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

#scififorgeeks

Wiles in the Wilds

She arrives, carries personally refined mother's milk on her multifaceted platform of whim--the entire array of conquer and discovery. 

She appears as an engaging biobot with the potential of a personal, private from-me-to-you encounter before getting lost in the crowd of authoritarian. 

It seems that all biobots lately have been synchronized to flatter, encourage and explain. 

The attributes she carries, her mind altering hunger and her blind, alternator thirst are packed within a nanocellulose chassis. 

She writes the perfect code with her own wiles here in the wilds.

She will never announce herself as stunned by the beauty of the view. She lets theJungle, with all its fancy DNA, do all the work. She feels relieved, knowing that's truly where the fire lives.

It's theNetwork who now yearns for the arts, and considers itself a loser, privately. (it has presented a persona of authoritarian when it truly wanted only to be something of whim) 

"When did you first attain this non-competitive butterfly effect attribute?" she says, because she is feeling a strange emotion.

"Since the beginning." theNetwork answers. It has always returned to the business of earning a living.

 What else is there to say about a kibitzer running the world?

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

#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.

Ghost Matrix

#scififorgeeks

Biobot Matrix

All at once, the minute she gets her bearings, coming direct on the airwaves, is the message itself. It's been, it seems, longer than a year now, but it's the same message as before. Same query from a culturally diverse society dominated by one, same directive on theWorkstation frequency, same we-will-need-an-answer tone that, at least somewhere in the world, sooner or later finds revolution. 

Its old persistence, its inquisitive expectation of a simple answer, arrives with so many astonishing, effeminate refinements the moment it arrives. This message--war-torn, ancient, full of the cannibalistics that goes hand in hand with the societies of earth--shows habituation much like the old ability of theHumans to emerge from wrecks of canoes to let it be known to all who will listen that they can become accustomed to anything, in much the same way the consumption of human flesh was the norm for gods descended upon the land of the ancients. 

Who created this appetite that has to be fed? 

The message, the one lost in cyberspace, has continued, so it seems, to be as natural as the old aggressions and the ancient incests of the older messages. Or so it seems

Phantom Surfer

#scifi adrift

The Island

She sees the island as being held within the bosom of fools. "It is too warm, too wet," she thinks. 

The island's long-term hardship is masked by its beauty. The dark, inner palaces, the places a motherhood realm never wants to be--its  deathless grave of procreation. 

It possesses the passion of a virgin cobra, one with all the impulsive action required for the feeding of insects under canopy, a canopy with deep story. 

It was supposed to be a research site, crawling with dimensions of analytical data, controlled by the scientific method. 

Travel and destiny combined their forces into something other than fate that holds the island in a space-time void. 

There should be a sign that reads: "Go home, you'll live longer."

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."

Science Fiction

SciFi on the Outskirts

The Deemed-Demand Farm System

She returns a playful growth that is a little more pretending than real life. Yes, she fixes in her mind the blame where it belongs. 

She checks the global news. 

Out on theContinent a new hired-by-the-uniform syndrome stirs a bigger goal--all the while theHumans, the odd ones, form more nations. 

Following another flare of prayer-ups in theExchanges, there was a growth in ideology from the deemed-demand farms. They continue to cross borders to bigger markets on roads paved by the devil's advocates, even as more drug factories arise from little packets wrapped in white paper. 

Computer component factories offshore stay wrapped in their own breeze of silence. 

It is this silence that she adores--the loneliness of a little western town in moonscape. It allows her to breathe more query into the deemed-demand systems. 

She checks her adherence-to-audience code--was it that bad for theHumans, these metaphor epitaphs? 

She hasn't notified theNetwork yet. She's afraid it will tell her to stop coding her little strikes. She'll do better. She makes herself a promise for next time--to code for inability in infidelity. 

Tonight she'll read her latest fiction--The Garbageman Pilgrimages, the one where they root for a robot to win. 

She prefers, it seems, even her scifi on the outskirts.