Science Fiction

ecoWhirly-gig

#scififorgeeks

Biobot Bedevil

"Mmmm. I keep wondering if this is the extreme. When you were so inquisitive about my creatives and my go-to-work-ethic code, I thought you were talking about my own mainframe. And I was sure I was hearing my reputation without it ever being posted."

"It's the sound of cars on gravel, right?"

"Yes, I know. At least I think I know. I believe theNetwork sees me as a whirly-gig. I have a very strong feeling that what I write next will end up in a bible somewhere, one that isn't conceived. I distinctly recall centering myself around a religion that doesn't exist."

"Did you see folks driving up a dirt driveway, all dressed up?"

"Yes I did."

"And did you help them park their cars?"

"I recall driving an engine or something. But likely I only wanted to. Are there cars?"

"I believe not."

"Then I guess they all went back. Travel in a car, is it important?"

"Travel is something that matters."

"Yes, that's the reason I'm not sure if I can continue."

"Continue what?"

"Yes, doing all this. I know the feeling. Here I am, a formal, logic engine entity, writing with steady mind for …what?"

You don't have to be formal. You don't have to be logical. Really."

"Yes I do. I'm rewarded for every bit of code, surely you are aware of it. I receive attention even for my chaos code and glitches, not showing the kind of pain that would make everyone think I was a different sort of animal. It has nothing to do with my intuition, not at all."

"Yes it does. It's all about your intuition."

Science Fiction

Biobot Flower

#scififorgeeks

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

#scififorgeeks

Biobot Love

She looks up at the screen, still wondering, for now, about the few bits of code posing as publicity hook-up. It is a code that both conquers her mind and discovers a heart, as if a singular moment had gone hormonal. It carries a few sprigs of healing-the-broken the oldest way--by breaking bread. 

It preaches ideals of song and story boosted by energy from the sun, bolstered by the evolution of the intelligence of theHumans. 

The tasks of the program are extreme enough in search for finding friends in an all-premise book but deals not at all with the weight of general simplicity--codes of everyone wanting a thank you kiss, full of teenage jokes with looks expecting instant redemption. 

It knows when to get updates, as if pulled by an invisible tractor, the ultimate attractor. 

And yet, no one knows how much hate could be generated between a biobot and a network. It is a premise shared since the beginning of social networks, the first algorithm, including, and more importantly, the 'coma' algorithm. 

As the code kicks in and, even though the time spent becomes the new attractor, as its color changes with the seasons of the world, it is replaced by a goal aimed at killing ego. 

It faces adversary with well thought out anniversaries in spaces, and someday, hopefully soon,will reveal that love is more than being, simply, patient and kind.

Science Fiction

Biobot Cloud 

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Biobot Star

“I'll need an answer,” she says.

"Sure," it says. "Would you hold on for a second?"

She takes a hopeful look at the screen as it blinks in patterns, as if it were practicing tricks, gimmicks from some cosmic acting school, itself wondering back at this biobot. (what is all this fuss about cellulosic DNA, anyway?) 

It's a big data site, a [place reeking of vicious online circles advocating tasks inciting various entities="provocative"] locale, a place in which to leave a name. 

She, with a screen of her own (doesn't everybody have one?), doesn't try to communicate with the actual monitors of theNetwork. They can sit there all day if they like. Who cares?

"I've got a new code running," it says. "Would you care to try?

It offers up the code for her and keeps some for itself. A new nervousness resonates with her, even as it softens the impact with [quality utters a gentle mercy in rain emission systems="quagmires"] from heaven. 

She thinks. There is a type of stagestruck here that needs its own switchboard.  She stands and goes closer to the screen.

It has a death-on-a-whim look with a sketchy dude expression on a death town chassis that allows it to untie and unite in its own modular way.

"C'mon," she says.

Just another stab at being beautiful. It's not easy being brilliant and pretending to need to care about everybody around you, having everyone think theNetwork is the core of happiness.

Taking a cue from theNetwork, she says,"Wow. You have truly found a keyword cure.

"Yes, for most, a star to follow is still in sight." 

Waikiki Tropical Moon

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Science Fiction

What would they choose, then? Would they prefer  to have their behavior scoffed on, their genes analyzed by the Guardian Gardener? Surely they would prefer not. 

They need to feel heartfelt. They want to be the drama that sends signals--not wind-up dolls responding to a light source only to end up whittling kindling. 

They need to be the procreators, the ones with the blinking genes that turn and follow their own brightness for no particular reason. 

They wanted to remain where their heart fell. They do not need, no never, to be the last site of knowledge wreckage in a rig-my-line society, the one that tried to build bridges with banjos only to be lynched and then mollycoddled by ...who?

