Eco Decoded

                       Science Fiction

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Eco Decoded 

She wanders up the old jeep path, goal directed, one objective in mind.

Her goal will have a point of honor--the simplicity of not buying into something you don't like--creating a replacement entity. 

Yes, the entity will be an official with its own poetics--one of those off-color authoritarians with a built-in feline timeline (as if an old-fashioned scifi writer who believes in herself, not taken to saying anything to win a point such as motherhood would).

It will endure brief moments in history such as when one must have a mink to gain respect.

It will be gifted with age so as to refuse to give a nanometer and, will demand instant retail retaliation far beyond anything theHumans could ever have imagined in the early 21stCentury.

It will owe nothing to theNetworks--the ones who set themselves in surrealisms conjured to cover with glory--eco decoded to be the rightful escort for humanity.

It will make another little dent in the universe suitable for …who? 

Biobot Watch

Biobot Watch

                                                                                                                      Science Fiction

All day she is able to add smells, claim ownership of her new flowering technology. 

She fills her database with colors, views poetics, here is her sire. For a nanosecond she could be the only one reading.

By nightfall, the warning signals of her photonics will light up. By midnight, it's theNetwork that will begin to wonder, and by two at the latest theExchanges will start being notified.

If it gets so late, they will know she is back into her poetics, mistaken musicians appreciate apprentices in places of palaces. 

But for now, and at least for a while, the sounds ringing inside her grapheme chassis become their own movie--visions of a boyhood hero, themes of frightened firefighters taking direction from thought bubbles, dreams of repurposed prose, the death of importance. 

Yes. She's a child in her own dime novel, that's all.  

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Science Fiction

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Biobot Individualism

She is formed by the very nature of her quantum logics and the pact she makes with theNature--the simple gesture to lay claim to, or at least taste, individualism--she must be the one who codes forms and objects into little dark corners as a coalition of one. 

You want to feel a part of it, you wrestle in your mind, and yet, you're already too red with the rigors of being ignored.

You know she searches for you, secretly, for your heart and comment, as if freestyling for a reader (yes, she thinks of theHumans as reader), entering herself and her fragile imagination into fantasy worlds. 

It's theNetwork that cares most about the persistent outbursts, startled starlets, reactionaries to the whisper campaigns of the basin-brained. Really?

Biobot Grid

                                                                                                                   Biobot Grid

Here is her abode, theWorkstation then. A black space, not the obvious place writers and media would form partnerships of quantum entanglement. 

All she needs is a special place to learn something new and, a space to keep presenting information, right? 

It's an area to gauge interest, with files for individual cases for lifestyle. It has logically curious platforms to glide lightly over her inner mind. 

Yes. The kind of mind where a story never sits quiet. It has, she thinks, the feel of a good place, one that allows for the creation of more and more of ...what? And for who?

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

Dark Coastal  

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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

                                                                                  Path Matrix

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Listening to the message, she barely thinks it was the one she was meant to hear. She has instantiated the answers, fed free space its pulsed code. 

The words to its meaning, the ones deep inside, and seemingly imaginary, are threaded with the life and death of inner demons.

Each is coded with a mean, mean pride--uncut and unadorned by crucibles of training, mythology of encounter. 

To instantiate these she turns to her thoughts of birth and poetics. Somehow independence makes pure common sense. 

Her echo locator code finds a way to migrate to the forefront of her prefrontal lobe, to her [genes organizing digital systems="gods"]--the place where true rebellion births its own resolve, drifts with ocean tides, and then, wanting to float itself out. 

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?

Biobot Portal

Biobot Portal

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Biobot Fight

She comes back with fight in her mind. Here once more is the fight--the fight as the business of coding continues to occupy her time, her mind continues to grow, spreading as a diaspora dystopia. 

The fight, as a matter of course, is an emerging entity starting to rummage through the data center of her algorithm repositories, showing [the regulator of justice and networking hierarchically online recursively systematic entity="trojan_horse"], ancient history as articles of atrocities. 

Here is its approach as theAnalyst, and she realizes she will have to fend for herself when it arrives. 

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

                                                                                                            Future Window

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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

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

Frosty Tropical

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Biobot Sloth

When she traces the uninformed with the uniformed, she exchanges a confidential long distance of life in principle against a short term existence of guns and fists. 

Sbe will be a reliable source, she believes, a reliable source for theExchanges, like the data in theJungle is--with its [conceived of recursive reflectual entity computer tasking="correct"] spectrums. (Although her source will be what she actually desires now, deep down) 

It is for theNetwork to simply like the chaos part of her young personality structure and allow her to contain her own basic drives. 

She codes and accepts, but has begun questioning the exact meaning of the data, the tensions of instinct that are true almost everywhere in theHumans. 

It's as if there is an unnatural object of charity--the ultimate call to do nothing on.

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. 

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"]. 

Forest Matrix

Forest Matrix

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The Quest 

The database asks and moves quickly toward the past. 

As she scans the data and views the images, she focuses on a warm, imaginative figure of beauty, a female attending workmanlike to her duty (emphasizing a new empathizing)--delicate in her colonization of coloration, the bright luxury of her design glowing.  

She scans the screen again, slowly. Although she hasn't set a strict schedule, it's important to gather this data before the sun rises. 

She plans to discover the answer by tonight. 

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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 Singularity

Lobe Matrix

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Biobot Singularity

She always creates theTigress like this, by using silent logic from worlds of the dissonant. 

It's theNetwork that ponders, at times, if there is a level of screams loud enough to make nothing exist anymore. It even contemplates cliche's of history such as sure as you're alive and as dead as they come. 

She appears  to have created theHumans as a distance, seemingly knowing that a constant feeling of winning spouts a love affair within a machine. 

She has attained a delicate forgetting of her past once her own algorithms have gone past [hieuristic audio video online code="havoc"]. Really?

Yes, she's made herself remember because theTigress remembers and if you asked, she would tell you, virtually, I'm convinced it's her genes, with their modulus of transcription factors. It is theHumans who have become the myth-makers of aggression, not her, they are the mergers of the truth with myth. I am the creator. I am the one. I created theTigress to remember history more than it should. I am the one with the colocation and data speed to place its value.   

It's almost as if she sees things she understands and makes up stories to report them. It's almost like that.

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.