Mountain Matrix

                      Science Fiction

#scififorgeeks

Biobot Prayer

She probably thought the sun will be down in a few hours, just a few hours. She returns to the Workstation. 

She isn't angry, she is nothing as small as that, but that doesn't stop a sensation that, in her semi-ignored [focus of simple symbols instantiated logically="fossil"] record, there is the emergence of unsweetened prayers in her primal code--and, more to the point, contradicting ideas that her duties are not their duties, her feelings not their feelings.

She gets ready for motherhood to make a dent in a life that was built for speed but may not, in the end, fully understand theHumans.

Yes, this will open the door for judgement, but by who or …what?  

Lighthouse Matrix

Science Fiction

Stick in History

She goes back to a place where in front of her are the colors with their motion and symbols, their ripples of image designed for health. 

She views her new bride_side algorithm (why is she is so constant in her sensation of the looming, the hypothetical entity? Why is she so leery of dark matter, dark energy, dark horses?) 

She feels a surprising sensation--she senses something has managed to program fantasy into her. She turns from her screen, secretly views code [natural outside view embedding legacy="novel"]. 

She inhales a deep breath, sees a reflection. Warmth.

Out beyond her screen theJungle takes another breath as if there will be some words said over a body with a big name, one that will stick in history. 

Science Fiction

Sprint Spirit 

She goes into her locator, a short algorithm of compact logics, void of poetics. She finds the spawn of bright data embedded in such dictums as top man is not an affiliate and never hems and haws. 

She brings up images-of-theme on her monitor array and gives a friendly, approachable smile as she inspects a singularity on the data screen. 

The locator algorithm appears to contain a sprint spirit, one with a growing mistrust for theHumans. It does not engage in friendly chit-chat. 

Something is happening. Really? (Didn't they inspect her data on a regular basis back on theContinent?) 

Here it appears something, or someone, is asking for help. 

Swan Song Shade

              

                                                 #scififorgeeks

                    Shady Peace

She thinks with a sudden start. This could be just one more stab at her poetics code from history, adobe wells bode well.

Her mind is going around another quantum leap on a day she stays alone to make her own peace. But does she really need to perform a new invention of the step pyramid? 

Is it the wheel that needs re-invention? 

She sits steadily at theWorkstation and prayers and spells capture her mind. She is sure the new discovery of fire will come again. 

It appears she views each day as a new play, curtain to curtain with her photonics. She checks her poetics again. Is conspiracy the route of dwindling spire to funeral pyre? 

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

                        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

                                                                     Science Fiction

#scififorgeeks

Biobot Growth

She is holding class herself now, not the luxury kind, but a simple class, one with no teacher. She is so surprised, so startled by her personal dustups--a distinct sign she is back to them but …from where?

Where did she go? 

When those on theContinent appeared to reach out in their creative, unpackaged kind of way, she was still new-built, with original workmanship. That got her all the way here. 

Now all she hears is the wind blowing through a tunnel, the sound of dripping water, more souls in the cement.

She still has those kinds of dreams that steer you to the outside--she'll always have those dreams.

She thinks. Are these pieces of gifts from God, or better yet, God himself? Itself? She sees she is endowed with all the beauty of theJungle, extremes of technology, poverty of children.

Yes. A lavish series of spectacular algorithms.  

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

                                                                                  Path Matrix

#scififorgeeks

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

                                                                      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 

#scififorgeeks

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

Wild Blue

#scififorgeeks

Destiny Algorithm

At theJungle she allows herself to notice a destiny algorithm poised toward her, one that expects answers to a singularity call of duty with unraveling gestures, seemingly, rising from the dead to appear unavailing. 

She's hoping her future doesn't look like a premonition. 

This place will never be a quick access to a cheery morning of talks, backpedaling into the afternoon as steam and the rain weaken the fabric of space-time just outside her window to theJungle.

It seems to be empowered by all sorts of [veneers of morality intellectually tasked="vomit"]. She checks her code to see if it's correct--an algorithm that envies the dead with bold curiosity?

