AI is asbestos in the walls of our tech society, stuffed there by monopolists run amok. What I do not do is predict the future. No one can predict the future, which is a good thing, since if the future were predictable, that would mean we couldn't change it. Now, not everyone understands the distinction. They think science-fiction writers are oracles. Even some of my colleagues labor under the delusion that we can "see the future". Then there are science-fiction fans who believe that they are the future. A depressing number of those people appear to have become AI bros. These guys can't shut up about the day that their spicy autocomplete machine will wake up and turn us all into paperclips has led many confused journalists and conference organizers to try to get me to comment on the future of AI. That's something I used to strenuously resist doing, because I wasted two years of my life explaining patiently and repeatedly why I thought crypto was stupid, and getting relentlessly bollocked by cryptocurrency cultists who at first insisted that I just didn't understand crypto.

John Scalzi is a voluble man. He is the author of several New York Times best sellers and has been nominated for nearly every major award that the science-fiction industry has to offer--some of which he's won multiple times. Over the course of his career, he has written millions of words, filling dozens of books and 27 years' worth of posts on his personal blog. All of this is to say that if one wants to cite Scalzi, there is no shortage of material. But this month, the author noticed something odd: He was being quoted as saying things he'd never said.

Since the genre's inception, science-fiction writers have imagined what the future might hold for Earth and beyond. While their stories are often fantastical, many of them anticipated technologies that actually exist today, such as television and artificial intelligence. However, countless more made predictions that were absolute whiffs. While many sci-fi authors envisioned the possibilities of nuclear power, Philip K. Dick's "The Land That Time Remembered" got specifically stuck on the idea of a society where humans washed their hands with "soap dispensers powered by the almighty atom," and where "torrents of soap spurted forth by means of the forces that birthed the universe." Still cherished today, "Twenty Thousand Leagues Under the Sea" brought us Jules Verne's dreams of electric-powered submarines, tasers, and other technologies that were unheard of in 1870.

"We are going to speak of the future," the Polish writer Stanisław Lem wrote, in "Summa Technologiae," from 1964, a series of essays, mostly on humanity and the evolution of technology. "Yet isn't discoursing about future events a rather inappropriate occupation for those who are lost in the transience of the here and now?" Lem, who died in 2006 at the age of eighty-four, is likely the most widely read writer of science fiction who is not particularly widely read in the United States. His work has been translated into more than forty languages, many millions of copies of his books have been printed, and yet, if I polled a hundred friends, 2.3 of them would know who he was. His best-known work in the U.S. is the 1961 novel "Solaris," and its renown stems mostly from the moody film adaptation by Andrei Tarkovsky. Among Lem's fictional imaginings are a phantomatic generator (a machine that gives its user an extraordinarily vivid vision of an alternate reality), an opton (an electronic device on which one can read books), and a network of computers that contains information on most everything that is known and from which people have a difficult time separating themselves.

In Octavia E. Butler's novel "Parable of the Sower" (1993), a climate-change Book of Exodus set in a scorched mid-twenty-twenties California, a preacher's daughter named Lauren Oya Olamina tries to convince a friend that their world has veered off course. Disaster surrounds their fortified suburb of Los Angeles: water shortages, a measles epidemic, fires set by drug-addicted pyromaniacs, and bandits who prey on the unhoused multitudes that roam the lawless highways. Outsiders throw severed limbs over the walls of their neighborhood, "gifts of envy and hate." Lauren knows it's time to get out: I'm talking about the day a big gang of those hungry, desperate, crazy people outside decide to come in. I'm talking about what we've got to do before that happens so that we can survive and rebuild--or at least survive and escape to be something other than beggars. . . .

WILEY & HALSTED, No. 3 Wall street, have just received SYMZONIA, or a voyage to the internal world, by capt. As literary landmarks go, it's not quite Emerson greeting Whitman at the start of a great career. But this humble advert may herald the first American science-fiction novel. Although one might point to the crushingly dull "A Flight to the Moon," from 1813, that text is more of a philosophical dialogue than a story, and what little story it has proves to be just a dream. "Symzonia; Voyage of Discovery" is boldly and unambiguously sci-fi.

What rights does a robot have? If our machines become intelligent in the science-fiction way, that's likely to become a complicated question -- and the humans who nurture those robots just might take their side. They spark the thought experiments that generate award-winning novellas like "The Lifecycle of Software Objects," and inspire Hollywood movies like "Arrival." Chiang's soulful short stories have earned him kudos from the likes of The New Yorker, which has called him "one of the most influential science-fiction writers of his generation." During this year's pandemic-plagued summer, he joined the Museum of Pop Culture's Science Fiction and Fantasy Hall of Fame.

The science-fiction writer and futurist Stanisław Lem was well acquainted with the way that fictional worlds can sometimes encroach upon reality. In his autobiographical essay "Chance and Order," which appeared in The New Yorker, in 1984, Lem recalls how as an only child growing up in Lvov, Poland, he amused himself by creating passports, certificates, permits, government memos, and identification papers. Equipped with these eccentric toys, he would then privately access fictional places "not to be found on any map." Some years later, when his family was fleeing the Nazis, Lem notes that they escaped certain death with the help of false papers. It was as if the child's innocent game had prophesied a horrific turn in history, and Lem wonders if he'd sensed some calamity looming on the horizon--if his game had sprung "perhaps from some unconscious feeling of danger."