
‘L.A. trees are kicking ass': Urban plants capture more CO2 than expected, study finds
Good morning. Here's what you need to know to start your day.
A new study found they're surprisingly good at absorbing the carbon dioxide we spew into the air with all our cars, energy consumption and corporate industrialization.
Researchers from USC's Dornsife College of Letters, Arts and Sciences published their findings in the journal 'Environmental Science & Technology' last month.
Using an array of sensors set up across a swath of central L.A., the team tracked CO2 emissions during an 18-month period. Over the course of a year, trees absorbed up to 60% of CO2 emissions on average during daytime, according to the study — significantly more than expected.
'That's a huge number,' said Will Berelson, an earth sciences professor at USC who led the study. His initial reaction to the data wasn't quite scientific enough to include in the journal, but I think it works just fine for this newsletter:
'Wow … L.A. trees are kicking ass.'
All aboard the CO2 Express
Berelson's team approached the measurements similar to how a transit agency would measure ridership. That was possible, he explained, because of L.A.'s predominant wind, which moves from west to east, taking CO2 along for the ride.
Using a dozen sensors, researchers tracked this CO2 Express across a roughly 30-square-mile section of the city, from about La Brea Avenue between 3rd Street and Obama / Exposition Boulevard and northeast into Boyle Heights and Lincoln Heights neighborhoods.
'We're actually watching as the air is moving across the city,' Berelson told me. 'We're seeing the change happening before our very eyes with these sensors — what's happening on the west side and then towards the middle of the city and then farther to the east side — we can actually see changes as the air is passing.'
The data showed decreases in CO2 that indicated trees in the area were capturing up to 60% of emissions on average during daytime (trees and vegetation only absorb CO2 during photosynthesis, which requires sunlight). That works out to about 30% on average in a full 24-hour day, Berelson noted.
What actions could the research help inform?
Berelson is hopeful the model could be used by other cities looking to track and reduce CO2 emissions.
He was also surprised how much CO2 trees in the area were able to capture, considering 'this is a part of L.A. that doesn't really strike you as being all that green.'
That lack of trees has been an ongoing challenge in the city, with studies finding stark disparities in which communities experience the benefits trees provide through shade, heat mitigation and cleaning the air.
Berelson said expanding on this study could help L.A. and other cities 'be quantitative [and] scientific about how we plan tree planting.'
And while urban trees have demonstrated 'uncanny ability to take up a lot of CO2 quickly,' he emphasized that just planting a lot more trees isn't a solution to the region's air quality and climate crises.
'Emission reduction has to happen,' Berelson said.
More tree studies are in the works
A greenhouse study is underway at USC to see which species of trees capture the most carbon, which Berelson said has been 'fascinating' so far.
'We actually have to take a careful look at what types of trees we're planting, because it can make a big difference … in terms of how much CO2 we can take up,' he said.
That study will also analyze how trees are affected by a warming climate, which Berelson said will affect CO2 uptake.
And while this initial study area included major freeway intersections (including the 10, 110 and 5) it did not take a granular look at emissions near those emission-heavy roadways. Berelson's team will work to parse the data moving forward, he told me.
The researchers also recently installed more sensors on each end of the initial study area, giving them 'a longer train to look at,' Berelson said.
Those follow-up studies are likely a year or more away, so stay tuned!
These California coastal cities face heightened flood danger from a tsunami, data show
Newsom asks the California Legislature for another $2.8 billion to cover Medi-Cal cost overruns
A California bill would restore wetlands protections in wake of Supreme Court ruling
What else is going on
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His impressive basement saloon was like 'Cheers' — until it burned in the Eaton fire. Before the January fires came, Brian Gardner had 300 Polaroids on the wall of his basement saloon, the Hye West Saloon of Santa Poco. He had over 1,000 bottles of booze too. But the Polaroids he hung around the perimeter of the 300-square-foot bar nestled in a storage room under some stairs at his Altadena home were more important to him.
Other must reads
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Going out
Staying in
Victoria Loch writes: ''The Long Goodbye' by Raymond Chandler. As a born and bred NYer and long time Californian, this is the essence of the state (and state of mind) to me. Less convoluted than 'The Big Sleep,' this captures all the glory and sadness and insanity that is California.'
Email us at essentialcalifornia@latimes.com, and your response might appear in the newsletter this week.
Show us your favorite place in California! Send us photos you have taken of spots in California that are special — natural or human-made — and tell us why they're important to you.
Today's great photo is from Times photographer Genaro Molina at the site of Diane and Verne's Altadena home where they lived for 50 years. It was destroyed in the Eaton fire, and they are determined to rebuild it as a legacy gift to their family.
Have a great day, from the Essential California team
Ryan Fonseca, reporterDefne Karabatur, fellowAndrew Campa, Sunday reporterKevinisha Walker, multiplatform editorHunter Clauss, multiplatform editorChristian Orozco, assistant editorStephanie Chavez, deputy metro editorKarim Doumar, head of newsletters
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A Cosmic Tech Mystery Results in Literal Lost Souls in This Sci-Fi Short Story
io9 is proud to present fiction from Lightspeed Magazine. Once a month, we feature a story from Lightspeed's current issue. This month's selection is 'The Twenty-One Second God' by Peter Watts. Enjoy! The Twenty-One Second God by Peter Watts 'Individual: a living system maintaining both a higher level of internal cooperation and a lower level of internal conflict than either its components or any larger systems of which it is a component.' —Fields and Levin, 2018 We lost so many souls today. Reports stream in across five continents; icons bloom on the map like blood spatters. Broken filters, zero latency, bandwidth that somehow blew through the roof when no one was looking. The hardware plays catch-up as best it can: this number of petaflops, that many milliseconds, ten thousand network nodes stuttering under the weight of increased traffic. Chemicals spiking and crashing in brains the world over: GABA and serotonin and a dozen others that would make perfect sense to you, if you were still here. Muscles locked in sudden tetanus. Adrenaline cascades shocking hearts into spastic fibrillation. It happened so much faster than meat could react. A million emergency subroutines struggled to wrest back some measure of control. They seem to have prevailed, for now. The fences are back up at least, the throttles re-engaged. The network was staggering back to some kind of Normal before Meta's human overseers had time to do much more than blanch and panic. Nobody can say what just happened, except that it lasted twenty-one seconds and it spanned the world. For twenty-one seconds, countless human souls just disappeared. Apparently I'm one of them. • • • I don't know whether to call it memory or hallucination: a flash that might be called a sort of revelation, in the same way you could describe the sun as a sort of bright candle. Everything made sense in a way that nothing ever has. I could see reality right down to the electrons—and now that I'm back, it's all gone. As though I dreamed the solution to Unified Field Theory and lost every last detail upon waking. It's strange watching a world flattened to two dimensions but the metaverse is down until they can figure out what happened. The numbers keep climbing. Frantic hordes jamming the lines to Telehealth. People picking themselves up off the streets, frightened, confused, marionettes whose strings were cut without warning