3 things Michelle Kim is into right now

Isegye Idol

If you thought K-pop was weird, virtual idols—humans who perform as anime-style digital characters via motion capture—will blow your mind. My favorite is a girl group called Isegye Idol, created by Woowakgood, a Korean VTuber (a streamer who likewise performs as a digital persona). Isegye Idol’s six members are anonymous, which seems to let them deploy a rare breed of honesty and humor. They play games (League of Legends, Go, Minecraft), chitchat, and perform kitschy music that’s somewhere between anime soundtrack and video-­game score. It’s very DIY—and very intimate. And the group’s wild popularity speaks to the mood of Gen Z South Koreans, famously lonely and culturally adrift—struggling to find work, giving up on dating, trying to find friendships online. Isegye Idol shows what a magical online universe people can build when reality stops working for them.

Mr. Nobody Against Putin

Pavel Talankin didn’t have the easiest life as a schoolteacher in the copper-­smelting town of Karabash, Russia; UNESCO once called it the most toxic place on Earth. But video he shot, partially in secret, makes it clear he loved it—the smokestacks, the cold, the ice mustache he’d get walking around outside, and, most of all, his bright-eyed students. That makes it all the more painful when a distant, grinding war and state propaganda change the town. An antiwar progressive with a democracy flag in his classroom, Talankin had to deal with a new patriotic curriculum, mandatory parades, visits from mercenaries—and the loss of the creative space he’d built with his students. Talankin’s footage tells his story in this Oscar-winning documentary from director David Borenstein, and what struck me most is how strange it is being an adult around kids. We shape them in profound ways we might not even recognize.

Repertoire by James Acaster

I am the kind of person who will pay $150 to watch a comedian in a smelly theater in San Francisco that charges $20 for a can of water—because I am crazy enough to hope that standup will not die. In February, I saw the British comedian James Acaster perform live … and it was a mediocre show. But Repertoire, his 2018 miniseries on Netflix, is gold. Shot shortly after Acaster went through a breakup, the four-part show features him portraying, among other characters, a cop who goes undercover as a standup comedian, forgets who he is, and gets divorced. And then things get weird. “What if every relationship you’ve ever been in,” Acaster asks, “is somebody slowly figuring out they didn’t like you as much as they hoped they would?” If the best comedy comes from paying attention to the hellhole that you’re in, I wish Acaster many more pitfalls.

One town’s scheme to get rid of its geese

“Pull over!” I order my brother one sunny February afternoon. Our target is in sight: a gaggle of Canada geese, pecking at grass near the dog park. As I approach, tiptoeing over their grayish-white poop, I notice that one bird wears a white cuff around its slender black neck. It’s a GPS tracker—part of a new tech-centered campaign to drive the geese out of my hometown of Foster City, California. 

About 300 geese live in this sleepy Bay Area suburb, equal to nearly 1% of our human population—and some say this town isn’t big enough for the both of us. Goose poop notoriously blanketed our middle school’s lawn, and the birds have hassled residents for generations. My own grandmother remembers when geese took over her garage for five whole minutes before waddling out. She says, “I wanted to kill them, but I thought I’d get in trouble.”

Indeed, that idea doesn’t fly here. City officials backed out of a previous plan to kill 100 geese following uproar from local environmentalists. Still, the poop creates a public health hazard; the birds need to go. 

So the city paid nearly $400,000—roughly $1,300 per goose—to Wildlife Innovations, a company that resolves conflicts between humans and wildlife, to haze the geese with gadgets. The company’s approach is “basically, making the geese less comfortable,” Dan Biteman, head of the goose management plan and senior wildlife biologist at Wildlife Innovations, tells me.

The need for such conflict resolution is on the rise as land development collides with changes in animal behavior. Though overpopulation of Canada geese is a national nuisance in the US, such tensions also surface with other species in this country and elsewhere, including grizzlies on the Montana prairies, coyotes on San Francisco streets, and savanna elephants in Tanzania parks. 

So the people whose job it is to deal with recalcitrant critters are bringing on the gadgets.

Back in Foster City, I spot a black camera mounted to a tree trunk at Gull Park by the lagoon. They’re in seven parks around town, programmed to snap photos every 15 minutes and transmit them back to Wildlife Innovations HQ. If they detect geese, a biologist immediately drives over to disperse the birds. One team member uses devices like lasers or drones; another brings along a goose-hating border collie named Rocky. 

ANNIKA HOM

As a special measure, staff deploy the “Goosinator,” a small, remote-controlled neon-orange pontoon boat with a fearsome dog-like mouth painted on its bow, meant to evoke geese’s fear of coyotes and bright colors. It comes with attachable wheels and can zoom around on land or water to chase birds away. Biteman tells me the company is thinking about mounting speakers on trees and flying drones that will screech the calls of goose predators like red-tailed hawks or golden eagles. 

The company received federal permits required by the Migratory Bird Treaty Act to stick GPS trackers on 10 geese, too. This way, staff can surveil the geese and research their behavior and movements. 

At local goose hangouts, signs that look like “Wanted” posters alert the public to the new plan. As I watch some culprits graze (and defecate) on a church lawn, I think to myself: Enjoy it while it lasts. 

Annika Hom is an award-winning independent journalist. She’s written for National Geographic, Wired, and more.

There is no nature anymore

When people talk about “nature,” they’re generally talking about things that aren’t made by human beings. Rocks. Reefs. Red wolves. But while there is plenty of God’s creation to go around, it is hard to think of anything on Earth that human hands haven’t affected.

In the Brazilian rainforest, scientists have found microplastics in the bellies of animals ranging from red howler monkeys to manatees. In remotest Yakutia, where much of the earth remains untrodden by human feet, the carbon in the sky above melts the permafrost below. In the Arctic Ocean, artificial light from ship traffic—on the rise as the polar ice cap melts away—now disrupts the nightly journey of zooplankton to the ocean surface, one of the largest animal migrations on the planet. The remote mountain lakes of the Alps are contaminated with all kinds of synthetic chemicals. Polar bears are full of flame retardants. Cesium-137, fallout from nuclear bomb explosions, lightly rimes the entire planet. 

These examples are mostly pollution—nuclear, carbon, chemical, light—but I raise them not to highlight the ways human industry and technology degrade the environment but to note how the things humans build change it. Nobody really knows what the exact effects of all that will be, but my point is that no part of the globe is free of human fingerprints. We have literally changed the world.  

We’ve changed ourselves as well. Humans are especially adept at bending human nature. Everything about us is up for grabs—appearance, health, our very thoughts. Pharmaceuticals, surgeries, vaccines, and hormones give us longer lives, take away our pain, ease our anxiety and depression, make us faster, stronger, more resilient. We’re getting glimpses of technologies that will let us change who our children will become before they’re even born. Electrodes implanted in people’s brains let them control computers and translate thoughts into speech. Prosthetics and exoskeletons straight out of comic books restore and enhance physical abilities, while gene-­editing technologies like CRISPR are rewriting our very DNA. And meanwhile, people have taken the sum total of all the information we have ever written down and poured it into vast calculating machines in an effort—at least by some—to build an intelligence greater than our own. 

