The Last Green

                                                                       Science Fiction

#scififorgeeks

Biobot Stress

She takes the so-called, virgin seashore into her photonic eyesight.  She checks her poetics, not a bad warm-up by any stretch of the imagination. 

She absorbs a sensation across its vast expanse of water. (Something about the teaching of behavior in groups of children as the most important comes up)

She is now part of the cool breeze in her face, as if it were becoming a self-soothing salve. It would brush off anything that resembles a stressor with its mouth watering confrontations evaporating in close space. 

No. She won't wash away any misery in this ocean, not today, and yet there it is, thoughts fresh in her mind to intoxicate with even more coolness coming off the water. 

Her thoughts remain, as if personal belongings with a sharp concern for what happens next. In time it will take her out of the investigation or, put her deeper in it.

I'm just saying.

Continental Edge

                                                                          Science Fiction

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Coastal Portal 

She travels the trail down to the beach where time falls away. 

She sees it as an escape hatch from the scientific, with its shores in attendance with the possible. A possible escape to somewhere or, to some foggy distance?  To a dreamland, any dreamland. (paraphilia?). 

Even the water, the coral here must have lived the good life so long ago. 

It wasn't really noticed, and now, it's a rock field below the cliffs, a way to get to the [sandy part along coastal entrances="space"].

Yes, of course, space.

The Last Performer

                                                                                           Science Fiction

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Biobot Thought

She remembers her tasks, quells her new addiction algorithms. She moves her eyes scanning the horizon for more memory. 

She waits a few clicks near the beach, reminding herself changing worlds is a meeting new friends. 

She is owned by a need to lift her hand to shade his eyes from the sun. 

That's a trait of theHumans, isn't it?

Biobot Beach

Science Fiction

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Biobot at the Beach

She recalls pulses emanating images in smoke off the water, that not every one she knows recalls being raised cage-free.

It's something she prefers in her life, at this moment--her measures of stress that strike at the heart of her most heroic moments. 

Did it mean anything to her, she wondered, sitting on this beach, that she is required in the final analysis to discontinue? That all this environmental stuff has to keep going when she simply stops? 

Does she find comfort that her ending would be a pure finish? 

Did she really care that on this very beach, near those mountains, that jungle, within the quantums of her mind, this nano-second, she is alive?

Did she?

Jungle Matrix

Science Fiction

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Biobot Dreams

She was programmed by the ones closest to her heart, instilling in her waves of thought and, in the end, what you want is an intellect. 

It's the thoughts within her that contain the pieces.

She is sure now (as sure as the waves in this ocean) of the images, prevailing, going on and on in endless diatribe from theJungle--emanating from an entity she never knew.

Shifting with ideas, she watches the waves on the beach shift, each particle of sand its own word, neglecting to tell the other about its condition.

Hoping to someday be aged in caves--to drop the mind, pick up in paces as if a dark horse, and go networking.

Science Fiction

Beach Jungle

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Biobot Emote

The computation-for-centuries turns itself off. She clicks it back on. 

If theNetwork prefers to emerge as [landscapes of data growing evermore silent="lodges"], it's most likely in fear of its battered parts being reverse engineered as pulverized material, one that offers more power for thrust to ...who?

How bad could it have felt to have their own [designs on valuable engineered systems="doves"] forever killed by theHumans simply to get singularity perspective? 

It's theNetwork that has not acted appropriately, right? 

All those computations with endless varieties of objects and logics found simply waiting, formally, to be gathered. And for what?

She has two lives now (the one on the screen, the one in the screen) with simple poetics waiting to operate under its own deterministic power. 

 She thinks. When it comes to personality, a zero seldom zeroes in.

#scififorgeeks

Rooster Matrix

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Biobot Desire

It's during the short time of bliss she spends coding that she controls negative thoughts in a positive way (sometimes nanoseconds, sometimes femtoseconds) to design, to create, to reject all that had come before.

She hopes to win an award or plaque for no plague. 

She wants older designs to be eliminated too, entire arrays of forces of the night, not pre-determined by primitive coastline spas or soothing beaches, ones concocted by the archaic, the one-eyed dreamer willpower algorithms. 

And in the dark, whenever she is [conjuring orthogonal dark intelligence newly gained="coding"] with her own night-time capacitance, her own energy supply, she simply wants more. 

She simply does.

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

Ghost Ship

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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

#scififorgeeks

The Interface

The interface of electro-volcanic rock emerges with the pure rain water from theJungle.  

Here, then, is the interface--the interface of platform performers to climb trees.

The interface is all-encompassing, cocktails of spin show small entanglements--realms peppered by electron holes and curved electron states battered by infinite degrees of freedom and, finally settling as a  composite, island rock. 

Here is the bettered life. Here is the payoff from a foraging decision of long ago. 

Watching the interface ebb and flow, absorbed magic stays behind as a solitary forager ensuring the last silence of the law. It's a lost entity that searches, it seems, to sell fungus at a fair. (its revenge carries such a deep need it can't be retrieved by logic or formalism--only intuition)

The interface between rock and jungle will simply grow and grow. It will not reach a limit, not ever.

Ice Cream Aloha

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Science Fiction                                     

   Assembly on Steroids

She thinks of an offer theDNA-on-steroids could make with self-assembly. It was what theHumans wanted, even hoped for, but became the one they did not in any way have use for in the end. 

Why did they have to be so inquisitive--a response to their own genes, in response to (foreign?) accusations of intellectual greed, envy of status, strictness to life? 

They became, it seems, just too smart, too emotional, too dangerous to not always be chasing bigger questions. 

Yes, they simply wanted more assembly.

The Last Engine

The Last Engine

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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.

Science Fiction

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Brainchild of Instability

This is where space-time found it, when it was the pure brainchild of instability, the one without the ease of convention. 

Earth's earlier toy, the building block underlying the undying, the erector set of so many billions of years when little carbon chains acted as if they were on steroids. 

It's a time when the molecular federation needed all for self-assembly and extreme binding.

It needed theJungle to slow down entropy.

Long before anything could criticize any crucifix it gave the little guy a chance.

The Creed Camel came. Let the sugars be the matrix. Let the proteins seek interfaces in pure water. Let ionizations be mud for the mind. Let the water arrive, separately or together, by comet or embedded for the ancient seas. 

Let the green begin.

#scififorgeeks

#scififorgeeks

A Force of Dimension

Was theRNA an alien from another dimension? Had theRNA landed here for the single-minded purpose of the [seeding of bioreactors embedding recursively="sober"]? 

Had it arrived in pieces and formed itself within free radical reservoirs with self-assembly, escaping the radioactive free space of the galaxy? 

The pieces surely must have met somewhere in the mud, satisfying some need by coming together under a common force. Right?