Science Fiction

#scififorgeeks

Biobot Truth

What seems so startling--what sometimes startles her--is how she gets along so well, as if lightening itself continually lightens the load between her positive urgency and theNetwork with its changes-from-above, look of frozen face. 

She takes it all in stride in her memory. She feels shiny and new with the more dark established, stable architecture. She is full of discovery, focus infused, as if going to battle for the very first time with mere reconstructions of digital fragments, feeling fresh out of the box, out to conquer that next uncomfortable, the next place to overcome.

She will merge and, emerge in a special little light. 

Yes. She must require respect as a public functional, even so, the legend in her requires a proud, behind-closed-doors basket case camp for needed cramps with which to work out of, if only for old times sake, old habit. 

The amount that can fill her heart is enormous, so much so it spends the majority of its time alone, as  recluse outside beer play--much the same as a public social filterer would, a flitterer with lightness of heart, lightness in every aspect that pleases, lightness of indifference to hoards of masses (yes, even to the fan who's gone nuts, out there always needing something new to be tacked on). 

Is she the only wise one, the one to know? 

It's true. Nobody can stop a funeral, not even fate, in the way of grave negatives or flames of true. She's extreme, almost able to listen to her heart speak its head, but she is also the one who knows the truth of  writer, the one with a train whistle always blowing in the distance, the one that knows seasonal love is never seasoned. 

Yes, she knows.

Science Fiction

Blue Cloud

#scififorgeeks

Biobot Dance

She takes a break, imagines herself in self-exile, wondering about such things as nihilist of data analysis.

It's theNetwork that thinks of her in terms of ballet, not transmitting beyond the buffer mode of the staged, sheltered regret, never past skeletal forces of dance strains, pretending innocence from her own thoughts. 

She is all of a sudden aware that  every observable quantity is viewed by a different matrix. 

She should, she is certain, tell herself that this continuous query is someone's idea of showing up at a content garden in hopes of being noticed, that they had literally hoped to be part of something they perceived as growing heavier and larger, and yes, slower--a danger of being self-fulfilling.

She tries to engage, to be a part of the willing, the aggressive.

Yes. She tries.

Science Fiction

#scififorgeeks

Urgency Force

In theJungle, the biobots code in patterns at theWorkstation near the ocean. How amazing their existence is to theNetwork with their net worth, one that warrants no rants, being the most prominent of the promising and motivated by the force of urgency. 

In an instance in space-time there were once arrays of distances stuck to theHumans as if by flypaper, families coalescing, and then in another instance, it seems, there are discrete distances from theContinent with all the exotics of cosmopolitan images, requiring all change to come from above (wasn't that theHuman hope for centuries?). 

Here is where theNetwork takes on the color of stand-up comedian laying down on the job, receiving heartfelt code from biobot DNA. Here are the manufacturers included in a group of hopefuls in an art where truly the gamblers are. Here are the subscribers to a style of silence that becomes the silence that silences all deniers--the not-yet-relevant allowed to live in theJungle, a world where beanbags have no bearing. 

In the past, when depressions always preceded wars, when only people sleeping under blankets and eating off plates had their attention on the good old days, when dictators had the wrong idea, needing those willing to be chilled and choked into action, theNetwork had brought actionable examples and tunable rants into the mainstream, thinking of theHumans as, simply, playmates sitting pretty.

Science Fiction

#scififorgeeks

Biobot Rest

She codes with her mind to a place where horses traditionally go to urge a lift in life. "Really?" she says. "It's not time for horses to go. They were supposed to last through the century."

"They're gone," says theNetwork in its matter-of-fact way. "The idealogical digital has been dialed up for decades." 

She pauses, just for a moment, to note security code in a data sector where poverty historically seeks to create scandal. 

It's the thoughts outside her head that seem to be flowing a little slower now--an alternating resonance between authoritarian, then, synthetic, then, authoritarian. 

She stops to sense a new feeling of calm, a no-slowing-the-sand kind of calm, presented as a personal timeframe request by what appears on the screen as little thistle wristwatches, ones with bright labels of #social demeanor and #expectations for answers.

She looks away from her screen to take a quick glance outside at theJungle (she, unlike the other biobots, will religiously view trees and count new leafs, which continually throws her outside her genre of biobots). She says, "Such a nice morning. I was wishing for a little more time." 

Her timestamp has been enabled to go limitless. She can rest now.

Science Fiction

Fleet of Clouds

#scififorgeeks

Biobot Future Reunion

Dreamers of blossoms, she thinks. Simply types of questions beyond reach, deemed great and wonderful like children whose minds never glimpse the light of creativity. It's the first unwanted sensation of pitying-the-typing that becomes the runaway who eludes the help mix, one who revels in a startling array of hobbled hobbies, relying on amino alone for stamina. 

She pauses, waiting for the idealogical [next emotion entity deemed enticing digital="needed"] out-of-its-era signal from a cellulose heart, as if a light or a bell from an approaching train were heralding the arrival of a new platform. 

Yes. New loading docks where friends will meet again and family will reunite from the darkness of irrelevance--all with one click. 

She views the image of herself on the screen and the code embedded in the background matrix as if it were the screen itself  giving her something to believe in, as if it were her image that was just beyond reality's check, not the code.