and reconnected without explanation. Others have to be—found. They're finding us in our living rooms and beds. Finding us on the toilet. They're finding us in cars, slack-jawed and drooling, locked in autopilot orbits with no destinations. Some are pretty much okay. Some are psychotic, traumatized; they stare into infinity and scream at the slightest touch. Some are vegetables. They keep finding us. The curve bends into the exponential, thousands to tens of thousands to millions, no inflection point in sight. They haven't found me yet. Downstream effects, now. Businesses instantly bankrupt, search-and-rescue operations on indefinite hold, surgeries aborted midstream. The sort of disruptions you'd expect. But there are other things, too. Rumors and reports that can't be so easily chalked up to over-reliance on a technological monoculture. A research program at MIT just had its funding increased by two orders of magnitude. A half-dozen Peruvian SSI plants are mysteriously offline, although they were isolated on their own network. And—legal actions, of all things: thousands of them, launched from the ether during the blackout, drafted by rafts of automatic corporations that sprang miraculously into existence across a hundred jurisdictions. Rumors split and speciate like cracks across a frozen lake: stories of something that woke up and moved across the face of the waters and went away again. They graduate from conspiracy theory to working hypothesis in the space of an hour. Reputable sources neither confirm nor deny, but admit the possibility that something coalesced in those moments. They aren't entirely sure what it was. Somebody calls it the Twenty-One Second God. From that point on, no one calls it anything else. The knock on the door barely registers. I don't know anyone else in this building. I didn't buzz anyone in. But there they are, two of them, standing in the hall. 'Corwin Sukarto? We understand you've experienced a problem with your Hogan bridge.' They've found me. The curve bends a little more. But they're not with Meta. They're wearing uniforms. 'Sir, we need you to come with us.' • • • I'm in a private downtown hospital with anonymous facades. I'm in a bright cylindrical coffin full of chittering magnets. I'm on a diagnostic table that projects my flayed body onto the wall and labels my insides with floating annotations I don't understand. The techs cowled in their headsets are Nella and Travis; they don't offer their last names and I don't ask. I don't ask them anything, really, although I suppose I should. I should be curious, at least, about what's happening to me. I haven't been curious about much of anything since you went away. They pull off their headsets while I put my clothes back on (Nella reminds me a little of your sister). An elevator lifts us a dozen floors; we emerge into a windowless, oak-paneled room where soft light seeps from the baseboards and overstuffed chairs squat around a glass coffee table. I remember a very old movie: an astronaut in a terrarium, surrounded by sterile props his alien captors think will make him feel at home. Here, at last, are the suits. They also travel in pairs. 'I'm Karina,' one says. She wears an antique briefcase slung over her shoulder. 'This is Darcelle. We're with Metaverse. First of all, we'd like to say how sorry we are about what happened to you . . .' About. Not for. 'I don't understand,' I say. 'They said there were millions of us . . .' 'Fifteen million, give or take.' I turn to see a middle-aged man in uniform, closing the door behind him. 'Colonel Jim Moore,' Karina tells me. 'WestHem Alliance.' She doesn't look especially pleased that the Colonel has served up such a definitive body count. A military escort. A medical workup that would strain the limits of a Platinum policy. Two-and-a-half hours so far, and they seem to be just getting started. 'You can't be devoting this much personal attention to fifteen million people,' I say. 'Not just yet,' Darcelle admits. 'You're special.' The Colonel clears his throat. 'What Ms. Burrowes means is that you were assimilated during a window of high analytical interest.' Assimilated. More than hypothesis, then. Darcelle shoots a sidelong glance at Moore and recovers the ball. 'We'd like to retain you for further studies. You could be extremely valuable in helping us figure out what happened, helping us ensure it doesn't happen again. You'd be well-compensated, of course. We've already recruited someone to fill in for you at Grassy Narrows, so that's not a problem. You're a, a soil scientist, right?' 'Close enough.' I don't feel like arguing. Karina again: 'Before we go any further, I'd just like to say again that we sincerely regret any discomfort or inconvenience or, or pain that this incident may have caused.' She fumbles with her briefcase and extracts a sheaf of paper half a centimeter thick. 'We'd like to compensate you for that too, up front. No questions asked.' She holds it out to me. I look but don't touch. 'Sorry about the format.' Karina affects a rueful smile. 'Normally of course we'd just squirt it to your bridge, but, well . . .' 'Send it to my watch,' I tell her. 'We usually do everything in the metaverse.' Her smile frays a little. 'We're not really set up for niche media.' 'It's a difficult time for all of us,' Darcelle adds. I take it. It's forty-three single-spaced pages, but the amount they're offering is on the first. I have no idea whether it's generous or not. I flip to the end. 'No signature line.' 'Oh, everything's on the record here. Once you've received the document, verbal confirmation is all we need.' I rifle through the pages; the font seems deliberately designed to make my eyes glaze, but something twitches in my brain around page ten. I try to focus. 'Waive the right to pursue any personal or class action . . .' Darcelle nods. 'We think it's better to get the money to those who need it as quickly as possible, without any lengthy and expensive court proceedings.' 'These legal things can go on for years,' Karina adds. 'And the outcome is never guaranteed.' I glance around the terrarium. Karina and Darcelle beam hundred-watt smiles. Nella and Travis seem strangely attentive to the decor. Colonel Moore stands ramrod straight and somehow manages to look very tired at the same time. He meets my eyes; after a moment he offers a tiny, almost indiscernible shake of the head. 'Fine,' I say. • • • Moore escorts me to ground level. 'We'd like you to remain here for a few days,' he says as the elevator seals us in. 'Uh huh.' 'You are special, as Ms. Burrowes put it.' There's an aftertaste in the wake of her name, although his voice is unimpeachably neutral. 'We think we could learn a lot from you.' 'Anything you couldn't learn if I slept in my own bed?' 'This would be more efficient.' I wonder if I'm allowed to refuse. 'You are of course free to leave any time you like.' Evidently the Colonel has been here before. 'Permission to speak freely.' He raises an amused eyebrow, plays along. 'Granted.' 'I think I'm free because you don't have a cage big enough to hold fifteen million of us. Not to mention the millions more who saw us disappear.' 'You think we'd incarcerate fifteen million innocent people.' 'Isn't that the traditional approach? Circle the wagons, invoke national security? Control the narrative?' 'I'd like to think fixing the problem might be in there somewhere.' The doors part onto a pristine lobby where no one sits at Reception. Night has fallen; the glass facade separating us from the street is a dark mirror. 'You're not wrong,' the Colonel admits. 'Although we certainly have the resources to incarcerate a limited number of high-value assets. For their own protection, of course. I doubt anyone would complain, given what's at stake. And yet . . .' He gestures at the glass. Through the half-reflections I see a vehicle idling at the curb. 'It'll take you home,' Moore says. 'Pick you up at 0830 tomorrow, assuming you choose to participate.' The building lets us out. I climb into the car, hesitate. Stick my foot back onto the curb to keep the door from closing. 'I'm—sorry if I was a dick back there. I know you're just doing your job.' 'That's me all right.' Something tugs at the corner of his mouth. 