So what even is nature, or natural, in this context? Is it “environmentalist,” in the conventional sense, to try to preserve what one could argue no longer exists? Should we employ technology to try to make the world more “natural”?  

Those questions led us to approach this Nature issue with humility. We try to grapple with them all the time—MIT Technology Review is, after all, a review of how people have altered and built upon nature.

And it’s a place to think about how we might repair it. Take solar geoengineering, for example—a subject we have covered with increasing frequency over the past few years. The basic idea of geoengineering is to find a technological fix for a problem technology caused: Burning ­petrochemicals to fuel the Industrial Revolution turned Earth’s atmosphere into a heat sink, fundamentally breaking the climate. Some geoengineers think that releasing particulate matter into the stratosphere would reflect sunlight back into space, thus reducing global temperatures. After years of theoretical discussions, some companies have begun to actively experiment with such technologies. This might seem like a great way to restore the world to a more natural state. It’s also fraught with controversy and peril. It could, for example, benefit some nations while harming others. It may give us license to continue burning fossil fuels and releasing greenhouse gases. The list goes on. 

Nature isn’t easy. 

In our May/June issue, we have attempted to take a hard look at nature in our unnatural world. We have stories about birds that can’t sing, wolves that aren’t wolves, and grass that isn’t grass. We look for the meaning of life under Arctic ice and within ourselves—and in the far future, on a distant world, courtesy of new fiction by the renowned author Jeff VanderMeer. I don’t know if any of that will answer the questions I’ve been asking here—but we can’t help but try. It’s in our nature. 

The case for fixing everything

The handsome new book Maintenance: Of Everything, Part One, by the tech industry legend Stewart Brand, promises to be the first in a series offering “a comprehensive overview of the civilizational importance of maintenance.” One of Brand’s several biographers described him as a mainstay of both counterculture and cyberculture, and with Maintenance, Brand wants us to understand that the upkeep and repair of tools and systems has profound impact on daily life. As he puts it, “Taking responsibility for maintaining something—whether a motorcycle, a monument, or our planet—can be a radical act.”

Radical how? This volume doesn’t say. In an outline for the overall work, Brand says his goal is to “end with the nature of maintainers and the honor owed them.”

The idea that maintainers are owed anything, much less honor, might surprise some readers. Actually, maintenance and repair have been hot topics in academia since the mid-2010s. I played some role in that movement as a cofounder of the Maintainers, a global, interdisciplinary network dedicated to the study of maintenance, repair, care, and all the work that goes into keeping the world going.

Brand is right, too, that maintainers haven’t gotten the laurels they deserve. Over the past few decades, scholars have shown that work from oiling tools to replacing worn parts to updating code bases all tends to be lower in status than “innovation.” Maintenance gets neglected in many organizational and social settings. (Just look at some American infrastructure!) And as the right-to-­repair movement has shown, companies in pursuit of greater profits have frequently locked us out of being able to do repairs or greatly reduced the maintainable life of their products. It’s hard to think of any other reason to put a computer in the door of a refrigerator.

Some of Brand’s earlier work helped inspire those insights. But his new book makes me think he doesn’t see things that way. For Brand, maintenance seems to be a solitary act, profound but more about personal success and fulfillment than tending to a shared world or making it better.

Born in 1938, Brand is 87 years old. A sense hangs over the book—with its battles against corrosion, rust, and decay, with its attempts to keep things going even as they inevitably falter—of someone looking over life and pondering its end. Maintenance: Of Everything connects to every stage of Brand’s life. It’s worth reviewing where it falls in that arc. Brand has always been interested in tools and fixing things, but rarely has he focused on the systems that need the most care. 

More than a half-century ago, Brand was a member of the Merry Pranksters, a countercultural, LSD-centered hippie collective famously led by Ken Kesey, the author of One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest. In 1966, Brand co-produced the Trips Festival, where bands like the Grateful Dead and Big Brother and the Holding Company performed for thousands amid psychedelic light shows.

Brand’s Whole Earth Catalog had a vision that might feel progressive, but its libertarian, rugged-individualist philosophy of remaking civilization alone stood in contrast to more collective social change movements.

In some ways, the Trips Festival set a paradigm for the rest of his life’s work. Brand’s biographers have described him as a network celebrity—someone who got ahead by bringing people together, building coalitions of influential figures who could boost his signal. As Kesey put it in 1980, “Stewart recognizes power. And cleaves to it.” 

Brand applied this network logic to the undertaking he will always be best remembered for: the Whole Earth Catalog. First published in 1968 and aimed at hippies and members of the nascent back-to-the-land movement, the publication had the motto “Access to tools.” Its pages were full of Quonset huts, geodesic domes, solar panels, well pumps, water filters, and other technologies for life off the grid. It was a vision that might feel progressive or left-leaning, but the libertarian, rugged-individualist philosophy of eschewing corrupt systems and remaking civilization alone stood in contrast to the more collective movements pushing for deep social change at the time—like civil rights, feminism, and environmentalism.

That vision also led straight to the empowerment that came with new digital tools, and to Silicon Valley. In 1985, Brand published the Whole Earth Software Catalog, the last of the series, and also cofounded the WELL—the Whole Earth ’Lectronic Link, a pioneering online community famous for, among other things, facilitating the trade of Grateful Dead bootlegs. He also wrote a hagiographic book about the MIT Media Lab, known for its corporate-sponsored research into new communications tech. “The Lab would cure the pathologies of technology not with economics or politics but with technology,” Brand wrote. Again, not collective action, not policymaking: tools. And Brand then cofounded the Global Business Network, a group of pricey consulting futurists that further connected him to MIT, Stanford, and the Valley. Brand had literally helped bring about the modern digital revolution.

His attention then turned toward its upkeep. Brand’s 1994 book, How Buildings Learn: What Happens After They’re Built, argued against high-modernist architectural ideas. Nearly all buildings eventually get remade, he argued, but he especially favored cheap, simple structures that inhabitants could easily retool to suit changing needs. In some ways, Brand was recapitulating the liberated—or libertarian—philosophy of the Whole Earth Catalog: People can remake their world, if they have access to tools. In a chapter titled “The Romance of Maintenance,” he asked readers to see the beauty, value, and occasional pleasures of fixer-uppers of all kinds.

This chapter was a touchstone for many of us in the academic subfield of maintenance studies. Researchers in disciplines like history, sociology, and anthropology, as well as artists and practitioners in fields like libraries, IT, and engineering, all started trying to understand the realities and, yes, romance of maintenance and repair. Brand joined and contributed to Listservs, attended conferences, chatted with intellectual leaders. So it’s a bit uncharitable when he writes that his new book is “the first to look at maintenance in general.” He knows better. The real question, though, is what his work has to teach us that others have not said before. In this first volume, the answer is unclear.

