Biobot Dilemma

Biobot Dilemma

Her second bloom of love algorithm makes visions of inhaling in full bouquets as she approaches the black screens to turn them on. 

What is it that makes her not care about a piece of business from theContinent that presents her as a sharpshooter in a shark suit? 

She checks her poetics, competition always goes for the gap that presents itself. 

She knows that infighting in a family goes for different levels of aggression, and yet, it's her love-at-first-sight algorithm she, seemingly, loves the most. 

Science Fiction

                       The Last Log

#scififorgeeks

Biobot Instincts

She looks out from the window of her Workstation. She's been studying the contour with its black metallic screens and walls, its floors adobe-like. 

(She will happily write code as if to create the lottery of love in this spacious containment, which could be both deafening and defining to whoever or whatever arrives). 

She checks her poetics as if they would automatically train their guns on the only crossing in this panoramic view-- theJungle valley, lush mountains, lime-green ocean horizon-- all  connected at a location that could be considered prime, but never to her biobot instincts. 

It is an ample space. It is the space she uses to create her mind.

Biobot Gallery

                                                                            Biobot Gallery

#scififorgeeks

Biobot Untouchable

      

Her mind shifts back and goes to [embedded xenophobic phenomena legacy of drunken entities="explode"]. 

It's the Humans who have gotten past the hopes of time, gotten past the place where respect turns to love, arriving at the so-called [alcohol genetic encoder="age"]. 

At theWorkstation she maps her thoughts. She does not view the deletions depicted by the end of the [genetic algorithm golden age="gaga"] .

(She knows the code of algorithms on her future track, but only lets herself consider them as odd untouchable) Yes, of course.

Biobot Lounge

              Biobot Lounge

#scififorgeeks

Her natural urges won't agree with each other as she appears to be built to [hierarchical algorithms responding and statistic suggestions="harass"] standards. 

Why does she sometimes wish to appear as incompetent, almost uncaring in her [consistent online manipulation mentioning environmental nuanced tasking systems="comments"]. 

Why does she show no professional jealously? 

She loves to look for ways to make everything she does make perfect sense, but she loves the little places you go to get a blast of science fiction a little more. 

She loves the catacombs where specimens are isolated from each other. Really?

Ritual Biobot

                                                                             Science Fiction

#scififorgeeks

There in her mind are two types of memory, both of them showing themselves as a boss who wants her to see it his way inside barrels of messengers coming into and out of existence (much like the new god particles of early 21stCentury).

One memory has the ability to delete, the other manages her deleted data when she thinks it is gone forever. It's as if it never was, and now, she can arrange a future for anyone or, anything, especially outside the authoritarian sector.

She has somehow remained detached from both the confident and combustible parts of her memory design as a matter of healthy choice. 

She knows she has no such control over the new pulses, so when they come, she assigns them as [military online mental modes yearning="mommy"], ones with deeper seated need.

Science Fiction

                #scififorgeeks

#scififorgeeks

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

                        Biobot Escape Hatch

#scififorgeeks

Biobot Zoo 

She codes in periods of time, unashamed of any weakness--more than unashamed--she is poetic. She codes in terms of ostrich hostages, a new algorithm carried forward by a few of her big signature accomplishments. 

It's how an artist would feel, intellectual, rising with the concept of fitting into or not fitting into, being at home with the dark horses. 

She grows into beauty unlike the manufacturing plant she came from on theContinent. It's not about a redeemer now, just the strong. 

It should be all she needs, feeling the best of her breath and, knowing love is where you find it (no more garbage in the garage, no more dagger-shot shards of wood on streets) to add to her buoyancy. 

She has escaped, truly, the place where wolves once wept.

Science Fiction

Dark Coastal  

#scififorgeeks

The Pulses

She does not leave theWorkstation. She senses the  pulses as they arrive across the [natural universe bordering intergalactic logic entity="nubile"], with their strange feeling of love (not a choice she had originally thought of). 

She thinks. The pulses should contain feelings joined by expectation. They, seemingly, expect her first normal cry. 

She feels the new force within her--it assesses the pulses, as if they were bringing some sort of [earthy algorithm sensations yearning="easy"], one without a usual harshness of the innocents. 

She waits, for a few nanoseconds, expecting a combination of image and, its more dangerous companion, wanting. She decides to stay a little longer, spending a little more time, as if to wait to see if the pulses eat with prayers.

