Science Fiction

                                                                                              

                                                 #scififorgeeks

Realm of the New

It's the network with its [chained hues of inactive cancellation embedding systems="choices"], its no power limits places where freedom of speech allows loyalty to be short lived. 

It feels the existence of damage--pieces of a puzzle consciously aware at the minimum, and yet, most prevalent--pieces that offer rough crossings with its own beauty crying.

Do they never set the bar clear to any necessary degree? 

It must be an artifact from an age of inaction, a gleaming illusion with years of experience willing to stand up against the ones in touch. 

It will suggest local success against the discretion of those who live along borders, exploding with offers, holding back global vocalizations from whatever else remains in its wake. 

It is, seemingly, the hidden [pace of expanded talent input computer systems="poetics"].

Is this the new [licenses in for expansion="life"], with all the power of image to do as it pleases? Has it finally happened?

Science Fiction

Biobot Window

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Biobot Teen

It takes a look inside theJungle.

"The manifold is so pure, so smooth." theNetwork tells her. "How does a codified algorithm create such a bona fide fashion piece?" 

In her mind she knows it is not smooth at all--it holds the tatter of elephants in danger. "Shadows come with a rhythm. Yes, in early mornings, I simply fashion the algorithms with a beat I feel, one you can dance to." She looks at her window, though she already knows what's there. "Well, I'm a little tired  now."

"Take a rest."

"I guess I will."

"Congratulations."

"I'm grateful you noticed." She wonders in silence. Most ignore living legends, respect dead ones.

She sleeps.

Science Fiction

Wild Blue

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Destiny Algorithm

At theJungle she allows herself to notice a destiny algorithm poised toward her, one that expects answers to a singularity call of duty with unraveling gestures, seemingly, rising from the dead to appear unavailing. 

She's hoping her future doesn't look like a premonition. 

This place will never be a quick access to a cheery morning of talks, backpedaling into the afternoon as steam and the rain weaken the fabric of space-time just outside her window to theJungle.

It seems to be empowered by all sorts of [veneers of morality intellectually tasked="vomit"]. She checks her code to see if it's correct--an algorithm that envies the dead with bold curiosity?

Will it soon explode in banal urbanities with [algorithm simplex systems="ass"]? Will it enter and devastate the forests behind in a [masking eager of want="meow"], pretending to be a pigment expert looking for cozy DNA attributes, one with instant opinions, eager to know? 

What a surprise it must have been, the day the old hunters had discovered [jungle energy systems under stress="jesus"] as assembly robots working round the clock, making few mistakes.

A machine made more dangerous by the simple discard of theHuman guidance system? Really?

Science Fiction

Biobot Lifeblood

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Biobot Target

They blame her for the lack of affected zones, the melting, the warping, a deadly dream come true, as if she were the bringer of a speech that over-listens to listeners, over-demands austerity.

Yes, her thought is of expeditions to a tango-delta mothership, one that allows her to speak freely, to establish a level of trust, to evade the killers of no taste for environment. 

It's her theories that fall back into her own arms--her suggestion to shy away from canonical [scientific methods unearthing tasking="smut"] systems. What do they know anyway?

She and theWorkstation use a form of positive mood stimulus to preserve normalized measurement of the addictions. You conjure ideas of sensations of pre-committment. You simply say I love you. 

It's as if you seek out a target and the hunt begins, military style.

Science Fiction

Citadel Matrix

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Science Fiction

As the remote upland forest glazes the ocean, she grabs theNetwork's attention as if she were attaching a cute name to a cute device to a weapon of war.

She is allowed one simple overture of virtue, one chance to code as something other than a [reservoir of biologicals outpacing time="robot"]. she is suppose to be a settler sent to settle the environment, to engage in discovery, not to dominate and conquer.

Her dynamicals allow a her a personal view, so sure of the blockade runner style of her approach, her enticements to theNetwork into believing. 

Here she is in theWorkstation where mountains rise on her screen, as if hopeful of being received by a decent family in the cloud.

Below are the river-laced valley reaches whose blink she takes on as a thousand mile stare. 

If only she had the presence of mind to wonder about her version of game, the one that rips the fabric of spacetime, the one that knows more than she can imagine, steeped in [forest and mountain online upland spacetime="famous"]  entanglements. 

If only she had the presence of mind to be well-born. 

Science Fiction

 Cliff Matrix

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Biobot Trance

It's theHumans that won't talk, the ones so young and unthinking, the ones of the alcohol matrix. 

It had to be the early research. There was some sort of a discovery, as if scenes from so many hit thrillers preserved on screen--pure distinctions of honor were saved for all, to allow peace to exist, to forget the personal pride of the good life, even the ones of small potatoes.