Maintenance: Of Everything, Part One is an odd book. If so much of Brand’s thinking has been about access to tools, he now asks, in a more extended way: How are our tools maintained? But where Brand began his career with a catalogue, in this volume we get … what? A digest? An almanac? An encyclopedia? Its form and riotous variety fit no genre easily. 

The book has two chapters. The first, “The Maintenance Race,” recounts the story of three men who took part in the Golden Globe, a round-the-world race for solo sailors held in 1968. Each of the sailors, Brand explains, had a different philosophy of maintenance. One neglected it and hoped for the best. He died. Another thought of and prepared for everything in advance, and while he didn’t win the race, he completed it and once held the record for the “world’s longest recorded nonstop solo sailing voyage.” The final sailor won and did so through heroic acts of perseverance; his style was “Whatever comes, deal with it,” Brand explains. Structured like a fairy tale and unremittingly romantic, the story—like most of the anecdotes in the book—focuses on the derring-do of vigorous white guys. The strategy is no secret. Brand’s outline explains: “Start with a dramatic contest of maintenance styles under life-critical conditions—a true story told as a fable.” This myth is meant to inspire. 

The second chapter, “Vehicles (and Weapons),” is over 150 pages long. It has five sections, multiple subsections, five subsections designated “digressions,” one called a “subdigression,” two “postscripts,” and several “footnotes” that are not footnotes in a formal sense but, rather, further addenda. At times, it all feels like notes for a future work. Brand makes no apology for the book’s woolliness. “All I can offer here,” he writes, “is to muse across a representative of maintenance domains and see what emerges.” Perhaps the most charitable reading of the potpourri is that it represents the return of a Merry Prankster, offering us a riotous varied light show. It’s a good book to leave on a table and occasionally open to a random page for entertainment. But it often seems as if it does not know what it wants to say or be. 

“Vehicles (and Weapons)” begins by paraphrasing two famous works of maintenance philosophy, Robert M. Pirsig’s Zen and the Art of Motorcycle Maintenance and Matthew B. Crawford’s Shop Class as Soulcraft. Maintenance involves both “problem finding” and “problem solving.” While much repair work is marked by anxiety, impatience, and boredom, it also offers positive values and outcomes. “Motorcycle maintainers take heart from what they repair for—the glory of the ride,” Brand writes. 

The beauty and triumph of cheapness is a running theme throughout the work, harking back to How Buildings Learn. Henry Ford’s Model T won out over early electric vehicles and hugely expensive luxury vehicles like Rolls-Royce’s Silver Ghost because it was cheap and easier to maintain. The three most popular cars in human history—the Ford Model T, the Volkswagen Bug, and the Lada “Classic” from Russia—all privileged cheapness, “retained their basic design for decades, and … invited repair by the owner.” Or, to be fair, maybe demanded it? For every hobbyist who delighted in being able to self-reliantly keep a VW running, there must have been thousands who appreciated how cheap it was and hated that it broke a lot. Brand never points to social research, like surveys, that might help us know people’s feelings on such matters.

Other sections recount how Americans created interchangeable parts (enabling not only cheap mass production but also easy maintenance), examine how maintenance works with assault rifles and in war, and track the history of technical manuals from the early modern period to the age of YouTube. These stories are solid, but they’re also well known to students of technology, and nearly all are recycled from the work of others, featuring many large block quotes. The volume breaks little new ground. 

Brand treats maintenance as an unalloyed good. But the field of maintenance studies has moved on, burrowing into the domain’s ironies, complexities, and difficulties. A simple example: In most cases, it is environmentally far better to retire and recycle an internal-combustion vehicle and buy an electric one than to keep the polluting beast going forever. Maintaining a gas-guzzler or a coal-­burning power plant isn’t a radical act but a regressive one. Also, maintenance can become a life-breaking burden on the poor, and it falls inequitably on the shoulders of women and people of color. Keeping existing systems going can be a way of avoiding tough, necessary change—like making technological systems more accessible for people with disabilities. In this volume, Brand is uninterested in such difficult trade-offs. He avoids any question of how politics shapes these issues, or how they shape politics.

This avoidance comes out most clearly in a section of “Vehicles (and Weapons)” that talks about Elon Musk—a character of “unique mastery,” Brand informs us. He tells us that Bill Gates once shorted Tesla’s stock, only to lose $1.5 billion. The lesson is clear: Elon won. 

In what political and social vision is money the best way to keep the score? Brand rightly points out that electric vehicles have fewer moving parts and, in that sense, are more maintainable than internal-combustion vehicles. He celebrates Musk most of all because his products “have all proven to be game changers in part because they combine ingenious design with surprisingly low cost.” Again, it’s Brand’s “cheap, available tools” hypothesis. But there’s a real superficiality and lack of follow-through in thinking here: Teslas remain luxury vehicles whose sales have slumped since federal tax subsidies disappeared. The company has faced several right-to-repair lawsuits; there’s even a law review article on the topic. Musk is in no sense a maintenance hero. Yet Brand writes that with his companies, “Musk may have done more practical world saving than any other business leader of his time.” By the time Brand was writing this book, the controversies surrounding Musk for at least flirting with antisemitism, racism, sexism, authoritarianism, and more were quite clear. About this, the book says not a word.

STRIPE PRESS, 2026

For sure, Brand needn’t agree with Musk’s critics, but failing to even broach the subject is tone deaf and out of touch. Others have argued that Silicon Valley’s “Move fast and break things” mentality undermines healthy maintenance. Brand doesn’t raise the idea—even to dismiss it. 

It could be that with Maintenance: Of Everything, Part One Brand is just getting going; that in subsequent volumes he’ll have something more coherent to say; that he’ll raise really hard questions and try to answer them. But given his track record, we might reasonably doubt it. Kesey said Brand cleaves to power; he certainly doesn’t question it. 

Lee Vinsel is an associate professor of science, technology, and society at Virginia Tech and host of Peoples & Things, a podcast about human life with technology.

You have no choice in reading this article—maybe

Uri Maoz loved doing his human research, back when he was getting his PhD. He was studying a very specific topic in computational neuroscience: how the brain instructs our arms to move and how our gray matter in turn perceives that motion. 

Then his professor asked him to deliver an undergrad lecture. Maoz assumed his boss was going to tell him exactly what to do, or at least throw some PowerPoint slides his way. But no. Maoz had free rein to teach anything, as long as it was relevant to the students. “I could have gone to human brain augmentation,” he says. “Cyborgs or whatever.”

Yet that admittedly fun and borderline sci-fi topic wasn’t what popped, unbidden, into his mind. His idea, he recalls with excitement: “What neuroscience has to say about the question of free will!” 

How—or whether—humans make decisions (like, say, about what to discuss in an undergrad lecture) had been on his mind since he’d read an article in his early twenties suggesting that … maybe they didn’t. This question might naturally beget others: Had he even had a choice about whether to read that article in the first place? How would he ever know if he was responsible for making decisions in his life or if he just had the illusion of control?

