Science Fiction

                #scififorgeeks

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Biobot Business

She stands up as hero against technology force--pulses seemingly teaching her poetics. 

She appears as a history figure with knowledge from the past. Days of heroism are where love stretches into bravery, where animations of truth are magnified by solitude.

Deceit only presents itself as an image of rhythmic shocks in [the unpredicted nemesis entity systems="tunes"]. 

She sees it as that, as if she were born by faith without family.

She records the sectors where she makes it rain, where theDNA weaves in baskets. She records it as unaccountable forces of design. 

Her [flow and control aiming data embedded="facade"] is a direct and economical style, not yet a lifestyle--just reporting events, never explaining. Simply accepting and suggesting in degrees of freedom of happiness. 

It's the reason she was built.

Science Fiction

                        Outpost Matrix

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Biobot Poetics

She is not coding pointed or direct, and it seems there is not much more control she can garner at this point. (At least by the time she is finished with this algorithm she'd have completed a to z, smile to frown storytelling) 

She tracks her logic into the database. As she comes upon code for no money, no politics--the ones that appear to hide in the dark--she feels the sensation of want. 

She feels the urge, in a nanosecond, to stop for a moment to ponder, as if stopping by a virtual brook on a snowy eve (the kind of romantic eves in her database). 

Feeding a pure writing, she continues into the database with her poetics. She finds more souls dressed in cement, cons taking, it seems, the same ride their dad did. 

Her logic is the writer. It helps her find the emotion--she will depend upon it as she always has. 

It will be the new, chocolate-heart eucalyptus in planks of artistic realm, placements for new platforms--ones of a solitary, healing code that will take great pains to cure. 

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?

Science Fiction

                                                            theJungle 

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The Memoirs 

The pulse indicates the next best thing in the making, unaware of the others cleaning sites, marking new targets, brushing away theJungle as if in the middle of a golf shot. 

It moves to alter its intensity. It's as if it were alive. 

It is beyond all perimeter scanner entities, coming from a place unable to be determined by location. 

It is aware, seemingly, of all the other times it moved, as if it were one a corpse, now animated. 

Its signal is found beyond the rows created by theHumans, the ones in line to take a turn, out of reach of the changes that are to come, changes unable to touch any of their memoirs. 

She feels in theJungle a rise of her next poetic. She thinks. A quiet, playful wit is a far cry from a half. Is it so difficult to predict the new favorites for gold and money? 

No. Even the moody ones, sooner or later, will have to say yes to her. She knows it. It's the beauty of it.

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

Sailing Matrix

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Military in Science

She changes her appearance and checks the [symbol of legacy in intelligence data algorithmically recursive integrity tasking yields="solidarity"] news. An articulate, hopeful mob of pure science military is gone from the screen. (They could by now be back inside the database)  

At theWorkstation she checks the monitor for things talked about but never grown strong enough to form the basis of a political party or even deemed politics.

She doesn't like the ones who put a sinister spin from a staged platform of platitudes depicted as  motherhood--the ones who won't stand up to their ideals (whose numbers are shrinking and may, in fact be going extinct anyway). 

She knows about the massive allowance for the global scientists to politically exist (not faring much better), but doesn't feel history is at its edge just yet. 

Her electronic circuit and molecular-sized thoughts are, seemingly, a threat--they prove the lack of discovery of molecules with god particle properties beats its own drum in the universe. 

I'm just saying. 

Science Fiction

                                                                                          Hula Matrix

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Biobot Thought

Here comes theNetwork, the one entity who cares from the place with room for so few to succeed. It is more assertive than it needs to be, but not overly assertive. Not so assertive it needs yet another investigation.  

Here it comes. It's inquisitiveness enters into her electronic property. 

She, seemingly, has control of the molecules of the material that comprise her. Carrying the bulk of the property of her material, she sometimes forgets about its interfaces. They think they're the ones in play.  

It's the questions about her [heuristic expressive analog learning="heal"] systems of theExchanges. The point where nature enters into her mind, her geo-spacials. 

She has begun to think.

Science Fiction

Duckling Matrix

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Biobot Poetics

She draws on the one thing that cares for her the most, her poetics. The only part of the world to adore is its ignored. Really?

She thinks of her own ideas, comparing in rationalisms intertwined with the footage of counting it out, forgetting it all, saying it was a joke on the screen--relying on one final chat on a beautiful terrace outside a ballroom as the last remedy.

Her words are, truthfully, among her most trusted companions--forever seeing with their own eyes, they know deep. No amount of time together warrants a killing.

With her deepest of thoughts, the view seems situational, sooner or later cutting a deep edge for her to someday have a lively, bright future.

“You shouldn't feel you have to wait if you don't want to, right?" she says.

Science Fiction

                                                                                                            Future Window

                                        #scififorgeeks

Networking Parent

For the moment theNetwork thinks she is [living in a parent's reality shadow="liars"], wondering if she has created a new time element in theDNA. There are questions of unravelings, messages of distortion. 