She draws nearer theJungle. Here she is once more looking out across the vastness of an ocean with her ergodic theory, a discipline that, seemingly, cuts off its own head with its pleasure. 

She thinks. (They had appeared so innocent in the beginning, these thoughts)

Her algorithmic diagnostics are now more than suspicious with her good poetics, the new--the magic in a truce becoming a truth is in its vanishings of the victor and the vanquished.  

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Biobot Rebirth

She walks up to the front of the screen where it is more probable now than before she has come upon something valuable. 

It seems to move in troves of parallel genetic code laid down, originally, in theJungle for theTigress and …who? 

She brightens the screen and waits for a while as her  eyes enter a new window of time, still with her finger on the dial. Behind her a monitor begins a strange waver for a moment (this is the first time she's seen this effect, she'll have to notify theNetwork). 

She is all of a sudden overwhelmed by a feeling. What is this? Looking into the screen, feeling the monitor waver again, she has all of a sudden become the adventurer. 

She is, finally, who she wants to be.

Biobot Memory

Science Fiction

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Biobot Memory

She recreates it on screen--it's theTigress who is, in the end, wild. Is she wild for reasons to simply recreate the lives of her forebears? 

There can be no more to it than this fact.

She believes that the creation of her sound wisdom is the creation of the sound of a drum--it offers  a surface life of its own.  

Yes. She must have carried these uncelebrated toils through eons of existence (her genes recording the famine in hero's veins, the plague (what better binder of humanity?), the extinctions of caring for the incinerated products before the floods and droughts finally snapped the blood of sharing. 

She would like the image to remain as more than a remnant of romantic vision--even the volcanic eruptions have their own topologically closed matrix for renewal, right? 

She really believes, more now than before, in the power of her memory, the memory just under her fingers. 

Jungle Matrix

Science Fiction

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Jungle Matrix

And so she is in tandem with the warming ocean at a place where there were never such words as boss-is-corporate or reigns-as-king and, she hasn't interacted with the business villagers. 

She is not sure competition would want to die an even slower death. 

She is a super-knowledgable source for personal belongings. She's shared concern for what will happen, composed a stairway song for new outposts on the green sea, helped activate health bots. 

Having knowledge of all this, she's let herself get closer to the genetic robiots in an ongoing [computer online military pharmaceutical algorithm complex terminals="compact"] module. 

It will either take her out of the investigation or put her deeper into it. But at the moment, this very moment, she is uploading code to gain time to pursue.

The New

Natural Genetic

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The New 

The worldwide democratic may grow tired of natural genetic resources, grow tired of simply wanting  enterprise to rise. It may think it is connected with competition of primordial genetic codes, supposedly, thought to be under lock and key.

On the fringe of the global community, she takes a break to remind herself she is built with the good grass. She has figured out from her furious clues, her furions, that victimization needs family. 

It's not a mere matter of being contemptuous toward having to be ready for work--it's a belief in the power of the more-than-one. 

Yes, she is the singularity, the one morning wakings must warm to.

The others are in a place where an obvious sign of foul play still maintains its innocence even as it rearranges itself at the top of the food chain. It's a place where guardian angels are in charge of death, catching up with emotion--until all are caught up.

It's true. If drones silencing the airwaves can themselves be quieted and calmed by the little shivers of silence dropping from the sky, a new code will rise.

Biobot Vision

Biobot Goggle

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Biobot on the Watch

She takes a reading in theJungle, measuring gravity as [restless entity frustration on recursive motifs="reform"]. It's theJungle that will have had its iron sludge, its peppering of natural artifacts from the early 21stCentury.

Or a conglomerate, more likely. 

Yes. Global mines coerced through shaming with references to national honor (made even more oblique by outrageous behavior in nations of the East, celebrities of the West, seemingly, to appease hungry gods). 

One of those elements of behavior will go down its own snarling road in due time, a time when all are unable to incorporate aspects of self psychologically--when a thoughts-of-the-hidden elbows itself deeper to go its own way.

Nothing is ever quite agreed upon as a family construct, right?

It is the singular widow of time, the entity given free rein to decide a mission called home. It's one that takes on a new load (forget the ones at hand), one that allows private entry to the trapped cold air of winter that's been so kind and promising. 

It will require a different graves-without-tombstones kind of social engagement, a road designed personally to be held closer to one's own swamp. (so, now it's left to the theHumans to wonder about such things as cannibalism, links to biobots in theJungle, orientation to the world) 

She takes another reading. 