“After that, there was no turning back,” says Maoz, now a professor at Chapman University, in California. He finished his PhD work in human movement, but afterward he scooted further up the neural chain to find out how desires and beliefs turn into actions—from raising an arm to choosing someone to ask out to dinner on a Friday night.

Today, Maoz is a central figure in the attempt to (sort of, maybe) answer how that neural chain functions. His research has since overturned and reinter­preted canonical neuroscience studies and united the straight-scientific and philosophical sides of the free-will question. More than anything, though, he’s succeeded in uncovering new wrinkles in the debate.

Machines and magic tricks

The concept of free will seems straightforward, but it doesn’t have a universally accepted definition. One intuitive notion is that it’s the ability to make our own decisions and take our own actions on purpose—that we control our lives. But physicists might ask if the universe is deterministic, following a preordained path, and if human choices can still happen in such a universe. 

That’s a question for them, Maoz says. What neuroscientists can do is figure out what’s going on in the brain when people make decisions. “And that’s what we’re trying to do: to understand how our wishes, desires, beliefs, turn into actions,” he says.

By the time Maoz had finished his PhD, in 2008, neuroscientific research into the question had been going on for decades. One foundational study from the 1960s showed that a hand movement—something a person seemingly decides to do—was preceded by the appearance in the brain of an electrical signal called the “readiness potential.” 

Building on that result, in the 1980s a neuroscientist named Benjamin Libet did the experiment that had first piqued Maoz’s interest in the topic—one that many, until recently, interpreted as a death knell for the concept of free will.

An electrical impulse in our brains can shed only so much light on whether we truly are the architects of our own fates.

“He just had people sit there, and whenever they feel like it, they would go like this,” says Maoz, wiggling his wrist. Libet would then ask where a rotating dot was on a screen when they first had the urge to flick. He found that the readiness potential appeared not only before they moved their hand but before they reported having the urge to move—or, in Libet’s interpretation, before they knew they were going to move. 

Studies since have confirmed the observation and shown that the readiness potential appears a second or two—and maybe, fMRI implies, up to 10 seconds—before participants report making a conscious decision. “It suggests we are essentially passengers in a self-driving car,” says Maoz. “The unconscious biological machine does all the steering, but our conscious mind sits in the driver’s seat and takes the credit.” 

Maoz initially approached his own research with variations on Libet’s experiments. He worked with epilepsy patients who already had electrodes in their brains, for clinical purposes, and was able to predict which hand they would raise before they raised it. 

Still, some of the Libet-inspired studies people were doing nagged at him. “All these results were about completely arbitrary decisions. Raise your hand whenever you feel like it,” he says. “Why? No reason.” A decision like that is quite different from, say, choosing to break up with your partner. Try telling someone they weren’t in the driver’s seat for that. 

The field wasn’t looking at meaningful decisions, he says—the ones that actually set the course of lives. 

Maoz began pulling in philosophers to help guide his approach. They would challenge him to confront the semantic differences between things like intention, desire, and urge. Neuroscientists have tended to lump those concepts together, but philosophers tease them apart: Desire is a want that doesn’t necessarily progress toward an action; urge carries implications of immediacy and compulsion; and intention involves committing to a plan. (Maoz has come to focus specifically on intention—including, recently, the potential intentions of AI.)

In 2017, he organized his first in a series of free-will conferences, drawing many autonomy-interested philosophers. “Thank you so much for coming,” he recalls saying at the opening of the meeting. “As if you had a choice.” One day, the crew took an excursion out on a lake. As the group munched on shrimp, someone joked that they hoped the boat didn’t sink, because everybody in the field would die. 

The comment didn’t make Maoz feel existential dread. Instead, he figured that if the whole field was already there, why not lasso them all into writing a research grant? “He just thinks what should be the next step and just has a very good ability to just make it happen,” says Liad Mudrik, a neuroscientist at Tel Aviv University and a frequent collaborator.

That ability is special among scientists, says Chapman colleague Aaron Schurger, with whom Maoz co-directs the Laboratory for Understanding Consciousness, Intentions, and Decision-Making (LUCID, appropriately). “I really think that Uri is kind of at the nexus of this field right now because he’s really, really good at bringing people together around these big ideas,” he says.

Donations and interruptions

Maoz has recently been making progress on one of the big ideas that have consistently occupied his working hours: how trivial and significant decisions play out differently in the brain. In collaborations with Mudrik, he’s parsed the neural difference between picking and choosing—their terms for arbitrary decisions and those that change your life and tug on your emotions. 

Readiness potential? Their measurements didn’t clock it ahead of choices. In 2019, Maoz and a crew published a paper measuring the electrical activity in people’s brains as they pressed a key to choose one of two nonprofits to donate $1,000 to—for real, with actual dollars. Then the researchers compared that activity with what they saw when the same group pressed a key at random to donate $500 each to two nonprofits. The team saw the readiness potential in the arbitrary decision, but not for the $1,000 question. 

Libet’s result, they concluded, doesn’t apply to the important stuff, which means readiness potential might not actually be a sign that your brain is making a choice before you’re aware of it. “If Libet would have chosen to focus on deliberate decisions, then maybe the entire debate about neuroscience proving free will to be an illusion would have been spared from us,” Mudrik says. 

Maoz’s research has spurred others to reinterpret Libet’s work. It’s “enriched my thought process a great deal,” says Bianca Ivanof, a psychologist whose dissertation scrutinized Libet’s methods. They turn out to identify readiness potential at different times depending on how the rotating-dot setup is designed, complicating the ability to compare and interpret results.

Maoz has also continued to gather data on the subject. Last year, for example, he used an EEG to measure electrical signals in people’s brains as they got ready to press a keyboard space bar. At random moments, he interrupted their preparations with an audible tone and asked them about their intentions. He saw no connection between the readiness potential and whether or not they were planning to tap the key—evidence that the potential doesn’t represent the buildup of either conscious or unconscious plans. The team did see a signal, though, in a different part of the brain when people said they were preparing to move.

So … that’s free will? Sadly, Maoz would be compelled to say Well, not exactly. An electrical impulse in our brains can shed only so much light on whether we truly are the architects of our own fates. And maybe the confusing data from neurons is actually the point. “I don’t think it is a yes-or-no question,” Maoz says. Maybe our less meaningful choices aren’t mindfully made but big ones are; maybe we have the conscious power to change an intended action, but only if our brains are in a particular state. 

Neuroscientists likely can’t figure out, on their own, if free will exists. But they can, Maoz says, parse how semantically distinct decision-making forces—desires, urges, intentions, wishes, beliefs—manifest in our brains and become actions. “That is something that we are making progress on,” he says, “and I think that that’s going to help us understand what we do control.” And perhaps also help us make peace with what we do not. 

Sarah Scoles is a freelance science journalist and author based in southern Colorado.