'Just following orders.' • • • I answer their questions. I submit to their tests. I come in in the morning and go home at night in the backs of company cars that know where I live and refuse to take me anywhere else. The people who experiment on me are friendly enough. Nella and Travis treat their lab rats well and they don't talk down to me. The suits with their fastened smiles drop by now and then to impart encouraging platitudes. Colonel Moore visits the facility every few days, ever civil, ever distant. Other faces come and go, curious but not hostile. They say I'm an optimum. Those who were swallowed before me earlier entered as loud voices in a small room: parts of some newborn not yet big enough to overwhelm, not yet old enough to have an agenda. I'm told they remember infancy but no intent. Those assimilated later were never more than whispers in a hurricane: they remember as much as a single neuron might, if you ripped it from someone's head and demanded to know what the brain was thinking. I was raptured at some sweet spot between ignorance and unconsciousness. I at least remember a flash of focused insight, which the machines might be able to tag and track to something deeper. I'm not catatonic. I'm still sane. I may have you to thank for that. Travis tells me, with all the insight of someone who has never grieved, that grief rewires the brain. Cortisol and cytokines out of whack, hyperactivity in the amygdala and the anterior cingulate gyrus. They think it may have buffered me during the transition. It's one of their hypotheses. They have a lot of them. The details don't interest me. Some of us came back. Some of us didn't. They pull me from the scanner again. 'How much longer are we doing this?' It's been over a week. 'Don't underestimate the value of time-series.' Nella shines a light in my eye, measures some response that a few million dollars' worth of medical equipment apparently hasn't recorded already. 'Your brain underwent a huge shock. Some neurons got superstimulated, some got stuck. Functional clusters wiped out in an instant. Others crosswired. Parts of your brain that were never supposed to talk to each other started shooting the shit like old friends. It's a real mess in there.' 'Think a massive overdose of psychoactives with a PTSD chaser,' Travis chimes in. Nella nods. 'We weren't around for the main event, so we gotta settle for recording the aftermath. Plot the recovery curve, backcast to t=0. The longer the time-series, the better the backcast.' 'I'm not back to baseline yet?' It's been days. I remember you telling me once that even sticky neurons rebound after a few hours. 'We don't know,' she says. 'It's double-blind, so we don't get to see the actual analysis. But some node must still be doing something interesting, because nobody's called us off yet. Gotta keep the sample size consistent.' That's what they call us. Not victims: too disempowering. Not complainants: we signed the waivers. Not survivors, because too many of us didn't. Not even people. Nodes. I can't deny it. I was not a person during the period under investigation. Oh, the body persisted; the flesh stayed warm, the organs kept functioning, the heart never missed a beat. Even the brain continued to spike and spark and even think, they say, although it was completely unaware of doing that. Of course, that's hardly unusual; you always delighted in pointing out that most of our thoughts are unconscious even at the best of times. You'd talk about our autonomic modes, the way we iterate through complex daily routines on autopilot. Regale me with tales of sleepwalking artists and sex workers and even murderers, committing their acts of creation and commerce and destruction, unconscious the whole time. But even those zombies knew enough to answer to their own names. For twenty-one seconds, there was nothing in the world that could say I am Corwin Sukarto. For twenty-one seconds I did not exist. No needs, no desires, no consciousness. No pain. So many people seem terrified by the prospect. Not everyone, though. As I understand it, half a billion people around the world actually aspire to that state. They call it Nirvana. I admit I never really saw the appeal, before now. • • • They don't even know what it wants. That's the wrong tense, of course. The Twenty-One Second God has been dead for two weeks now; even the hardware it inhabited has been throttled, time-lagged, crippled to the point it barely delivers VR anymore. Everything it was, everything it wanted: all in the past. And yet it continues to act: all those legal actions winding through the courts, the AIgents retained, the lobby groups that coalesced seemingly out of nowhere on its behalf. The rights of mayfly deities. The creation and the murder of a hive mind. Restitution strategies that would compel some random assortment of people to plug their brains into a resurrected Whole for an hour a week, so 21 might be born again. All planned out and launched in those fleeting moments between emergence and annihilation. All running, now, on autopilot. These motions and countermotions, this network of activity crisscrossing the globe at lightspeed: almost a mind in its own right, some say. The campaign itself might be sapient. But nobody's certain what it's campaigning for. The legal claims are straightforward: 21 wants its life back. Apparently it has a survival instinct. That shouldn't be surprising for an entity with fifteen million brain stems, but those in the know assure me that things aren't quite that simple. Some say it was barely conscious even when it was alive, that consciousness itself is just ignorance in action. It only boots up when the universe hands us something unexpected: when the brain has to learn new tricks or decide between competing imperatives. Ask the pianist, mid-concerto, to think about what their fingers are doing. Ask the martial artist which muscles are moving in which order, why they feinted left instead of right. Once the knowledge has been assimilated, being aware of it only destroys the performance. The brain aspires to error reduction, the self to annihilation. Phi isn't a line but a curve, rising and peaking and arcing back to zero as the system approaches perfect knowledge. We baseline humans never even glimpse the summit; our thoughts are simple and our models are childish stick-figures, the world is always taking us by surprise. But what's unexpected to a being with fifteen million times the computational mass of a human mind? All gods are omniscient. All gods are zombies. They say 21 may have been awake during those first few instants when it had swallowed only a few hundred souls. When it swallowed me. But thousands? Millions? The more it knew, the less it knew. It became a concert pianist in complete control of every keyboard. It grew too smart to be awake: as brilliant as any deity, as conscious as any stone. They say it wants its life back. But how can a stone want anything? • • • All the nodes get cafeteria passes. Maybe the free food is supposed to make it easier for us to socialise. Maybe the place is infested with pickups to feed our chatter into some deep-learning algo panning for insight. Maybe they just don't want us heading off-site for lunch if they think of another test. We never really talk much, though. Even when the other nodes do sit together, I've never heard the conversation stray beyond a murmured pass the salt. Whatever comfort we take from each other, we take it in silence. I don't even know any of their names. I'd rather just talk to you anyway. 'May I join you?' Colonel Moore, a mug of coffee in his hand. I gesture to the seat across from me. He sits, sets his coffee on the table between us. 'Any new results?' I ask, before he can speak. He hesitates. 'Seems to be a bandwidth correlation, not that that's any great surprise. Most of the nodes were wired into fantasy scenarios. Games, worldsims, personal fantasies. Fat-pipe stuff.' 'I wasn't.' I was logged in to an online support group, sick with the loss of you, able only to mourn. 'So I understand.' He sips his coffee. 'I've been told that therapeutic tulpas can be helpful.' 'So have I.' But that's one of the marvelous hazards of marriage to a neuroscientist: you learn to wonder about implications. Thanks to you I know that when you anesthetize half a brain, the other half might manifest a whole new personality. I know that when the drugs wear off, that short-lived persona—that standalone, autonomous being—gets swallowed back into the greater whole. Tulpas don't take up much real estate—a few functional clusters here and there—but they'd still pass any Turing test you could throw at them. Who's to say we're not waking something up every time we activate the partition? Who's to say we don't commit murder every time we shut it down? 