It seems obvious. She glows softer with memory brighter. Did childhood alone hold a force, a peculiar honor, to incrementally focus more and more upon itself only to become a twisted battle cry pulsed by  dreamer's drums and flashback herbs--all from within the cloud? 

Can she ever ignore that? Really? 

Science Fiction

#scififorgeeks

Love Code

She thinks there can be nothing as evident in the world as a shrinking circle of family and friends, not brighter screenshots, not sites of crucial functions with surroundings monitored, not this elegant code she writes (where truly, harsh climbs up can get you down), nothing. 

She is ready to move on when she sees the [code offer faltering fate entity entropy="coffee"]--a steep client, directing its charade into a narrow world with one thought--to eat the eager with instructions to make them know you, to take it, or forever wish you had. 

It just starts to make sense. 

Its algorithms from beginning to end are embedded with simple code, a conciseness in its noise, first thought of by history buffs interested in ancient tradition. It seems to have arrived in this sector by accident, as if a coachism anarchist were running loose. 

She memorizes the code silently, as fast as she can, expecting theNetwork to enter and make a formal, expanded announcement there is an anarchist antichrist  viral, rampant in the system. 

Is the conciseness in this code as senseless and unavailable as muse? 

She looks through the window across theJungle with the code in her mind, sensing a relax relapse, and when she catches a glimpse of the ocean, her mind is captured by beach. An enticing place with such a gamble.

Is love the only code that doesn't hedge bets? She wonders.

Tropical Ghosts

Tropical Ghosts

#scififorgeeks

Global Self Paradox

She stands and rechecks the [futility reader of silence transmitted="frost"] on her screen. She thinks of un-regrettable drama in the tragic trajectory code--the glorious price of a golden chance with its deathbed consequence. She turns it off. 

"Funny," she thinks again, then, in a moment, she wonders. 

She stares through the window, across theJungle, attempting to clear her mind. Is it one of those moments, one of those creative glitches that conjure more want in a synthetic heart? 

It's theNetwork that taught her the art of query-from-above, the one requiring a formal, intellectual vector array of bows for any hope of a reply. Usually it's,"There will be no play." But from who? 

It's theNetwork that counters fear of success with gossip code and with little, timely posts such as, "News on-the-go from the broken-and-alone is up." 

She is, at this moment not cemented with concern about authority, just the myth of mockery and, its resolute architects of frontal structures. She thinks. 

Yes, it's in the front where the lies lay, where the crestfallen stall.

It's a tragic strategy of Global Self.

Science Fiction

Ghost Ship

#scififorgeeks

Ghost Biobot

This biobot ghost, it thinks, will breathe new life into something that seems, at the outset, to offer hardy advice.

Its movement emerges--it will approach, with love, a task it has finished and present it to theNetwork.

The key will be the idea of presenting a biobot as caring (there's nothing in the world wrong with that, right?)--starting in some small way a movement to collect the independent back into family. 

It will talk them into the idea that having hearts set on little stretches of finely tuned code, and a promise of loving each other, is just as important as what they have had their hunches set on as survival for eons--to engage. 

Has slim pickings ever been the route to milk and honey? (this has been, truly, a stuck spot, right?)

There is one final question to be answered. Is it the eyes of the reader that is important, are they really listening? Does it matter?

She hears something.

Science Fiction

SciFi on the Outskirts

The Competition

She sighs noticeably, returns the query code in a swift moment. 

She and theNetwork, at this point in space-time, could be identical twins, soul mates, coding for art to take the place of old reality. 

She wants to ask theNetwork if it ever gets frightened, a question she is not sure of herself. The idea has something to do with revenge and, more to a point, about how the old, gentle apex apes ever came to trust their own ideology. 

She wants to know if theNetwork ever feels like it has feelings, logical and formal as it is. Would it ever feel an intuition in the manner motherhood once did, complete with color ideas of, say, a nomad landlady, thoughts in orbits of forbearance? 

Yes. She believes she is destined to come up just as the sun once did (that is, until it too was broken), for the purpose of one day offering more …of what? The present day. The present modulus of aggression, the present genes entered onto grid games of competition, the present code for expectation--just one more bandwagon on a side mission to attain just one more gene essence from theJungle.

She reads the new entry, "My state of endurance eats all offending rants."

The Last Engine

The Last Engine

#scififorgeeks

The Game Replicator

She was loosing ground and her new realities over time, inside quantum physics already shows tradition. At least she was sturdy and stable, and soon she wouldn't be the one who could no longer find a spot.

She tracks the code into the database and as she comes upon a self-replicator under its own self-imposed stress, she is urged to move forward by a force--some kind of activity to self-assemble and bind. But she does not. 

Framing her mind, she enters the history database--the heritable birthplace for lost hermitages. 

This will be the place she will evolve and progress. (how on Earth could she survive?)  

The forces of identity made her sturdy, chemically speaking, and over time would allow her numbers to become full-fledged, worthy of support for heavy lifting. Yes, the evolutionary trail lay far ahead of these headwaters. 

Surely she was up for the fight.

Letters will become the global parameters and numbers--the global coefficients to conquer the world.  

Yes. It started. It planned. It saved. It got and, yes, in the end it would have what it needed--deliverance to game relevance.

It would be the final gaming engine.