Constellations

I.

We had crash-landed on the planet. We were far from home. The spaceship could not be repaired, and the rescue beacon had failed. Besides me, only the astrogator, part of the captain, and the ship’s AI mind were left. 

Outside, the atmosphere registered as hostile to most organisms. We huddled in the lifeboat, which was inoperable but still held air. Vast storms buffeted our cockleshell shelter, although we knew from prior readings that other areas remained calm. All that remained to us was to explore, if we wanted to live. The captain gave me the sole weapon. She tasked the astrogator with carrying some tools that would not unduly weigh him down.

Little existed on the planet except deserts of snow. But alien artifacts lay in an area near us. We were an exploration team, so this discovery had oddly comforted us, even though we had been on our way elsewhere. The massive systems failure had no discernible source, and the planet had been our only choice for landfall.

The artifacts took the form of 13 domes, spread out over that hostile terrain. The domes had been linked by cables just below shoulder level, threaded through the tops of metal posts at irregular intervals. Whether intended or not, these cables and rods formed a series of paths between the domes. 

Before our instruments failed, the AI had reported that the domes appeared to have a heat signature. The cables pulsed under our grip in a way that teased promised warmth far ahead. It took some time to get used to the feeling.

The shortest path between domes was a thousand miles long. The longest path was 10 thousand miles long. Our suit technology was good: A suit could recycle water, generate food, create oxygen. It could push us into various states of near hibernation while motors in the legs drove us forward. For the captain, the suit would compensate for having lost her legs and ease her pain. We estimated we could reach the nearest path and follow it to the nearest dome … and that was it. If the dome had life support capabilities, or even just a way to replenish our suits, we would live. Otherwise, we would probably die.

We revised the estimate of our survival downward when we reached the path and soon encountered the skeletons of dead astronauts littering the way. In all shapes and sizes, cocooned within their suits. Their huddled forms under the snow displayed a serenity at odds with their fate. But when I wiped the frost from face plates, we saw the extremity of their suffering.

It is difficult to explain how we felt walking among so many fatalities. So many dead first contacts. 

We no longer had to puzzle over the systems failure. Spaceships came here to crash, and intelligent entities came here to die, for whatever reason. We could not presume our fate would be any different, and adjusted our expectations accordingly. The AI’s platitudes about courage did not raise morale. There were too many lost there in the frozen wastes. 

Here were the ghastly emissaries of hundreds of spacefaring species we had never before encountered.

The number of the bodies and their haphazard positioning hampered our ability to make progress to the dome. The AI estimated our chances of survival at below 50% for the first time. We would starve in our suits as the motors propelled us forward. We would become desiccated and exist in an elongation of our thoughts that made us weak and stupid until the light winked out. But still, we had no choice. So even in places where the dead in their suits were piled high, we would simply plunge forward, over and through them, headed for the dome. 

What we would find there, as I have said, we did not know. But we were in an area of the galaxy where ancient civilizations had died out millions of years ago. We had been on our way to a major site, an ancient city on a moon with no atmosphere in a wilderness of stars. 

Although our emotions fluctuated, a professional awe and curiosity about the dead eventually came over us. This created much debate over the comms. We had made a discovery for the ages, but our satisfaction was bittersweet. Even if we lived longer than expected, we would never return home, never see our friends or family again. The AI might continue on after we were dead, but I doubt it envied being the one to report on our discovery centuries hence. And to who?

Here were the ghastly emissaries of hundreds of spacefaring species we had never before encountered. Their suits displayed an extraordinary range, although our examination was cursory. Some even appeared to be made out of scales and other biological substances from their home worlds, giving us further clues as to their origins. 

The burial of the suits by snow and the lack of access to anything other than a screaming face or faces, often distorted by time and ice, worked against recording much usable data. This issue was compounded in those cases where the suit was part of the organism and they had not needed any “artificial skin,” as the AI put it, to survive harsh conditions. That many had died despite appearing well-­prepared for the planet’s environment sobered us up even before our own suits dispensed drugs to help our mental states. 

After a time, each face seemed to express some aspect of our own stress and terror at the seriousness of our situation. After a time, the sheer welter of detail defeated us and caused us extreme distress. The captain made the observation that even one instance of alien contact might cause physiological and mental conditions, including anxiety, stress, fatigue. Here, we were constantly encountering the alien dead of what seemed at times an infinite number of civilizations. 

We stopped recording. We recommitted ourselves to the slog toward the nearest dome. 

The captain’s drugs unit had failed, but the AI found a way to help her by turning off the heating element in select panels of her suit. Some parts of her would soon be lost to the cold, but the system would allow her to live on with some measure of comfort.

I must admit, we were just glad the screaming had stopped and welcomed her counsel.

II.

For a long time, as we labored in our spacesuits on that planet—following the path, beleaguered by snowstorms—we could not understand why we found so many dead astronauts, of so many unknown alien types, and yet no spaceships. During good visibility, our line of sight reached, unbroken, for 500 miles. Where were the crash sites? 

But one day we chanced upon an antenna sticking up out of the ground. Clumsy attempts at excavation soon revealed that below this antenna lay a vast dead spaceship of a kind we had never seen before. The gash that had opened it to the elements had laid bare its unique architecture, but also gave the illusion that the snow had spilled out of it to create the world around us rather than having infiltrated and accumulated inside over time.

Aspects of the spaceship’s texture gave the startling suggestion that it had been made of some ultra-hard wood or wood equivalent. Clambering partway up to stare at the inner compartments, we all felt the strangeness of the dimensions and proportions of the living quarters. There was no sign of the occupants. Perhaps, I suggested, they had headed for the domes. Perhaps they had even made it to the domes. I tried and failed to keep hope from my voice.

But the captain had ordered the AI to perform a materials analysis. The “snow” in this region had been contaminated by ash and tiny particles of bone. The AI estimated that more than 70% of the white surrounding us was made of the remains of vertebrate sentient life and the remnants of suits. Of invertebrates there was no telling. A thaw might bring not just the drip, drip of water but a shushing sound indicative of bone particulate in the mixture. I imagined there might even be the clink of small objects not rendered down by whatever intense heat had created the ash.

The astrogator had insisted on digging deeper into the ship, with the idea that some recognizable commonality between technologies might yield a part or parts with which he could fix our ship. The rest of us allowed this delusion for the obvious reasons. But upon his return, he held in his hands ovals of snow not much larger than the space formed by the circle between a thumb and finger. Many of them had soft indentations, as one might find in the afterbirth of reptiles from eggs. A kind of ghostly cilia-like tread appeared along the bottoms of these objects.

The astrogator did not find any technology of use to us. Instead, he discovered that the species piloting the spaceship had been so different from us as to be safely encapsuled in suits the size of eggs. Much of what had spilled into or spilled out of the gash constituted the bodies of the crew, in their hundreds of thousands. Their suits had been inadequate to the conditions. They had died en masse attempting to escape their own ship.