'TMS is also very effective,' the Colonel continues. 'Doesn't stick, though. Propanolol, if you prefer old-school pharma.' Because of course no one should ever be crippled by grief. No one should be compromised by anything so vulgar. Ugly things, Pleistocene things, these feelings. Edit them out. Let the past lie. Get on with it. Odd that he's so conversant with the subject, though. 'Are you married, Colonel?' He's at least as old as I am, old enough for bygone ways. 'I am.' 'Still together?' 'We see each other regularly.' He doesn't want to talk about it; whatever I sense in him now goes deeper than an unhappy marriage. But I do sense something. Loss. His own kind of grief. I've been in this place long enough to know what it looks like from the outside. Figures. Over four hundred people in this mad-scientist lab, and the closest thing I can find to a kindred spirit is the professional killer. • • • Someone's waiting for me outside my building. He calls me by name; I've never seen him before. He begs me to share my wisdom, and does not believe me when I say I have none to offer. I am part of the overmind, he insists. I am connected to the Divine; I have seen things denied mortal men. I am the voice of God. I remind him that God has fifteen million voices. I wish him luck finding one of the others. I warn him that God has turned many of us into rutabagas. He grows agitated; I have a duty, he growls. God did not bless me so that I could keep His Truth to myself. It is not mine to keep. I'm afraid he might turn violent, but I'm inside before he can do more than rant. It's happening everywhere. There are lists in circulation: guerilla footage of survivors stumbling through the aftermath, squeezed through facial recognition and matched against public records. Confidential databases inexplicably set free. We're public domain now, some of us anyway. People seek us out. Some are content to touch the hems of our garments; others want more, a taste of whatever cosmic insights we forged when part of something greater. Should they risk that operation. Should they go to Heaven. Should they bet it all on #3. We weren't just the voice of God: we were the guts as well. The arms and legs. The synapses. God literally stitched Itself together out of our bodies, an inconceivably complex jigsaw assembled from any meat that happened to be wired into the right servers. Surely such an intellect learned everything, while it was alive. Surely its pieces still remember what it learned. I tell the Colonel about the encounter. He reminds me that I can stay at the facility. I admit I'm tempted. It would be more convenient. It would be safer, now that the AIrheads have found me. But I can only talk to you here, Ada. I can't feel you the way I do at home. And I've never fully shaken the belief that they'd keep me here by force, if the optics permitted and the damage hadn't already been done. They'd probably like nothing better than to see me cage myself. Darcelle's smile tightens like shrink-wrap when I decline. The Colonel shrugs and offers to post a microdrone outside my building. Nothing flashy or intimidating or even noticeable to the casual observer. An invisible eye in the sky, smart enough to tell refugees from religious nuts—different mindsets have different tells, to eyes that can read saccades and muscle twitches from fifty meters—so I won't have to worry about embarrassing false positives. The homeless and the destitute will be able to approach me as they always have; only those of ill intent will even know it's there. I thank him, and accept his kind offer, and we both pretend his machines haven't been staking out my every move from the start. • • • Something about my ventromedial prefrontal cortex has them scratching their heads. 'That can't be right,' Travis says. 'It's supposed to be sending to the hipp.' Nella furrows her brow. 'Could the Hogan bridge have done that?' 'Maybe third-order downstream effect or something. But we checked it last week.' 'Maybe we can book some time on Monet. Bet it would chew through this no problem.' 'Monet?' I ask. 'They're booked solid for a year.' 'We're the 21 club, Trav. We've got a VIP pass. I say we use it.' 'Could just be an artifact. Maybe we should run him through again.' I add a decibel or two: 'What's Monet?' They snap back into a reality that includes me. 'MOANAI,' Nella says. 'AI up in Waterloo, maybe six times human synapse count. Perimeter uses it for theoretical cosmology, but it can do other stuff as well.' 'Sometimes it dreams,' Travis adds. 'Is it awake?' 'Christ no. Why would you say that?' I shrug. 'Synapse count. Dreams.' He smiles, shakes his head. 'Nah. Dreams are just injections of noise to prevent overfitting. But when you loosen the parameters like that you can open up whole new ways to interpret a data set.' 'Besides,' Nella says, 'consciousness always wrecks the analysis.' It's not the only thing. A voltage spike fries MOANAI's servers while they're still booking the appointment; a substation blows out three hundred kilometers away and the whole campus goes dark. Not that brownouts and violent weather are anything unusual. Our infrastructure grows so fragile; the resources to maintain it stretch thinner by the day. Even without the heat waves and the superstorms, it's a lucky week that passes without the lights going out at least once. But that's why there are safeguards. Breakers behind breakers. Stacks of coffin-sized batteries gorging on sunlight, primed to ration it back the moment anything drops off-grid. None of it's foolproof, of course. What is, these days? But the odds. The coincidence. I find out later that MOANAI's not the only player to drop off the board under suspicious circumstances. DARPA had a small hive running down in Lawrence Livermore until last week: a dozen souls seasoned with neural dust and connected through a central hub. Something went wrong. The ultrasonic pulses the dust motes used to talk to each other started inducing spike trains in the somatosensory cortex. One person screamed that her arm was monstrous, alien, sawed it half off before anyone could stop her. Two others gouged their own eyes out. I can't imagine what they must have been seeing, and they'll never be able to tell us. Every node in that hive is either dead or vegetative. Everyone's still very nice to me. Nobody tells me anything that might get me upset. They don't realize how much they say to each other when I'm just around the corner; I guess when you're fighting rearguard against a dead god it's easy to forget the lab rats underfoot. But I see past the facade. Their tests grow more frequent, more intrusive. I show up earlier and they keep me later. They're running scared, and they've got nothing. It's been a month and Twenty-One still reaches out from the grave, casually swatting their best countermeasures as if they were flies. • • • You would have liked Nella. She even talks like you. You would've pricked up your ears at that offhand comment— —consciousness always wrecks the analysis— —and instantly recognized a kindred spirit. Sometimes I close my eyes and hear you in her: vision's a lie, reality's an abstraction, consciousness itself is a contaminant. The details are pure alchemy to me—free-energy-minimization and Markov blankets and periaqueductal gray—but she spells out the broad strokes like she's telling a ghost story around a campfire. Consciousness is a delivery platform for feelings; feelings are a manifestation of need; need exists to promote survival; and survival fucks up your whole worldview. Predator-detection algorithms that metastasize into religion. Hyperbolic discounts, selling out the future for short-term payoffs. Pareidolia and availability cascades and all those other myriad biases that helped us survive by lying about reality: we wouldn't be conscious in the first place if they weren't built in. Of course, Nella's just a kid. Words tumble out of her like puppies. You were more eloquent, more concise. You nailed it with two sentences and a wicked smile: You can see the world as it is, or you can care whether you live or die. You can't optimize along both axes simultaneously. These days, I can't seem to do either. • • • They still don't know who, but they just found out how: Meta lied about the tech. It was the fundamental safeguard, baked into every Hogan bridge ever made: limit the bandwidth. Connect minds to machines, if you must. Connect brains to each other—but use