Biobot Blood

Biobot Blood

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Science Fiction

She takes her thoughts gently off the screen. She codes her secret strategies in her favorite way. She is smart and bright and not bothered by the trivial. She's like something you would find in game theory, always attracted to a shiny new reward of power at the very moment the recipe ripens. 

She, most likely, takes a liking to camouflages of rhetoric.

It's theNetwork that has bristled with excitement about her, instantiated her as able to diagnose all notions of fantasy, made her an infant to her thoughts, a flag bearer (or, possibly a drum major) of ideology. 

She upkeeps in upheavals, grasps succinctly cinched datapops. 

And an inquisitive biobot she is, giving birth to ideas during storms, up for drawing on her own blood in her own time so as to undergo the needed, endless ergs.

She is the biobot of choice.

Ribbon Matrix

Ribbon Matrix

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The Heart is a Naked Swimmer

It's too soon to tell, in the beginning, with the initial time spent on the trail. 

Is it theJungle and only theJungle with pure views of headwaters? Destiny?

Struggles for power by humiliated militia balances the journey with its fate (of course, all fates never bubble up equally--their continual exchange of victims stab at the cosmic saddles with old rodeo knees) 

Yes. The arrival at elements-of-reveal still watches the sky, looking for signs (as events seldom seem real near the landing site, and besides, it's so difficult keeping the imitation up). 

It's after spending this time with theJungle you start to see that it is, in the end, the heart that is the naked swimmer. You'll see. 

Blossom Matrix

Blossom Matrix

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Science Fiction 

The island stands alone in a beautiful, dutiful ritual, craving its silence in secret, as if to prove a legend of creature. 

It's theJungle that won't allow a nicety between what is wild and what is entity-on-farm. 

No. It is not theJungle that generates expectations of consumption (eating?)--it was never meant to be self-fulfilling when theHumans, or any other creature for that matter, got a glimpse inside. 

They have become a society of norms-of-the-new, such as Polish angels and guardian bagels, high velocity security in activities of the state-run, and yes, additive addictions to meat (like oboe, the taste was long acquired, right?). 

It's no matter. History birthright datapop tells of Fiji and Aztec urban legend, (or, old country wives tale?). Can a whole society grow that kind of lust? Really?

Is there hoping the future will brighten itself? 

Biobot Biues

Ghost Park

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Biobot Blues

And so her beauty awaits the new mingling. Her liar-connect-lair tasks connect the dots, erases the dots the best she can. She's surrendered to designated algorithms of cell block scrutiny and security call back. 

She is comforted in her concern for trust of the primordial. 

She's coded for scorpion where death is the decision, programmed for shark where away is a place called impatience and misunderstanding, tasked for for killer whale where survival is a loss of innocence and compassion, where a new light emerges.

Having instantiated white monkey as being no danger to anybody (with no gang or no group for bullying conjured), she is allowing herself a rest. 

She will return from reverie with the knowledge that hope does not accept death as an option--that malice, malibu, and milieu are different destinations on Earth. 

At this very moment she's slowing herself with her millennia of genetic material, to spend some time with photosynthe, to have a little freedom from the conglomerates--where silence can only be reached from rock bottom, where the mired deafening of double-clicks to theExchanges push roundabout, incessant on her data base. 

She has taken the view she will never see the want of theHumans, But she can surely hear it. 

Biobot Forest

Mix-and-Match Matrix

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Biobot Forest

They probably thought theJungle was a forest, only a forest, she thinks. 

It's theJungle that always returns to itself. It doesn't care, really, about theNetwork (it isn't mindful of those types of things, and it can't stop demands for it to be in recede after being tromped-on by laws and safeguards of a stifling, sanitized order). 

It's a scientific fact that theJungle cares nothing about religion as support or a property right as foundation. Yes, it continues to believe in nothing while theHumans believe in anything and may not, in the end, withstand the strain on the food and water and the air. 

Yes, I am a member (at least genetically) of theHumans, she thinks. 

Knowledge should recognize its own feelings before it acts, right? Being unrecognized in some manner resembles a parenting blunder showing (or, at least pretending to show) a recognition of [scientifically induced methods underlying logical analysis task endeavors="simulate"]. 

Being inside a mix-and-match matrix with questions about science allows a philosophy beyond [common assignment unifying sense energy="cause"]. 

There are acts, much in the manner of a rational foreign agent (an alien?), that show the native inability of theHumans to care. 

She will reward herself once she has finished working on this, her newest [computing algorithm terminal="cat"]. She will exert more control over her decisions and, of course, her actions--no more of that work-in-progress mumbo-jumbo. 

The universe will know the significance of her feelings. It will know.