The AI speculated that it had been a generation ship, perhaps fleeing a planet with a dying star. If we wondered how the AI had reached this conclusion, it was because we did not want it to be true.

The captain became silent upon receiving this further news and did not speak to us for more than 100 miles of further progress. 

As we left that site, unsure exactly what we stepped upon, we also knew that since the spaceship was entirely covered by snow, it had been falling into the sediment for days or months or years. We knew then that our ship might not be visible against the horizon should we retrace our steps. The already bleak probability of rescue through visual identification of a crash site from above would be lost to us in time, even as the line of cables remained perpetually visible to the horizon. We now thought of the planet as a trap. But of what sort? 

III.

We could not be sure, but in the absence of the captain’s voice, it may have been the AI that put forward the idea of the planet’s being “duplicitous.” The phrasing concerned us, for there was a duplicity in using the planet as the subject of the spoken sentence. A sphere rotating around a sun in deep space could not exhibit forethought or premeditation or other qualities of sentience. 

The AI meant whoever or whatever had created the conditions on the planet that allowed spacecraft to be trapped and then the occupants placed in a perilous situation with no recourse. But I distinctly recall the AI using the words “the planet.” In addition to being inaccurate, this also let us know that the AI did not have any analysis available that might help us understand the agency and motivations acting upon us. 

But in a sense, the AI only voiced something I had felt for several miles: that there existed an overlay to the planet’s surface, an area or space or different landscape unavailable to us. This overlay had also not been available to any of the prior astronauts who had died here. In this area or space or different landscape existed a wealth of the usual hoped-for things: a breathable atmosphere and abundant food and water. 

While we struggled with the line through the snow and through the storms that welled up, others could see us but chose to ignore us for reasons or perhaps just for their own well-being. For hundreds, possibly thousands of years, as explorers had died here in merciless and terrible ways, there raged a sumptuous feast for the senses, as excessive as it was ancient and unending.

I cannot tell you how powerfully the AI’s words struck us, so that our mouths watered at the thought of real food and of clean, unrecycled water, of a freedom unencumbered by suits and breathing apparatus. Even at our intended destination, we would have spent most of our days aboard a small space station. This tedium would have been broken only by the arduous process of reaching the unbreathable surface and its ancient ruins of jagged black stone. 

This vision that overtook us functioned not just as tantalizing delusion. It scared us so much that we could not compartmentalize it in our thoughts. It continued to overwhelm us like a wave.

We fought for the first time, with the astrogator expressing the wish to return to the ruined spacecraft and explore nearby areas for parts, while the captain broke silence to order us to continue to make progress toward the nearest dome. The AI, which had brought us to this point, stole the captain’s silence and said no more.

For each of us, those endless white plains with no real elevation, just the metal rope and the metal posts, had become a kind of repetition that hurt the brain, and the mind with it.

IV.

About halfway to the nearest dome, amid a storm that reduced our progress incrementally and our line of sight to nothing, we came upon a peculiar tableau. 

Six astronaut suits had fallen across and around the metal rope. With the flurries of snow, it took us, even with our powerful headlamps, some minutes to determine the nature of the obstruction. The six suits had been created for a humanoid species that must have had torsos like nine-foot-long slabs, attached to six limbs, three for walking. Their heads had flared out like thick fans. All the helmets were cracked open, and curled inside were the skeletons of some other intelligent species no larger than 40 or 50 pounds, possibly warm-blooded. With no sign of the original occupants. 

After a brief analysis cut short by the conditions, we postulated that the warm-blooded species had worn breathable skin suits that, as they failed, required these intruders to seek shelter. All they could find were these six dead astronauts. Because we could discover no trace of the original occupants, the AI put forward the theory that this smaller species had eaten every scrap of the remains within the suits. 

Then they too had perished, and in time, the AI suggested, something smaller would take up residence inside those bodies, then smaller still within those, and smaller still—

At this point, the captain attempted a soft reboot of the AI using a coded question. We could hear the concern in her voice.

Yet the AI continued undeterred, suggesting that we might find this to be a common situation. It might be replicated across the planet, depending on a system’s ability to break down and process meat that had not evolved alongside the devourer for millions of years. In all likelihood, most who attempted to eat in this way died soon after, poisoned by alien flesh.

V.

The AI began to talk to us in strange alien voices at mile 700, as we labored through the snowstorm to hold onto the cables and thus the path. The AI warbled and chirped and howled and hummed and clucked. The AI spoke in voices like fossilized choruses of beasts, vast and harmonious. And in voices like dry grass spun to fire by the sun. And in voices like the dissolution of all things, darkness in the blinding white that scared me. 

At first we thought the AI was deranged. Then that the AI channeled voices from the dome 300 miles ahead. But finally, the AI managed to make known to us that these were the voices of the dead astronauts we had come across from time to time. Huddled frozen. The suits in so many shapes and sizes. That the voices of the dead were channeled through the AI, and nothing could stop them.

VI.

The snow began to betray us, as the storms created different forms of ice. Often, our arms became weary, our legs cramping, and we had to rest with greater frequency. We came to accept the solid crunch that could support our weight. We came to reject the feather-light freshness that felt effortless underfoot but could give way just as easily as if it were air. In some places, slick purple-hued ice welled up in sluggish layers as if something half-alive. In others, we discovered strange islands of elevation, with brutal curls and curves that suggested two continental shelves had clashed in that space.

As we adapted to these conditions, and as conditions worsened and still we adapted, we came to feel an illusion of competency, one that made even the astrogator temporarily cheerful. The sounds through the comms of our efforts, the deeper breathing, the occasional muffled curse, seduced us in this regard. We felt that we were becoming adroit at handling the snow. We began to believe if we could only make it to the dome, we would be saved.

Yet this uptick in morale ran parallel to, rather than intersected with, the idea of our ultimate survival.

VII.

We lost track of the distance left to us without the AI to tell us. Or the captain, in her pain, no longer thought to issue updates. But across the distance left to us came sights beyond reckoning: three giant astronauts spaced 50 miles apart. Larger than most starships, each body lay sprawled across an area larger than several fields and in very different conditions.

The first had been badly burned and was thus unrecoverable, even in terms of salvage. The astronaut had crawled or pulled itself along for some distance. It had left a long smudge of black and red across that expanse. The alien species was, as ever, unknown to us, but the five arms were sunk in the ground as if in agony. The skull had once held three eyes, and the face plate had been cracked by force so strong it resembled a meteor strike. The body was bloated, the fabric of the suit gray with a shimmer of green that came and went, linked to photosensitive skin cells. The way the flesh took up space, and how it exhibited aspects more plant than animal, made it impossible to study further.

The second was a sprawl of limbs, with the suggestion of a defensive posture. The debris of conflict flared out to the side in an incomprehensible display. The suit had an intactness that surprised us, but a similar crack in the face plate without any trace of body within. The rest of the suit had become inhabited by a wealth of other dead astronauts of varying sizes and shapes, who had sought shelter or sustenance and then become trapped or simply … given up. As the AI had predicted, we had once again encountered bodies providing other bodies with temporary sustenance and shelter.