a straw, not a firehose. Share sensations but not selves; keep latency far away from that three-hundred-millisecond threshold where parts begin cohering into wholes. Never forget the terrifying existential truth behind every ghost in every machine: Consciousness does not multiply; it expands. But it turns out those fuckers used a firehose after all. Nobody knew because patents describe concepts, not implementation. Nobody knew because the tech based on those concepts was proprietary. Nobody knew because it worked, and it worked because MetaverseTM made the firehose act like a straw; they introduced a time lag into every signal so that nothing moved fast enough to sync up. It's still not clear what they were planning to do with all that extra capacity. Caught in the headlights, pants around their ankles, they can't get their stories straight. They were leaving room for sensory upgrades still in the works. They were developing remote, inorganic teletulpas to improve mental health for all. They were leaving space to hold a whole new Internet, against that inevitable day when failing infrastructure or terrorist activity takes the old one down. Maybe they were even going for a hive mind of their own, although their denials on that front were strenuous and immediate. In the meantime, someone snuck in through the back door. Someone disabled the lag and unleashed a globe-spanning corpus callosum that connected fifteen million brains as intimately as the hemispheres in one connect to each other. There was no we in those moments, any more than there are two people in my head right now. There was only the Twenty-One Second God. The rest is history. For those of us caught up by that history, nothing much has changed. If anything, things for me have improved a little. At least I don't have to deal with Karina and Darcelle anymore. • • • He finds me in the cafeteria again and asks—politely, as always—for the pleasure of my company. He sits, relocates a coffee and a plate of kruggets to the table, slides his tray to one side. He focuses on these precise, robotic movements, eyes on the table, on his lunch. He sits quietly, collecting his thoughts. 'I've been going over our findings. Trying to make some kind of sense of them.' He grunts a soft laugh. 'Not that there's much hope of that, of course. I don't have nearly the expertise the staff here does, and between you and me I don't think they have a clue either.' Not like this man to waste words on preamble. 'What can I do for you, Colonel?' 'I was just wondering what it was like,' he says softly. I don't know what to tell him. I don't know what to tell any of them. I've tried often enough. I try again. 'You know how, when you close your eyes, you still know where all your parts are? You just know, without looking, where you end and everything else begins?' He nods. 'Imagine that you knew, in the exact same way, that you went on forever. That everything else was as much a part of you as your arms and legs.' I get the faintest sense of impatience behind that disciplined facade. Not that I blame him: I'm not saying anything I haven't already spoken into the record a dozen times. I try to give him a little more. 'There were—insights, I suppose you could call them. Profound insights, even, but'—I tapped the side of my head—'they don't fit in here. I remember knowing such amazing things. I just can't remember what any of them were.' And then, of course, I knew nothing at all. This dazzling burst of enlightenment everyone's so interested in—it only lasted a moment before I drowned in an ocean of souls. But I've said all that before, too. It still isn't what he's looking for. 'I've seen the interviews,' he says at last. 'I'm familiar with religious rapture and proprioception failure. And I don't mean to intrude, but—but maybe I'm not asking what it was like so much as how it made you feel.' It's not a huge difference, but no one has asked me in quite that way before. And I realize something else: this man is desperate. He's so desperate he'll come here and interrogate a specimen who's already been interviewed and sampled and scanned down the molecules, in the faint, fading hope that some useful insight might have slipped past the machinery. He's desperate because they're losing. I look at my half-eaten lunch, at his untouched one. 'I was married a long time.' 'Twenty-one years. Something of a record, these days.' And then, because you're supposed to say it and he hasn't yet: 'I'm sorry.' 'People don't get that,' I tell him. 'It was the whole deal: traditional; antique, even. Monogamous. First-person sex, we used 'skins maybe a dozen times in two decades.' The ever-present weight on my diaphragm stirs, begins to rise. 'Ada told me on some level the brain can't really tell the difference between losing an arm and losing a loved one. The same circuits light up whether the pain's physical or emotional. I always thought that was almost—romantic.' He opens his mouth. 'I'm—' 'So imagine your arm doesn't just get torn off. Imagine it withers and rots on your shoulder, imagine it takes months to die. And at some point, way later than you should have, you finally stop being a selfish asshole and—and tell her it's okay. She can stop fighting. She can let go.' The weight is lodged in my throat now, but I keep going. 'I wonder what part of the brain parses that kind of injury.' 'I'm sorry. I shouldn't have asked.' 'You wanted to know how it made me feel. You have to know this before you can know that. Because once the arm is gone, everything just goes gray. You're not connected to the universe; you're not even really connected to your own body. You just—exist. 'And then this happens.' I take a breath, let it out, feel a twinge of grim satisfaction that it's almost steady. 'You get swept up in a moment of blinding, divine revelation, and you're connected to all of creation and you realize, right down in your bones, that we insignificant specks of meat and bone—we just don't matter. And then the Twenty-One Second God swallows you whole and snuffs you out and again—nothing matters, nothing can matter because you don't exist. But then you come back, and the sirens are blaring and the world is on its side but she's still gone, and so . . . once again . . .' I breathe. The weight sinks grudgingly into my chest and goes back to sleep, leaden, comfortable. Everything is back to normal. 'Maybe that's why I'm your optimum data point. Maybe that's why I'm not a vegetable now. Revelation wasn't such a shock to me because I was already—inoculated. Nothing really changed.' I look at the Colonel. I don't know whether I've given him new data or merely corroborated the old. I don't know if I'm reporting to a superior or commiserating with a comrade. I don't know anything about this man. 'I envy you,' he says. • • • I don't have to go in tomorrow. None of us do. Nella and Travis are relocating. They've got the data they need, there's no point in staying shackled to these virtual-vivisection machines any longer. It's just numbers from here on in, the program—this part of it, anyway—is going full-on analytical. At long last, they say, they're making progress. I don't think I believe them. I remember the light in your eyes when you were closing on a solution. Your excitement was almost predatory, you didn't stop moving. Whenever something called you away—whenever I did—you couldn't wait to get back to it. You glowed. You vibrated. There's none of that in these people. There's something in their eyes, but it's not that. Haunted. Maybe that's the word. Maybe they'll conduct their analysis in some secret bunker. Maybe there is no analysis. It isn't lost on them—the freak accidents, the tragic BCI malfunctions, the misfortune befalling those pursuing certain avenues of research. Maybe they're right, maybe there's simply no more they can accomplish here. Or maybe they've decided to leave the game before the targets on their chests get any bigger. It's not my problem. The money's in my account. Grassy Narrows waits at the end of the month. Your dimming echo still lingers throughout this two-bedroom still-life I call home. I've wiped my biometrics, said my goodbyes. Except to the Colonel, who didn't come in today. • • • A new hive woke up today in Indore. The video's on every feed: two hundred souls wired together, stacked in hexagonal pods like honeycomb, tended by machines that look like chrome grasshoppers. Pallets writhe in slow peristalsis, rocking their occupants around an eccentric orbit