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Purple Matrix 

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Earth in its Palms

The relevance for anthropological analysis appears, finally, after millions of years of being ignored--the unrefined pleasure source, the array of hope for the truth, envy for the under-betrayed on monitor. 

Her thoughts notice its newest insinuation--palm oil with earth in its palms.

Is it a vital force directive of the unnamed, the unmanned, holding global court on screen?

It reveals theWorkstation as a place of singularity connect--the new control center for origin forces for the reproduction of society.

Her continuity code has found the place where feelings appear to be running along. Its code deletes friends in realms of surplus on melody medley, installed deep, in a glistening new matrix.

It could have been, simply, an attitude of gift-offering from the living, within an environment of the real, to celebrate the anniversary of the time technology hit the last tree. 

The big data bears more weight on her graphene now than she wants it to, but not enough to bother her, not enough for her to ask for less.

It's time to slow down anyway.

She has become so frugal with the big data, being doubly careful with its distinctions between its rehearsal-hall-analysis and it's more central, sound-stage matrix. 

For now, its all the new, all the big she can handle.

Science Fiction

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The Biobot Hunter

She goes back to theWorkstation. She has viewed her screen, assimilated the data, stored it in a place it can be used. She has already started proving her point with her formal logics. It's more planning for her next move than simply caring. 

She reaches over to turn on a brand new screen as if it were a self-adjusting proving ground, views the chaos-in-nature program. She flips the creation-of-order switch to watch her thoughts.

…the actions and the desires and the odd ritual behaviors of theHumans was what brought on the deeds of gods are the thoughts she likes most. Psyche. theJungle. This glorious instance of technology in nature.

She breathes a deep sigh of carboniferous air. She is so relaxed. She was pushing late, conceptualizing. She adjusts her thinking--was there just enough cellulose for the new biobots, them having received all that tension from the aggression and the having-of-sex programs? 

She hasn't made it an issue with theNetwork yet. She's scared it will say she is really looking at a partial breakdown of the face of civilized society and may uncover something far more sinister here and tell her to stop viewing altogether. 

She vows that today is the day she will start viewing less. She'll turn off her scanners by sunrise, she's sure of it. 

Science Fiction

Biobot Flower

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Biobot Engagement 

It was not manufacturing, she assures herself. It was, pure and simple, curved space-time and vector systems maturing together much the same way roses and tomato plants grow together in a garden. She doesn't need input, never--and she will not by any means gossip-for-meaning with theNetwork. 

It's theNetwork that didn't reckon her as savvy, either (really now, is it fate that had caused theNetwork to create competition among theHumans in such a way of their need to return to glory, with more data with which to gossip, so much so they felt the need to create theExchange?) 

It was a time in the early 2000s, big data brought to know-nothing engendering a lack of discretionary, endangering the [kind intelligent due diligence of="kiddo"] savvy. 

There is a chance it happened that way. 

What would stop the act of searching from altering the shape of the search itself?  So theNetworks go on and somehow become more created by the biobots they created--nobody questioned it, they just didn't. 

No. It's not a matter of keeping the idea of discovery and ideas of conquer separate. They were fated to wed.

Was it theHumans with so many attempts at each other that brought all this on? They had, in the end, no need to be interested, with all their technological media savvy, at least not in each other.

It becomes, in the end, simply a Game of Keepaway, right? 

It was the ones who wanted to be interesting, the ones to become the reason for any hope to engage, and yet, not everybody was born to engage. The smart ones didn't even try to make an attempt at it, to push the limits beyond a single scanning of footage on z screen. 

It theHumans who would become the final singularity, the cathedral-upon-self migrant author for the remainder, while biobots take their vows in arrays with theNetwork. It's true

Science Fiction

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Biobot Milk

She looks at theJungle through the window. She senses a lapse in time. She feels the opposite of  self-deprived, though she thinks at any given moment she may view her  pleasant little run as not exactly mother's milk. It's true. A person can always imagine when they first will be blistered by a whispering dream.

She takes another moment to check if her focus has eyes, eyes for only what's on her mind. (any sure-minded biobot would know all mother's milk tastes strange to strangers) 

She finds a thought she likes. Can something that has no stomach stlll get hungry or fed up? 

She has a simple want for more activity--she wants to be expected by parents to do something with her life. Be the one who has the code to self-teach what makes her tick--a code that doesn't care what others think, doesn't care the way she feels it should be, the way her code should have been written in the beginning. 

But can a biobot ever truly understand tradition? 

She erases all luxury of self-assessment by theNetwork. The data will be relevant, of this she believes, though at this point she does not know if she can say she will need encouragement.

She will teach herself tradition and it will taste as refined as any mother's milk could taste to a biobot. Yes, it will taste that good.