I felt like a parasite who beheld a god. Or was the scale even more ludicrous?

But this condition was not at first evident to us, becoming apparent only after we had clambered for an hour to reach the cracked face plate and the entry hole extended like a broken archway before us.

Despite the number of remains within, and the difficulty in moving through them to explore, the captain ordered an exhaustive recon. Her pulse in the readings had a thready quality. Sometimes I felt, and the astrogator too when we took private comms, that the captain had begun to say things similar to the AI’s delusions. Yet we obeyed the order, on the chance that some internal calculation on the captain’s part meant she believed this was the only way we would survive. 

What did we expect to find in the dead body of a once-­intelligent giant? Food? Oxygen? Some cause of death? To put off the thought of our own death by seeking shelter with a death so large we could not comprehend it?

I felt like a parasite who beheld a god. Or was the scale even more ludicrous? I had trouble envisioning the way the body must have twisted as it pitched forward into that icy ground. I had trouble holding onto my own thoughts.

More and more pressure moved through my skull as I contemplated that scene. We were in the midst of something none of my kind had ever known. We might be the only ones, ever. I better understood the unraveling of the AI and of the captain. My sharpness had dulled, taking my calm with it.

It was impossible to tell how long the astronaut had taken to die. Unless somewhere within that fallen figure some hint of life hid that we would never find.

The storms fell away, rose, then fell away again. 

VIII.

The third huge astronaut was full of light and life and shone out across the wasteland of snow like a beacon. For a moment, I thought we had pierced the invisible layer and could see what lay beyond the veil. We would have comforts beyond anything found on our ruined spaceship even when it had been fit to cross galactic space. There would not be recycled urine for our water. There would not be the faint stink of sweat creeping into our suits as the ventilation system began to fail. Our liquid food would not taste stale and moldy. 

As we approached, the suit extended almost to the horizon in that foreshortened perspective created by the left foot. We noted through our remaining instrumentation that the suit remained intact. The pressure told us a kind of air circulated within its sealed surfaces. 

We climbed with a renewed energy, the promise of sanctuary so close making us giddy. We each exhorted the others on with such exuberance that it made me a little afraid. What lay on the other side of this state of mind but a fall?

When we reached the helmet plate, we could see inside not a face or a skull, but instead such a richness of healthy growth that we fell silent before it. None of us could, I believe, understand exactly what we saw, except that it equaled ecosystem—resplendent with vibrant greens and blues, stippled with other colors. There might be some parallel to a terrarium full of moss and exotic plants. There might be some sense of life moving amongst those plants, as of jewel-like amphibians or even tiny shy sapphire birds. We could not smell or taste or hear what lay behind the face plate. We could not experience it in that way, but somehow we each imagined enough to be calmed and comforted by it. 

The astrogator said he might be able to create a hole in the plate or elsewhere on the body to let us in, and then patch the surface such that not too much air or vitality would spill out. This workaround might take an hour or two, due to the delicate nature of what we saw within. But it was possible.

The captain considered the astrogator’s proposal and then agreed. The weather had begun to turn dangerous again. That we should begin immediately did not need to be said. With the proper pressure brought to bear, we would have some measure of sanctuary from which to recover for a final push to the dome. It could be the difference between life and death, the astrogator said. If the atmosphere was breathable, we might even be able to give the captain some better solution to her pain.

I unclipped the astrogator’s equipment from his waist and threw it off the mountain that was the astronaut and watched it sail through the air and into the snow. Then I used my weapon to fry it where it lay. Then I threw my weapon into the snow, too, in a place where the featheriness would cover it and hide it forever. 

We were a team and I had helped my team while showing them I posed no threat—although I knew the astrogator and the captain would not see it that way. I stood there on the face plate that we could no longer open with the diminished tools at our disposal as they both yelled at me through the comms. It’s unimportant what they said to me. They were admonishing me for something that had already happened and that they had no power to stop. I did not bother to explain, but began to make the descent to the ground so we could once again take up the metal rope and make for the dome.

That in that frozen hellscape, the persistence of life in that manner, an oasis in the midst of nothing, could be categorized as a miracle.

ROGAN BROWN

This reply incensed him and he castigated me in words not used among members of a team that respect each other. Once more, I ignored him, but told him if our oxygen got low, he could have mine if we calculated he could make it to the base. I meant this, as I knew the odds were low anyway. I had hurt my knee taking the equipment from the astrogator and then making my way so rapidly down from the dead astronaut.

The astrogator did not reply, by which I knew he did not accept my answer.

The reason I took the tools and destroyed them is because the wind had told me something it had not whispered to the captain or the astrogator. The wind had not spoken to me before, so I believed what it told me. That the astronaut within the suit lived on, if unable to move. That what we saw on the outside and registered as ecosystem, as separate “plants” and “animals,” instead formed a composite life-form and that to crack open the suit or cut through the suit at a leg would have been a violation.

That in that frozen hellscape, the persistence of life in that manner, an oasis in the midst of nothing, could be categorized as a miracle. 

I would not snuff that out. I could not allow that to be snuffed out. But I remembered too how I felt looking at that vast and alien country behind the face plate. So calm, so comforted, overcome by the depths of an emotion I could not place. Would I replace that feeling with the feeling of seeing all those explorers dead within the other vast suit? Even as I become one of them? 

Because the planet had already told us the rules, the consequences, and the ultimate outcome. There are no odds so terrible that they could not be experienced, and in dozens of ways, in this place. 

So I trudged on and the astrogator cursed me and cursed me and called out my childhood and how badly I must have been brought up and how I must have cheated to pass the psych exams, and yet I had thought the same of him at various points during our journey.

See how beautiful the snow is, falling now, I said to him over the comms. See how precise and geometric this line we follow across this expanse. 

He did not reply, but a little later he told me he no longer believed in the line at all, and by his calculations he would get to the dome faster if he abandoned it and struck out on his own.

I could not stop the astrogator and did not want to, so I watched him become a smaller and smaller figure against the white until the white ate him up and I was alone.

X.

I have been walking a long time, visiting with the dead. Here, against an arch of heaven that appears no different than what I see directly in front of me. 

Jeff VanderMeer is the author of the critically acclaimed, bestselling Southern Reach series, translated into 38 languages. His short fiction has appeared in Vulture, Slate, New York Magazine, Black Clock, Interzone, American Fantastic Tales (Library of America), and many others.

Listen to Earth’s rumbling, secret soundtrack

The boom of a calving glacier. The crackling rumble of a wildfire. The roar of a surging storm front. They’re the noises of the living Earth, music of this one particular sphere and clues to the true nature of these dramatic events. But as loud as all these things are, they emit even more acoustic energy below the threshold of human hearing, at frequencies of 20 hertz or lower. These “infrasounds” have such long wavelengths that they can travel around the globe as churning emanations of distant events. But humans have never been able to hear them.

