I started a science fiction story back in 1986 about a small device called an "Immuexus", which was essentially a tablet computer with a semantic user interface. Instead of a mouse or touchpad, the user used a special pen that served three purposes: first, it was used as a pointer for the screen, much like a mouse; second, it could scan text (and OCR it) while reading a book, line-by-line; third, it had gyro-like sensors, so you could use it to navigate a 3D visualized space by tilting it forward and back, left and right. Back in 1986, this really did seem like science fiction, though now it'd pass as merely cool. To make things interesting, I made a couple of "zero mass design" assumptions in the story, such as infinite memory and endless battery life.

The machine was more than an impossibly big hard drive with some decent capture hardware, though. Its user interface stole the show. People used the pen to navigate in a three-dimensional space of nodes and links, with similiar nodes appearing together and bits of data floating around their unifying topics like asteroids adrift in a semantic solar system. Not only did the machine let you capture a lifetime of data, it helped you organize it all as we do in our brains: a messy interconnected tangle of memories and reflections.

The story itself begins as Sam, chief designer of the machine, arrives in the Virgin Islands to visit his friends Peg and Sonny. He brings an Immuexus to give to Peg and Sonny. He wants them to be the first non-technical testers, using it to record every facet of their lives: the books they read, the music they listen to, the television they watch, their diaries, notes, scribblings ... everything.

Peg at the time is pregnant. She and Sonny begin pouring themselves into the machine, telling their unborn child about their favorite music, their family histories, their daily thoughts. When they read a book, it goes into the machine. When they hear a song, it goes into the machine. At any time, they can add their own commentary, much like scribbling in the margins.

The child is born, and while he grows up, Peg and Sonny continue to add knowledge to their trusty Immuexus. Each stage of their son's life is recorded: first words, refrigerator drawings, graduation pictures. All the while, the daily details of their shared family life go into the machine, which by now has evolved a very elaborate semantic structure, very peculiar to Peg and Sonny's way of seeing things.

Here's the twist. Peg and Sonny pass away before their granddaughter is born. Their son gives the Immuexus to his daughter, who then uses it as she grows up. When she scans something she's reading, say "Huckleberry Finn", an indicator lights up, meaning there's commentary attached to that concept, perhaps a sound clip by Grandpa Sonny. When she's listening to Buffalo Springfield, a little flashing light appears, leading to a movie clip of Peg dancing with her two-year old son.

Now comes the question: how much of Peg and Sonny can survive? How well will their granddaughter get to know them? How much of us can we leave behind: our attitudes, our interconnections, our aspirations?

Eventually, I took the science fiction out of the story and transformed into into my half-finished novel. The technical ideas gave birth to an architecture called Gravity, which was a kind of URL/HTTP/RDF attempt with cognitive agents thrown in. Both projects became my primary obsessions for the next five years or so, till about the time the Web took off, when I got distracted by other things.

I'm guess I'm back at it again, chasing the same dream, sixteen years later. What's old is new again. Who knows, maybe I'll finish the novel too.