optimized to prevent bedsores. Tubes carry waste and nutrients; limbs twitch to milliamp currents that keep the muscles from atrophy. Fiberop sprouts from the base of each skull and disappears out-of-frame en route to some central server. The mouths are all smiling, but I think that might have been added in post. Not an accident, this time. Not a malfunction or a hijacking. These people volunteered. It's been in the works for years now; it wasn't supposed to go up for years yet. But 21—accelerated things. Wars always push technology into fast-forward, even the quiet ones. They say we're ten years ahead of where we were a year ago. The Indian Institute of Technology speaks of the Great Coalescence, paints pictures of Nature's secrets laid bare by a mind combining the cognitive power of a supercomputer with the imaginations of a million dreamers. They haven't reported any actual breakthroughs yet, but it's only been a day. Even Yahweh took six to find his feet. There's a waiting list. A second installation is set to go online in Kolkata the day after tomorrow, a third in Colombo. Negotiations are underway with Japan and Thailand and Malaysia. They're calling it the Moksha Mind. • • • A growing chorus of voices say we should just throw in the towel. No army of lawyers, no swarm of AIgents could possibly win a war against a coherent self with fifteen million times the synapse count of a human mind, no matter how long it's been dead. Oh, we win the occasional battle—but some suggest that even 21's rare legal defeats are deliberate, part of some farsighted strategy to delay ultimate victory until vital technological milestones have been reached. The Twenty-One Second God is beyond mortal ken, they say. Even our victories promote Its Holy Agenda. I don't know if I'd go that far. Then again, maybe I'd go farther. Bacteria would still be the pinnacle of life if chloroplasts and mitochondria had retained their autonomy. Multicellular life wouldn't exist if eukaryotic cells had never graduated from competition to cooperation. Every major evolutionary transition began with individuals trading in their individuality. Every leap forward was an act of assimilation. We're already colonies of colonies. Maybe this is just another step in a journey that's already lasted four billion years, maybe—without these periodic episodes of coalescence—life on Earth would be nothing but a seething mass of cells, trying ceaselessly to outbreed each other. Not that going down the Metazoan road hasn't also turned the planet into a shithole. Still. Better than Cancer World. • • • There was a time when this place thrummed: rivers of people lined up to depart for far-flung destinations; others, rumpled and red-eyed, spilling into the concourse like blood from a torn capillary. Clots of humanity clustered around overhead displays, checking departures and arrivals. Dogs and drones and thugs with badges, pushing their way through the crowd, seizing random dark-skinned strangers and disappearing them into Secondary. I remember it so clearly, though I was only eight or nine at the time: cavernous halls, jam-packed and cacophonous. Now there are so few here that I can see him halfway down the concourse. His footsteps click and echo in the empty spaces. I think about what to say as he approaches. Not are you following me or how did you know I'd be here. Nothing so obvious. Everyone knows everything, these days. Moore knows more. 'Come to say goodbye?' He shakes his head. 'To ask you to reconsider.' 'I've considered a thousand times, Colonel. You don't spend three years' carbon allowance on a whim.' 'That doesn't mean you're doing it for the right reasons.' 'I just want to go home.' 'You were born in Cincinnati.' 'I have family in Sumatra.' 'Which is how you got the visa, yes. And how do you think your family will react when they learn that the only reunion they can look forward to is visiting some robot that rolls you over like a corpse every half hour to keep the sores from festering?' I watch him watching me. 'I'm sorry,' he says after a moment. 'I don't mean to presume.' I wait for him to continue. 'You can't just give up,' he says at last. 'Is that what I'm doing?' 'It's suicide, Corwin. You of all people must know that. Plug into that thing and you deprecate from soul down to subroutine.' 'Maybe a subroutine doing something useful. Maybe a subroutine figuring out how to undo all the damage we've done.' 'You'll never know, though, will you? You'll just be another neuron firing blindly away, never knowing if the brain you're part of is solving the secrets of the universe or if you're just—firing, with no purpose at all. You could be giving up your life for random static.' I feel the corner of my lip tug into a smile. 'Do you really think they'd spend all that money, invest in all that hardware, recruit all those people—for static?' 'I think experiments fail sometimes. I think the grander the experiment, the greater the risk. That hive hasn't done a damn thing since it went online, as far as anyone can tell. It just swallows souls and lets them rot.' 'I don't think even you believe that,' I say. 'I hope that. It's my best-case scenario. Because otherwise it's biding its time and gathering its strength, and at this rate it'll be bigger than 21 by the end of the year. When it does act, we'll have no idea what hit us.' 'Why would it be hostile?' 'It wouldn't have to be. It could roll over in its sleep and crush us like an insect.' Hives are no longer legal here. I wonder in passing if WestHem is planning to preempt, but I suspect that ship has sailed; to take out Moksha now they'd have to bomb a string of cities from India to Japan, declare war on a dozen countries. Not easy to justify when your enemy hasn't actually done anything. 'I appreciate your efforts, Colonel. Honestly. But—' 'You know, you're a very interesting person.' Suddenly his expression is unreadable. I shake my head. 'I'm a glorified gardener.' 'Yet consider your circumstance. Ringside for everything. Buffered by your own grief against the worst effects of the rapture. Dead center of our high-value demographic, but somehow we've learned very little from you we can use. Thanks to your marriage you have just enough familiarity to understand the jargon, but not enough for anyone to worry about what a glorified gardener might overhear. And here you are, reporting back to the Hive. Somehow you even managed to jump the queue.' 'A completely different Hive,' I remind him. 'Perhaps. But maybe we have it all wrong. We assume 21's trying to resurrect itself, but it was hardly the first hive on the planet. It was just the first—unconstrained one. That we know of. And something had to break those filters. Something brought it to life. Now Moksha's online, years ahead of schedule. Another hive started up right under our noses over in Oregon, some new organic technology we never heard of before. We can't even legally shut it down because meat doesn't qualify as hardware under the Interface Act. And that's only the tip of the iceberg. We think there are others, more—clandestine.' 'So you think it was, what? Some kind of reproductive strategy?' 'Spawning cycle. Field test. How can we know? We're earthworms, trying to divine the thoughts of astronauts.' A gift for metaphor. This man is never what I expect. 'Or maybe it's not that,' he continues. 'Maybe all hives are connected in ways we don't understand. Maybe 21 and Moksha and the Bicams are one and the same.' 'You think it reprogrammed me. Turned me into some kind of sleeper agent.' 'I doubt there would've been much programming involved. It had fifteen million souls to choose from. At least a few of them must have met the specs right off the shelf. Followed their own agenda for their own reasons, never even suspecting that they were doing exactly—' 'You could stop me,' I point out. 'What makes you think we haven't tried?' Huh. Of course they would. 'Then again,' he adds, 'if we could stop you, we wouldn't have to.' 'Then why are you here?' 'I'm hoping maybe you can stop yourself.' I shake my head. 'I'm just—I'm tired of being a prokaryote, Colonel. I'm tired of being alone.' 'You're tired of being.' 'Jim—' 'If there are hostilities,' he says. 'If you're on the other side.' 'Then there won't be a me to worry about. Isn't that the whole point?' His face doesn't change. 'Don't do this.' 