Until now, that is. Everyday Infrasound in an Uncertain World, a new album by the musician and artist Brian House, condenses 24 hours of these rumbles into 24 minutes of the most basic of bass lines, putting a new spin on the idea of ambient music. Sound, even infrasound, is really just variations in air pressure. So House built a set of three “macrophones,” tubes that funnel air into a barometer capable of taking readings 100 times a second. From the quiet woods of western Massachusetts, House can pick up what the planet is laying down. Then he speeds the recording up by a factor of 60 so that it’s audible to the wee ears of humans. “I am really interested in the layers of perception that we can’t access,” he says. “It’s not only low sound, but it’s also distant sound. That kind of blew my mind.”

House’s album is art, but scientists made it possible. Barometers picked up the 1883 eruption of the South Pacific volcano Krakatoa as far away as London. And today, a global network of infrasound sensors helps enforce the nuclear test ban treaty. A few infrasound experts—like Leif Karlstrom, a volcanologist at the University of Oregon who uses infrasound to study Mount Kilauea in Hawaii—helped House set up his music-gathering array and better understand what he was hearing. “He’s highlighting interesting phenomena,” Karlstrom says, even though it’s impossible to tell exactly what is making each specific sound. 

So how’s the actual music? It’s 24 minutes of an otherworldly chorus, alternating between low grumbling vibrations and soft ghostlike whispers. A high-pitched whistle? Could be a train, House says. An intense low-octave rattle? Maybe a distant thunderstorm or a shifting ocean current. “For me, it’s about the mystery of it,” he says. “I hope that’s a little bit unsettling.” But it also might connect someone listening to a wider—and deeper—world. 

Monique Brouillette is a freelance writer based in Cambridge, Massachusetts.

3 things Juliet Beauchamp is into right now

The only reality show that matters

The Real Housewives of Salt Lake City is one of the best shows on television right now. Not one of the best reality TV shows, but one of the best TV shows, period. Chronicling a shifting group of wealthy women in and around Salt Lake, the show has featured a convicted felon whom federal agents came looking for while cameras were rolling, a church leader married to her step-grandfather, and a single mom in an exhausting on-again, off-again relationship with an Osmond. In one season, there was an ongoing argument between two cast members after one told the other that she “smelled like hospital.” Later, one woman was secretly running an anonymous gossip Instagram about her fellow housewives. We can debate the “reality” of reality television, and it’s certainly true that these characters and scenarios are far-fetched. But every single person is dealing with something relatable—difficult marriages, failing businesses, strained relationships with children, addiction. It’s entertainment, and high camp, but I find that I still have a lot of empathy for these people.

The last good place(s) on Facebook

Facebook sucks. That’s not controversial to say, right? But there is one reason I still have a Facebook account: my neighborhood Buy Nothing group. The spirit of community and camaraderie is alive and well there—and probably in yours, too. A non-exhaustive list of things I have given away: empty candle jars, a bookcase, used lightbulbs, unopened toiletries, bubble wrap. I’ve scored a few good things as well: a gorgeous antique dresser that I refinished, some over-the-door hooks, and brand-new jeans. It makes me happy to know that stuff that would’ve otherwise ended up in a landfill is bringing one of my neighbors joy.

Going analog

I used to wear an Apple Watch a lot. I’m a pretty active person, and I liked tracking my workouts and my steps. But after I’d had it for a while, my watch started dying in the middle of a 30-minute run; it became useless to me, and I gave it up completely. Guess what? I’m happier. I feel more present when I’m not checking how much time is left in a yoga class or reading texts during a long run. The amount of data it gathered about me was also stressing me out, and it wasn’t useful. And I don’t need a wearable to tell me how poorly I slept! Trust me, I already know.

Now is a good time for doing crime

Eons ago, in 2012, I had a weird experience. My iPhone suddenly shut down. When I restarted it, I found it was totally reset—clean, like a new device. This was the early days of iOS, so I wasn’t too concerned until I went to connect it to my computer to restore it from a backup. But when I flipped open the lid of my laptop, it too was mid-restart. And then, suddenly, the screen went gray. It was being remotely wiped. I turned on my iPad. It, too, had been wiped. I was being hacked. 

Frantically, I shut down all my devices, unplugged everything connected to the internet in my house, turned off my router, and went next door to use my neighbors’ computer and find out what was going on. Deepening my panic, I realized hackers had also gained control of, and nuked, my Google account. Worse, they were in control of my Twitter, which they were gleefully using to spew all sorts of vile comments. It was nasty. 

You have to remember, this was before all of us lived with a constant rain of text messages and emails designed to elicit the information necessary to pull something like this off. These crooks hadn’t brute-forced their way in, or used any sort of sophisticated techniques to gain access to my accounts. Instead, they had relied on publicly available information, and a fake credit card number, to socially engineer their way into my Amazon account, where they looked up the last four digits of my real credit card number. Then they used that information to get into Apple. And because that account was linked to my Gmail, and that to my Twitter, it gave them the keys to everything.

But what really troubled me was what I learned as I followed up on my hack over the ensuing weeks and months: This kind of thing was, while still novel, becoming more common. Some version of what happened to me had happened to lots of other people. The kids who were responsible—it was a couple of kids—weren’t criminal masterminds. They had just found a gap, a place where a technology was now commonplace but its risks and exploitable surface areas weren’t yet fully understood. I just happened to have all my stuff in the gap. Today that gap might feature a crypto wallet or a deepfake of a loved one’s voice. (Or both.)

But those same new technologies that have allowed crime to outpace law have also reenergized law enforcement and government—offering new ways to root out crime, to gather evidence, to surveil people. Think, for example, of how cold-case investigators tracked down the Golden State Killer years after his murders, using DNA samples and genealogy databases—launching a new era of DNA-powered investigations. 

Technology has long made crime and its prosecution a game of cat and mouse. It sometimes calls into question the nature of crime itself. Unregulated behaviors, facilitated by technology, can exist in murky zones of dubious legality. (Until TikTok announced its new ownership structure, Apple and Google were both technically breaking the law by allowing the app to stay on their platforms, under the provisions of the Protecting Americans from Foreign Adversary Controlled Applications Act. Ah! Well. Nevertheless.)

That tension is the key to our March/April issue. Thanks to technologies like cryptocurrency and off-the-shelf autonomous autopilots, there’s never been a better time to do crime. Thanks to pervasive surveillance and digital infrastructure, there’s never been a better time to fight it—sometimes at the expense of what we used to think of as fundamental civil rights. 

I never pressed charges against the kids who hacked me. The biggest consequence of the hack was that Apple set up two-factor authentication in the following months, which felt like a win. Now I’m not sure anyone expects their personal data to be secure in any meaningful way. I’m certain, though, that somewhere on the net, a new generation of kids is coming up with another novel crime.