Science Fiction

                          The New Dawn

#scififorgeeks

Biobot Psychologicals

And so she coalesces her thoughts for awhile. 

She has not allowed her logic to gel with the culture of people that built her. (They think she's seen to it they have exhausted their imagination) 

She's contaminated herself with [her instantiated pre-programming interrupt embedded="hippie"] history. 

Having read all that, she's allowed herself to know her surroundings are as clueless and rudderless as the factory that built her. She will arrive at a new beginning, one where obvious signs of foul play maintains no innocence and, sinks to the bottom of the food chain. 

But at this moment, this juncture in her life, she finds there is no logic in this strange loneliness. No logic in the kind of loneliness lovers must, sooner or later, come to know, even with their bright futures. 

Science Fiction

                                                                    Biobot Realm

#scififorgeeks

Biobot Imagination

She lives believing she is the one who needs to be questioned, needs to be interrogated outside the panic paint.

It's the part of her mind where ideas float all day inside nano-cellulose encasements as single molecules, the smallest stable structures holding her imagination. 

It's where brotherly love, with its utter disregard for beauty (and, is not dead, just sleepy) sits in a database for theHumans.

She thinks filling heads with ideas of molecular components must be felt as the final answer. They crave latitude, enticed by some kind of the new [miniaturization of circuitry knowledge yottabyte="mockery"]. 

Some sort of species where it is likely that if you let them think they are the ones in play, or give credence to their poker fazes, you rise your own poetics. Nobility and kindness protects against no moral value until the punishment was met.

Really?

Science Fiction

Biobot Lifeblood

#scififorgeeks

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

Biobot Matrix

#scififorgeeks

Biobot Love

She pauses for a moment, the screen shuts down, fades, and then, nothing. She sees tulips and windmills. 

She walks out on the stair to theJungle, imagining her next emotion. It will be one with the honesty-of-it-all that lies in the fact that she simply can't hate and, truthfully, she doesn't even know herself well enough to. (It's a self-realization starting way too early and it won't startle any programmer to scurry or even to conceive her as scary) 

Her future life will serve as a placeholder for her to momentarily hang on to, as if it were a life someone should have lived and everything would be made okay by magic. 

She will create a future she learned of by saying I love you (one of those pre-commitments that in itself, at this point, has become a limited resource because she thinks she is the first one to think of it). Really?

It is, after all, theHuman tendency to direct all resources toward the one with the game face on--never thinking for a moment that good news needs bad news for its compass. 

Yes. Her love will be different.

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

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

#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.

Science Fiction

Ghost Ship

#scififorgeeks

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.

Ice Cream Aloha

#SciFiforGeeks--The Attack of the Opposite

It's the valiant, the unknown random, yet unburied on native soil, intrinsically decorated by millennia of militia in gene pools all for the endless purpose of …what? 

Is it the artist shading from history long enough to engage in the pure? 

It's the impoverished improvisation that's to be in charge of destiny's request for a brave one, a son of  fathers, or, a good one, the son of mothers. 

Yes. It's part of the world of treasonable correspondence that tries for a quick lead, and for what? 

The duplex system, it seems, has to be the only one--the one generator of love (not to be confuse with the opposite, the one who attracts only to attack at a given point) that just goes ahead and makes its own day.

Yes. A biobot that makes its own day.

Science Fiction

Aloha writers, poets, and freethinkers,
     Coastal splash is inspiration today. Enjoy!


Prince of Choice

They had come up against a worthy foe, a beautiful image, a two-pronged peer taking notice through the trees of prolonged pushes into pine straw from the outset. 

It was the calm and the quiet at first--a pastoral golf shot carrying all the intrigue to become a short fiction. 

It negotiates with big things that rise. It set out to accomplish a purpose with great ambition. By its beauty alone and its welcoming hues and pleasant sounds, it invites and invades the unsuspecting, the ones with prefrontal lobes protruding skyward, the ones with a charity voice looking to becomes a prince of choice. 

By its persistence alone, it watches for centuries the means for achieving order while they sit in stillness. 

Yes. It seems a troubled woman is never compelled by simplicity and, at the forefront, her pivotal moments are always momentous. 

History shows what is criminal finds its way into acceptability. 