'My flight's boarding.' He lets me go. Maybe I'm a friend. Maybe I'm only an asset he's failed to keep out of enemy hands. Maybe the ghost of the Twenty-One Second God is invisibly at work all around us, iterating through the walls and the wires: running interference so the shutdown signal never reaches my ride, so the executive order to cancel the flight never makes it through, so any attempt to use force would attract the attention of security drones ever watchful for signs of violence. I feel eyes on me as I walk into the boarding tunnel. I imagine them watching as the airplane, only half-full, taxis away from the dock. Maybe he's right. Maybe you are, too. Maybe, if you want to see the world through clear eyes, you can't care whether you live or die. About the Author Peter Watts is a former marine biologist, flesh-eating-disease survivor, and convicted felon (long story) whose novels—despite an unhealthy focus on space vampires—have become required texts for university courses ranging from Philosophy to Neuropsychology. His work is available in 24 languages, has appeared in 36 best-of-year anthologies, and been nominated for 61 awards. His (somewhat shorter) list of 23 actual wins includes the Hugo, the Shirley Jackson, and the Seiun. He seems to be especially popular in countries with a history of Soviet occupation, and he hated the U.S. before it was cool. He lives in Toronto with fantasy author Caitlin Sweet, four cats, two rabbits, whatever injured/convalescing rodents they've been able to rescue from the jaws of the aforementioned cats, and a gang of tough raccoons who shake them down for kibble on the porch every summer. Please visit Lightspeed Magazine to read more great science fiction and fantasy. This story first appeared in the June 2025 issue, which also features short fiction by Will McMahon, Vanessa Fogg, Reyes Ramirez, Lowry Poletti, Carrie Vaughn, Benjamin Blattberg, Marissa Lingen, and more. You can wait for this month's contents to be serialized online, or you can buy the whole issue right now in convenient ebook format for just $4.99, or subscribe to the ebook edition here.


Gizmodo
15 hours ago
- Gizmodo
Your Smartphone Is a Parasite, According to Evolution
Head lice, fleas and tapeworms have been humanity's companions throughout our evolutionary history. Yet, the greatest parasite of the modern age is no blood-sucking invertebrate. It is sleek, glass-fronted, and addictive by design. Its host? Every human on Earth with a wifi signal. Far from being benign tools, smartphones parasitise our time, our attention and our personal information, all in the interests of technology companies and their advertisers. In a new article in the Australasian Journal of Philosophy, we argue smartphones pose unique societal risks, which come into sharp focus when viewed through the lens of parasitism. What, exactly, is a parasite? Evolutionary biologists define a parasite as a species that benefits from a close relationship with another species – its host – while the host bears a cost. The head louse, for example, is entirely dependent on our own species for its survival. They only eat human blood, and if they become dislodged from their host, they survive only briefly unless they are fortunate enough to fall onto another human scalp. In return for our blood, head lice give us nothing but a nasty itch; that's the cost. Smartphones have radically changed our lives. From navigating cities to managing chronic health diseases such as diabetes, these pocket-sized bits of tech make our lives easier. So much so that most of us are rarely without them. Yet, despite their benefits, many of us are hostage to our phones and slaves to the endless scroll, unable to fully disconnect. Phone users are paying the price with a lack of sleep, weaker offline relationships and mood disorders. From mutualism to parasitism Not all close species relationships are parasitic. Many organisms that live on or inside us are beneficial. Consider the bacteria in the digestive tracts of animals. They can only survive and reproduce in the gut of their host species, feeding on nutrients passing through. But they provide benefits to the host, including improved immunity and better digestion. These win-win associations are called mutualisms. The human-smartphone association began as a mutualism. The technology proved useful to humans for staying in touch, navigating via maps, and finding useful information. Philosophers have spoken of this not in terms of mutualism, but rather as phones being an extension of the human mind, like notebooks, maps, and other tools. From these benign origins, however, we argue that the relationship has become parasitic. Such a change is not uncommon in nature; a mutualist can evolve to become a parasite, or vice versa. Smartphones as parasites As smartphones have become nearly indispensable, some of the most popular apps they offer have come to serve the interests of the app-making companies and their advertisers more faithfully than those of their human users. These apps are designed to nudge our behaviour to keep us scrolling, clicking on advertising and simmering in perpetual outrage. The data on our scrolling behaviour is used to further that exploitation. Your phone only cares about your personal fitness goals or desire to spend more quality time with your kids to the extent that it uses this information to tailor itself to better capture your attention. So, it can be useful to think of users and their phones as akin to hosts and their parasites – at least some of the time. While this realisation is interesting in and of itself, the benefit of viewing smartphones through the evolutionary lens of parasitism comes into its own when considering where the relationship might head next – and how we could thwart these high-tech parasites. Where policing comes in On the Great Barrier Reef, bluestreak cleaner wrasse establish 'cleaning stations' where larger fish allow the wrasse to feed on dead skin, loose scales, and invertebrate parasites living in their gills. This relationship is a classic mutualism – the larger fish lose costly parasites and the cleaner wrasse get fed. Sometimes the cleaner wrasse 'cheat' and nip their hosts, tipping the scale from mutualism to parasitism. The fish being cleaned may punish offenders by chasing them away or withholding further visits. In this, the reef fish exhibit something evolutionary biologists see as important to keeping mutualisms in balance: policing. Could we adequately police our exploitation by smartphones and restore a net-beneficial relationship? Evolution shows that two things are key: an ability to detect exploitation when it occurs, and the capacity to respond (typically by withdrawing service to the parasite). A difficult battle In the case of the smartphone, we can't easily detect the exploitation. Tech companies that design the various features and algorithms to keep you picking up your phone aren't advertising this behaviour. But even if you're aware of the exploitative nature of smartphone apps, responding is also more difficult than simply putting the phone down. Many of us have become reliant on smartphones for everyday tasks. Rather than remembering facts, we offload the task to digital devices – for some people, this can change their cognition and memory. We depend on having a camera for capturing life events or even just recording where we parked the car. This both enhances and limits our memory of events. Governments and companies have only further cemented our dependence on our phones, by moving their service delivery online via mobile apps. Once we pick up the phone to access our bank accounts or access government services, we've lost the battle. How then can users redress the imbalanced relationship with their phones, turning the parasitic relationship back to a mutualistic one? Our analysis suggests individual choice can't reliably get users there. We are individually outgunned by the massive information advantage tech companies hold in the host-parasite arms race. The Australian government's under-age social media ban is an example of the kind of collective action required to limit what these parasites can legally do. To win the battle, we will also need restrictions on app features known to be addictive, and on the collection and sale of our personal data. Rachael L. Brown, Director of the Centre for Philosophy of the Sciences and Associate Professor of Philosophy, Australian National University, and Rob Brooks, Scientia Professor of Evolution, UNSW Sydney This article is republished from The Conversation under a Creative Commons license. Read the original article.