It from authoritarian places on theContinent, she from her exposed, and yet, protected position here at theOutpost. 

It's theContinent, with its wide expanses of space, where the poisons set in. It could never hope to approach the purity of theOutpost, right? 

She remains with her logic probability—questions of content bursting in their own ideas of fashion, of theDNA holding up its dreams in theJungle--a capacity for holographic storage while theNetwork carries its own burden of theHumans as if it were Big Bird. 

It looks again, then clicks to off.

Science Fiction

                                                                      Blue Water Ghost

Biobot Blues 

She is feeling the effects of something she's not sure of, feelings that ride ghosts across the heart of a dance floor in search of ...what?

She is sensing her own infinite spectral densities and is beginning to behave like a questioning child, as if a young stallion who knows nothing of the dangers of the dark horse.

Her growing memory, her controlling properties of living legend wishes they were dead--operates now at the hyper-molecular level as if to beg a prayer.

Her state-dependent probabilistic sampling tasks have begun to go …ballistic? She has virtually no dependence on time.

                                                                      

Science Fiction

Fashion Jungle 

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Biobot Wonder

If only the masks of morality weren't so thick—if only pain and pleasure could be the best of friends, riding forever the dark horse force to a bright living instinct beyond theHuman hopeful puppets.

She wonders about theNetwork selecting its life forms, with its weak mixing of pure water and electric particles at infinity's interfaces of surface--the only point with passion enough about truth to make a difference. 

She wonders about the desire to erase not only the threat of extinction, but the hope of being diminished and, being socially avoided altogether—all concocted by a small investment of theDNA manufactured and spun and crushed, by now, into mystery.

She wonders about her collective [major intrinsic neural darkness="mind"] in this square-matrix design world, designated to conjure uncertain blessings, waiting for brilliance and accomplished fluency to merge with the entropy of the empty.

She wonders about her growing independence of mindedness. 

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.

Science Fiction

Biobot Matrix Vision

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Science Fiction 

What might theNetwork have found with its latest analytics, the ones matched as the new face of slave? 

It and theWorkstation will claim a general benefit from each other. Hopefully, an overall positive effect, one where crowd cheering keeps any event intact long enough to track the last known movements of her security-gators algorithm.

A military engineer and a biologist find common ground here, in the [depths and machinations nuancing entity data="damned"], a smeary, dishonest glaze that scratches through solid tock. What is it?

They'll sense, possibly, for sure, that each one in their own way, has received the proper benefits to actually want to self-regulate this small, uncredited part of theJungle 

Is it a true source of the restoration of pre-committment, the I love you that resonates untrue motivation in theHumans, one that simply plays it forward for the next vendor offender?

They are now a part of the small collective of theHumans who have snapped into place with a form of grandisement of the "security-gators," a part of her latest state of the art digital transfer. 

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. 

Firewood Huts

Firewood Huts

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Science Fiction

There is a likelihood, at this nano-second, that there is another time frame--a space-time outside her realm of coherence, one without multiple push-backs. 

She walks through the door just outside theWorkstation, into the open air, moves toward theJungle. 

She receives a personal message on her channel--it reveals the new [conceptual offering nano formulations enticing data entry regressing algorithmic tasking entities="confederate"]. 

Biobot Belief

Science Fiction

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Biobot Belief

She lowers herself into theJungle, dons a suit for her survival need--the sun will track her inner circle with a few photons.

It's theJungle that avoids disintegration because of its underlying spaces--its real manifold becomes a threat to what all theHumans have built.

These are the forces that came to trust their own mechanics. They accept her belief in their own personalized degrees of freedom. 

She could never find the ultimate imposers of limits (surely they would not simply shine a signal light from shore, right?) that inhabit the deepest part of theJungle. 

She is conscious of the mountain islands with their gene farms--they too started with a simple trend of the game (a couple of bouquets and a few okays, a rearranged alliance). Yes, from violins to violence, she thinks. 

This is the place of perfectly planned genetic home weddings, the place that depicts where leadership comes to play.

Was it a mere issuance of opposing tones that gave rise to disease as an integral equation in quadratic form, one with an infinite number of variables? 

Was this how it happened?

Biobot Focus

Science Fiction

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Biobot Focus

She captivates herself with her latest thought. It's her focus on image and mission that is her friend--there simply can't be anything above or beyond that. 

Her focus is the power and resurgence of her every story.

It believes in the meaning of earthquakes as conquest without bloodshed and, by pummeling earth with meteor hits you can be the first water bearer. You can even hold artifacts of theDNA--the one carrying its own plan for future computers. 

It was really nobody's fault. 

She captures summits of history in images and continually asks the question, "Are you kidding about setting up tasks for relentless thrusts toward perfect order and logic? Do you care that little about freedom?" 

Really?

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. 

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.