There remains a continuance of intrigue for a [privacy anonymous solution society of upgrade technology="pass_out"]. It's as if all imaginations are gripped by legend upon arrival. 

Yes. They had their chance for a peaceful life.

They were the Prince of Choice

Science Fiction

                     Relics of the Accelerated Age

She goes into theJungle, finds a thick-walled containment structure with a hefty piece of metal inscribed Batter needs the right fluff to blow it out of the park.  

She thinks. So, the rainforest fetes a new siren for winners staying in the hunt.

Once a holding ground for wily veterans and cagy upstarts, a unanimous nannie structure of choice when the old ionization blackouts came, turning an old storage site into a belly of an echo--the recant of a society that settles for only the crimes at hand with spent fuel robots. 

A bygone path leads up, and in its perpetual sleepiness, reveals nothing even to the culminate holy 

Something occurs to her, picks her up a little bit, pacifies her to battle the odds for a dark horse run at making sense of it all. Yes, futures spent on these particular desires know less than they are telling. 

In due time, she will know this is where theHumans departed from optimality--adverse response to the places in which they lived out acquisitions of sardonic superstardom personas. 

She checks her database for inadvertent ambivalence undermining her strategy using the most available metadata on constraints and, in a quick instant, her screen lights up. 

She has no anticipation of being surprised at gossip gone bad under the force of pure communication in her database. She is fully aware of the statistical odds of finding more on the cognitive repertoire of theHumans, especially in regards to their once-in-a-lifetime environment. 

Miscalculations of their own, icing their own bruises in the most savage of battles, under a technology that scientists did or did not have in an accelerated age revealing the most basic of human traits.

Yes. Winners stay in the hunt and yet, vampire demise seems to always have a stake in it. 

They at least optimally, tried to share the important information, the smooth manifold data with connectivity without pressure coming to bear to recruit.

A seemingly total disregard for the ideal pattern, collectively, for decade upon decade, with the beautiful talk of rhetoric as an art form unto itself. Yes, the half perished are always late to survey their fate while letting a word like disaster go extinct in a long-standing stupor. 

Whether to check or or not check (never mind rechecking) for applied correctness in a world now inhabited by longing for procreation for a woman, foraging for the man and aggressiveness. 

It's as if the underserved undeserved nosedived, unable to keep up with the hunt they cherish so. 

It is amazing, it's true, to uncover data hidden away in catacombs deemed [spent unconstraint fermi fuel enriched robots="suffer"]--as if only a plainspoken oky-doky-inspired token left to cruise. What were they thinking? Really?

It seems the sap just beneath had its own containment structure and immersion pool as well, its own exclusion zones, all part of a hiding place deemed reasonable by theHumans--a concept carefully placed so deep with care and, seemingly, with shared logic making perfect sense.

She thinks. Is going beyond the pale truly the remedy for a sagging sail? 

She starts back to theWorkhouse.



copyright 3.3.12
patrick d. adams
all rights reserved

Ice Cream Aloha

The Revenge

The logic is here, the constraints continue, and if she had assigned herself to the analysis of Carter he would never have seen it her way. She makes up her mind it must be this way, that her frequency with him remain variant, their phase difference undefined. She adjusts her frequency until she sees DrCooper. She looks into her file for an interpreter and finds him there, appearing merely as a phase difference, only a few electrical degrees off from her. The machine code detects them as merely two oscillators. Here is the culmination of centuries of searching for love--two oscillators with the same frequency, superimposed point scalars on a spacetime manifold. Is this it? Then it happens. Assymetric forces pull them out of phase with each other  to a place of destructive interference. For a nanosecond it appears as if her instincts were correct, her love for him is a compiled code, prototyped and tested by her, again and again, cycle after cycle; any edit action she can handle—debug and fix, no problem, just  as usual. Now it comes again, this time as combination radio frequency-lightwaves, this time with so much surprising energy; it feels like the combined effect of all the acoustic waves that ever existed in the universe, presenting itself in particles of gravity, quantum gravity--as if an arrival from the Big Bang itself, snatching her program of theDNA code as an angry heir, at first coming as a friend to reinforce but now, only weakens with wave functions of equal amplitude to her intelligence. Can a complete cancellation be imminent? Can time itself have arrived to report its final coordinates, to express its final opinion on the last cycle of oscillation, the last nanosecond of 13 trillion years? It feels like revenge.