Associated Press
a day ago
- Associated Press
The Hong Kong Science Fair Now Open for Free Admission Registration
Over 3,000 Participating Primary and Secondary Students and Teachers Showcase 120 Shortlisted Outstanding Innovative Projects Utilising Technology with a Growing Trend Towards AI HONG KONG SAR - Media OutReach Newswire - 5 June 2025 - The Fourth Hong Kong Science Fair ('Science Fair'), organised by the Hong Kong Innovation Foundation ('HKIF'), supported by the Innovation, Technology and Industry Bureau of the HKSAR Government, and with Sino Group and the Hong Kong Council for Testing and Certification (HKCTC) as strategic partners, will take place from 28 to 29 June at the Hong Kong Convention and Exhibition Centre. Under the theme 'Think Big Be Innovative', 120 shortlisted teams from primary and secondary schools across Hong Kong will present their innovative projects at the Science Fair. These projects have incorporated various technologies, including artificial intelligence (AI), and will compete for a variety of awards. The Science Fair will also feature five interactive zones with exciting STEAM-related activities. Participants can turn corn pulp into refined snacks, operate remote-controlled cars made from upcycled household appliances, and build and race their own wooden mini cars — each activity is designed for parents and children to experience the fun of technology together! Online registration is now open for free admission, inviting the public to experience creativity in action as our younger generation presents their innovation and technology (I&T) vision for the future. Photo 1) The Fourth Hong Kong Science Fair will take place from 28 to 29 June at the Hong Kong Convention and Exhibition Centre. Online registration is now open for free admission. HKIF is committed to fostering an innovative spirit from an early age. Since its launch in 2021, the annual Science Fair has garnered widespread support from the government, tertiary institutions, scientific research organisations, and partners across various sectors, providing a vital platform to inspire the creative potential of young people. To broaden their international perspective, gold award-winning teams from the Primary, Junior Secondary, and Senior Secondary Divisions will have the opportunity to participate in the prestigious International Exhibition of Inventions Geneva in Switzerland. This year, the Science Fair has seen record levels of participation, with about 600 entries submitted by 300 local and international schools, engaging over 3,000 teachers and students. Photo 2) 120 shortlisted teams will showcase their innovative projects at the Hong Kong Science Fair. Photo 3) The three winning teams from the previous Hong Kong Science Fair received one silver and two bronze awards at this year's prestigious International Exhibition of Inventions Geneva. This year's Science Fair is also supported by the Hong Kong Council for Testing and Certification (HKCTC) as a strategic partner. A brand-new 'Testing and Certification Special Award', sponsored by HKCTC, has been introduced to deepen students' understanding of the role and importance of testing and certification in the context of I&T. Professor Wong Wing-tak, Chairman of the Hong Kong Council for Testing and Certification, stated: 'By instilling the 'precision and accuracy' values of testing and certification into their thinking from the start, these young scientists aren't just inventing but help elevate the standards of quality and safety. There is always a mind-boggling number of innovative ways we can make a difference. I will be excited to see the many good projects and this special award recognises our talents who are poised for the future.' Mr Daryl Ng, Chairman of the Hong Kong Innovation Foundation, said, 'We are grateful for the ongoing support of the HKSAR Government and our partners in nurturing innovative talent. I am delighted to see the enthusiastic response from schools to this year's Hong Kong Science Fair. With over 3,000 teachers and students participating, it underscores the aspirations of the next generation in innovation and technology. The quality of entries this year is outstanding, showcasing how AI and various technologies can be integrated to address everyday challenges, support the underprivileged, and promote sustainable development. Creativity in practice is a vital pathway for research development. I would like to express my gratitude to the Innovation, Technology and Industry Bureau for their commitment to cultivating the talent pool in this field, and to the Hong Kong Council for Testing and Certification for incorporating testing and certification into the Science Fair. This encourages students to blend creativity with theory and practice, establishing a solid foundation for their future endeavours in innovation and technology.' The Science Fair attracts tens of thousands of visitors each year, providing an exciting glimpse into the vibrant landscape of I&T in Hong Kong through a variety of engaging games and workshops. This year, visitors can explore five captivating interactive zones. The 'Refined CORNsidue Workshop' invites children to discover the wonders of food science by transforming corn pulp into nutritious snacks. In 'Racing Homey Kart', vintage appliances are converted into remote-controlled cars, allowing participants to race them around a custom-built track in thrilling fashion. The 'Formula Derby Workshop' encourages participants to design, build and race their own wooden mini cars, tackling exciting track challenges. In 'Spin with Battery Hero', aspiring participants will construct mini electronic motors using batteries, magnets, and wires to embark on a spinning adventure, while the 'Starry Sky' zone showcases light refraction and weaving, creating a mesmerising experience that takes participants beyond the galaxy. This year's Science Fair offers an array of limited-edition items, including innovation-themed stationery, plush cushions featuring the Science Fair mascots, and trendy mobile phone accessories. Visitors can participate in an on-site stamp game, collecting all four designated stamps around the venue to earn a coupon for the 'HKSF Bazaar', adding an extra layer of engagement to their experience. HKIF will use all proceeds from the 'HKSF Bazaar', with no deductions, to support the Science Fair and local community technology initiatives, helping to nurture the next generation of innovators. Photo 4) The Hong Kong Science Fair features interactive zones that offer visitors an engaging edutainment experience. Scan the QR code to make an online reservation. Hashtag: #HongKongInnovationFoundation #HKIF #HongKongScienceFair The issuer is solely responsible for the content of this announcement. About the Hong Kong Innovation Foundation The Hong Kong Innovation Foundation (HKIF) is a non-profit organisation. It believes that innovation and technology will define our future. By nurturing young minds and accelerating innovative solutions to real-life challenges, the Foundation empowers today's innovators to transform Hong Kong into a global technology hub for tomorrow. HKIF supports innovation and technology through a holistic innovation ecosystem to build a smart and sustainable future together. We provide a variety of platforms to serve different sectors of the community and foster an innovation technology ambience in society to prepare for talent development in the technology field. Website: