​For decades, science fiction has been the genre of future speculation, hope, and even warning. Though its trends have changed with the times, there remains one constant the genre never abandons: its regard for science, knowledge, and reason. Regardless of whether fans prefer space opera over social SF, or what their politics are, science fiction has remained the champion of forward-thinking in the face of ignorance and zealotry.
 
Can that still be true in our new, so-called ‘post-truth’ society? Where it is now fashionable, in certain circles, to proudly disregard knowledge and intellect, to give opinion the same weight as fact? When daily, we watch the frightening rise of regressive behaviors such as bigotry, assault on women’s rights, climate change denial, and even those who believe the Earth is flat? Or that we never landed on the Moon? When elected leaders freely cast doubt on what is true or false, for blatant political gain?
 
What worth can science fiction have in such a society? This question is more important than ever, as the general public’s main exposure to SF is the big Hollywood blockbuster: big explosions, dumbed-down plot, technology akin to magic. When people doubt we ever sent humans into space, while using a mobile phone that receives signals from orbiting satellites. Post-modern ideas claiming science (and thus critical thought) is just another religion. Worst of all, empowered racists that ask if some people can even be considered human beings.
 
The best way to fight this nonsense is to maintain our standard of knowledge. One that never normalizes ignorance. A standard that science fiction epitomizes.
 
But wait, I know what some will say: the genre itself has always been politicized. From the Libertarian-tinged works of Robert A. Heinlein, to the feminist perspectives given by Ursula K. Le Guin, science fiction has never been a stranger to controversy (in fact, what works are considered controversial is in itself a controversy). There’s nothing wrong with this; having multiple perspectives on how humans will advance (or not) is what gives the field its strength. There’s something for all tastes, all political persuasions. That doesn’t mean we should normalize racism, sexism, and otherwise hateful material when it arises. Recognizing and calling out such things doesn’t stifle creativity. But abiding them certainly stifles the SF community, and, ultimately, the rest of society.
 
Yet, for all the friction within SF fandom, we’ve always been united by a respect for learning. I hope this continues. As the cultural wars spill over into the SF community, I fear some authors will assume the same stubborn, ignorant, even petty stances that certain elements of society now espouse. We’ve already witnessed that in regards to the Sad/Rabid Puppies movement. Regardless of where one stands on that issue, it’s mere distraction compared to what is happening around us. What we once read about in SF books, has now, or likely will, come true:
 
The mass-surveillance state as shown in George Orwell’s 1984;
The rise of corporatism, as depicted in William Gibson’s Neuromancer;
Women as baby-making machines, from Margaret Atwood’s The Handmaid’s Tale;
The deterioration of urban, non-white neighborhoods, from Octavia Butler’s Parable of the Sower;
Rising sea levels, like those from JG Ballard’s The Drowned World.
 
There are other examples, but this list suffices to make my point. True, some of these haven’t come to pass, or aren’t as extreme as their fictional counterpart. But the signs are there, much more so than when the author in question penned said work (which is why I didn’t select recent titles). We are walking the razor’s edge, barefoot and blindfolded.
 
So, what can we, as science fiction writers, do?
 
Some will say, ‘do nothing, keep it business as usual’. I can’t condemn that. Just because we write SF, that doesn’t make us activists, prophets, or anything bent on swaying another’s thinking. That’s not my intent when I write a short story or novel. Our beliefs, hopes, prejudices, and all else that makes us individuals, will surface in our art, regardless of authorial intent. But there is one thing we can all do: maintain respect for knowledge.
 
Support reason, praise intellect, require facts instead of opinions. Keep these tenements in your work, subtle or no. Inspire with that sense of wonder, like Arthur C. Clarke did with his work. Foster hope that humanity can overcome these challenges, like Octavia Butler. Challenge our concepts of gender and civilization, like Ursula K. Le Guin or Samuel Delaney. Or, like George Orwell and Margaret Atwood, tell us your greatest fears, so that we might be forewarned.
 
Never forget that science fiction inspired some of our greatest scientists and inventors; without this genre, rockets and mobile devices might never have left the proverbial drawing board. Our knowledge sets us apart from every other lifeform we currently know; therefore, let us celebrate it, increase it, and most importantly, share it, so that the idea of a ‘post-truth’ era dies like all other ephemeral, meaningless trends. Let science fiction be a pestilence upon ignorance, a poison against irrationality, and an antidote to regressive thinking.
 
“There is a single light of science, and to brighten it anywhere is to brighten it everywhere.”
Isaac Asimov 

​For a species obsessed with immortality, we are terrible in its preparation. What happens to our personal belongings, after we die? If these items aren’t discarded or sold, our friends and loved ones inherit them. But what about after everyone who knew us, on a personal level, has died? When no one remembers the nameless identities populating those photo albums, the home videos. When objects once sentimental and meaningful become merely clutter.  
 
The easy answer, of course, is that it all gets destroyed, or disintegrates with time.
 
What about our digital data? All those photos and files on our cloud drives, flash drives. Much of that might not even be accessible if a loved one doesn’t know our password.
 
Again, the easy answer is, once that cloud subscription isn’t being paid, or those hard drives age and corrode, that data will be deleted or lost. Yet, given the ease of transporting such information—it’s easier to store thousands of photos digitally, than, say, in scores of physical albums—will the fate of such data change?
 
Will there be a place for ‘orphan’ data to be deposited, a communal cloud of remembrance, a digital cemetery of memories, tidbits, photos and social media posts whose owners are deceased? This is beyond a mere archiving of websites. Could the collection of such a database be the beginnings of a shared reality, where users access the memories—via pictures, videos, etc.—from the ‘orphan’ cloud? Will companies purchase digital collections from the loved ones/estates of the deceased, commodifying them? Will companies automatically obtain content ownership if its storage subscription isn’t paid?
 
Or will it all be deleted, leaving no trace, save for a few lines in a recycle bin log file?
 
All of this assumes our society continues its path into the Information Age. It’s easy to surmise that everyone will have their own cloud drives, whether people use them or not. With the ubiquity of mobile devices and networks, this is not a distant future. And as more products are embedded with microcomputers collecting data on everything we do, that information will require a storage location. There will be some pros, but many cons, under such a system. There already are. Information is currency, and I would be surprised if companies don’t take advantage of the ‘orphaned’ data I’ve described. Not only could a corporation control your present, but they would also own your past as well. Orwell’s worst fears realized, with one’s narrative and history manipulated on the fly. It’s true this could be managed without having to purchase the data of a dead person, but enabling its sale breaks down one more legal barrier.
 
This could have greater implications, should artificial intelligence reach sentient levels, and that intelligence is stored on a user’s cloud. It becomes a civil rights issue, which, in truth, data already falls under that sphere in a society under constant surveillance.
 
Regardless of benefits or dangers, this strategy might not be wise over the long term.
 
Physical items leave some sort of trace, even in a landfill. But digital cloud data, becoming the modern form of such ephemeral storage, will leave nothing. What will future archaeologists have to excavate, save circuit boards and magnetic cores? One could postulate that this is why long-term records does not exist/have yet to be discovered. Perhaps an ancient civilization, or an alien one, stored their data as such, and has since became inaccessible, lost, deleted, corrupted. How would we ever know?