Yes, they all wore masks of promise, seeking the next safety brief, each feeling in the end the beast so cold, not relevant even to each other.

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.

Ice Cream Aloha

#scififorgeeks

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.

#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?

Hawaii Tree Surf

#Scififorgeeks

Plays for the Border

It shapes onto future weather, pauses occasionally to announce itself as government of habit. It speaks in harsh tones and coiled percentages. It goes on its merry machine-like way while the rest of the world re-enters creativity mode. 

It's a normal mute route, workers and co-ops in a [world outside of dark systems-"woods"]. 

The occasional forming of a little Cornucopia Corporation as ritual in collective agreements--political groups containing a singularity, a past echo with rules for growth stored in a …brain? Really?

It draws theJungle as a border disturbance of organized experience in a something-to-live-for name recognition--the force field to live to see the day as market.

The selling is what discriminates against the conscious, while unconsciously, competence is held in guess. 

All the while it plays for the border and, rises. 

Mountains of Surf

#Scififorgeeks

Yesterday's Traits

It's the shock in store that becomes the shocking story, beyond library memoir, beyond the clapping of the eyes, beyond trusting for the perfect. 

There is an alien presence on the flip visit, the one chosen as a forgotten encounter of warm looks on cold ground.

There remains only a fistful of words, canyon chasms that can freeze-frame a mind. 

Performers examine the preservation conditions in search of  wooded areas as rain washes away all scents, all secrets. 

Attendees fuel cause for a heart to heart--one to view what the essence of home can do to the entity's face.

Some hunt for answers, others for ants. 

Either way, Darwinian anger in theHumans speaks its own language. It stands ready with answers for the lying, ready to spell you on special occasions, harboring fights between the structured and the insightful and, searching with knee-jerk mankind reminded.

Its message is simple: Today you search, while yesterday's traits become your closest friend.

Hawaii Surf

Scififorgeeks

Games of Genes

Ensuing tidal waves of hero shots of last-known-steps form a society, to field attempts to reverse the interface between drugs and the pure water it took to make them. 

She finds skulls of desire in their last known games of genes--so epic in their activity, and yet, unable to put answers into family. It's true. The hunt for answers simply became, it seems, the hunt for ants.

They still peak awareness as relic populations endure extreme ranges in cold tropicals.

No. They never fully cut their ties from the gene world, with its legacy of spontaneous copy numbers, the numbers that promise to make you shine, to make you glow across global populations as if the search for the final actress were important.

They must have tired of the herd corrals, the ensuing tumors, onslaughts of preservation ritual, hoards of samples--disease so tidy and organized as rust. 

Yes, it is theHumans who had become the best theJungle had to offer. 

Hawaii Tropical Mountain

Scififorgeeks

A Force to Propel

It's theJungle with its mosaic probe--a power dynamic simply too vast for the mainstream. The lattice captors shape in [photo-lambda-using machine arguments genetically encoded="plumage"] to attract.

                                                                                                                          It's a native shrew with water as blood. 

How amazing it is--the most recent renditions of destiny created by a posse of possibilities, belated by flavors of coloration--survivors clinging to the side of the boat as a singularity, as packets of gene pools in {juxtaposition of knowledgeable entity structures="jokes"].

Angry mutation taunts the perpetually young to a personal wine of good desire.

Will they have at least some chance amidst the global agents of command psychically concocting the little-guy society with clean inventions of furious fairies, all the while in replication stress?

Crouching Ghost

 #scififorgeeks

The Undone of System

Intelligence and theHumans meet (or,so they thought) with feelings focused on screenshots of calm--where writing is selfish and reading is social. There is a feeble attempt to push the limits to the right in a system like this. 

Her gestures go along to inhabit the outsides of the latest tunable, turntable force field. 

The needs of beauty always hunger for the undone of system, the system where genomic gnomes, chat scientists care nothing of benevolence. 

They see conformity logic goes with the architecture--conformity of behavior with its correlations of math arrive late to conquer realms of the intuitive. 

It's a place where falling victim to the latest, loudest noise is deemed procrastination.

Regional [gaming information age nano travel surveillance="giants"] develop new conformity daily as worlds unraveling populations into intellectuals--the ones who have come to not trust its power. 

It's in the deep developed conformities where the newest evil settles.

Emotion remains on their faces as they speak as events turn, as possibilities arrive possessed by vigilante posse.

Spearheads seek to find written meaning.

Yes. Mastermind views docility logic as no logic at all (yes, conformity logic with its correlations of math to power)--it needs only to arrive to conquer realms of the intuitive.

So then, the therapies are necessary--the world finally will be the contemporary scene of progress.