laid.

Here’s the thing.

All this effort, planning, and expense are for a robot that has one task. Dounreay is Reactorsaurus’ lone gig, after which it will be on the dole. Isn’t that sort of a waste? Bear in mind that the job is slated to run from 2013 to 2025 at a cost of £2.5 billion, which in US dollars is more money than even exists anymore. Plus, government-built robots designed from scratch to deconstruct a 40-year-old nuclear reactor do not exactly scream “on time and under budget.”

After all that, are we really going to pull the plug and stick it in the closet? Surely we can think of something else it can do. Besides, they say idle hands are the devil’s playthings — well, these hands will be the size of SUVs and spew arcs of plasma. A little bit of forethought may stave off our destruction. We have just under 5,800 days, according to the handy “foreverometer” on the project’s site. Best get to it.

Seven possible uses for post-retirement Reactorsaurus, with Probable Success Rating (PSR) on a 10.0 scale

• Have it eat through the Earth, digging a straight path from London to Tokyo.
Drastically reduces travel times, as planes can now fly through tunnel (PSR=3.5)

• Have it level the tumbleweed-strewn remains of Detroit circa 2025.
The twelve remaining residents can be named caretakers of the new Detroit National Park (PSR=5.1)

• Feed it all the nuclear waste that had been slated for the Yucca Mountain repository.
Cover the waste in chocolate if necessary (PSR=0.4)

• Re-build it as 100 smaller Reactorsauruses to deploy around the world.
Wait, should I be making the obligatory dead-language pluralization joke here? Fine: “Or is it Reactorsauri?” (PSR=6.2)

• Let the UK use it to re-establish themselves as the one true global superpower.
They gave us The Beatles, we owe them a solid (PSR=7.7)

• Give it a contract with the New York Mets.
It’ll fall apart on its own and all we’ll need to do is pick up the pieces (PSR=8.3)

• Oh hell, just give it artificial intelligence and see what happens.
Reactorsaurus is gentle and would never harm us (PSR=15.9)