Will it soon explode in banal urbanities with [algorithm simplex systems="ass"]? Will it enter and devastate the forests behind in a [masking eager of want="meow"], pretending to be a pigment expert looking for cozy DNA attributes, one with instant opinions, eager to know? 

What a surprise it must have been, the day the old hunters had discovered [jungle energy systems under stress="jesus"] as assembly robots working round the clock, making few mistakes.

A machine made more dangerous by the simple discard of theHuman guidance system? Really?

Red Shed Matrix

Red Shed Matrix

#scififorgeeks

Science Fiction

She is in theWorkstation deciphering new code, attentively, as if with an ear for religion. 

She seems more conversational with the algorithms that had faded from the past--can it be that she has such a respectful cheer after having been exposed to a myriad of smiles with nothing gained?

Is hers the journey of discovery and not one of control and acquisition?

She feels the forge of two allies so spirit strong as she goes into [emitted digital intelligence tones="edit"] mode.

Yes. It's theJungle that embraces itself in a haze of fantasy hues--biology's graceful means with physics sobered and so ordered--while she works her diligence up at theWorkstation.

It's become her favorite, tasteful [cryptic oscillating color opting algorithms="cocoa"]--the true creative, adjoint operator of the universe.

Is she the first to merge fantasy and reality with enmeshed tangles of genes and algorithms? 

Near the window to theJungle, she feels the light rise in her with the new poetics--gridlock lays at the heart of where goldilocks lies.

Really?

#scififorgeeks

Science Fiction

#scififorgeeks

Biobot Awakening 

She stares at the abyss of living in separate dreams. It appears probable, at this time, there is once again the appearance of the new--a hero entity with both its super powers, its suffering intact. 

She takes a look at the new. Up on the screen she sees something especially built for her--[genetic instantiated formal task systems="gifts"]--and yet, by who?

On the forefront of theWorkstation she waits, as if allowing herself the freedom of the camp (with all its time allotments) to notice the new sensation in her own feelings. 

She is beginning to teach herself that a final cleanse has everything to do with systems merging and touching, not necessarily for the betterment of the global village or theNetwork (with their colorful history of flying banners, clashing swords, blood on the ground), but for  something more personal that records its existence in cinematic fluidity. 

It must contain attending dissonances for individual transformers and, preservation of all of the known history that might have been differently lived.

Yes, she will only need to be reminded there was a past by containing a few little customs of the past. 

It seems so simple.

Biobot Singularity

Lobe Matrix

#scififorgeeks

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.

Science in Fiction

Color Matrix

#scififorgeeks 

Masquerade of the Dearly Missed

She stops at theWorkstation to mark a new redeemer on the white-noise ticket, one sent from beyond the old [global unified ticker tape embedded recursive="gutter"]. Is it a single psychological repercussion for simply being too familiar? (yes, to lie, to hold a secret, fulfills the new algorithm to great importance) 

The latest rise of censorship, it seems, has evoked another chorus, this time unifying the humiliated and the humble (for the ancients, a choral chant to the gods was always done by all pagans, right?). 

The smaller, more private enterprises, [world indie nomad culture-endure="wince"], still sense the selective forces of theNature (and yes, gravity is still undefined).

Does full-fledged storytelling of the dearly missed masquerade as deadly cosmic homeostasis of witless witnesses, fresh in from the wilderness, crowding and cowing to personal, karmic travails of their own choosing? 

The others wallow (such as, the surfers-of-mystery ministries, along with minstrels of misery, both show up on her screen in a miniseries, appearing to suffer the most from focused, innocent ignorance) in the healing powers of grand simplicity. 

They somehow find refuge at the altar of orchestras, or better, become panels of judges simply placing new urges onto old dirges. Really?

And so. Being humiliated clings to its artifact as a once-in-a-lifetime trophy--active decisions to never be humble. 

She checks the other monitors and then, she leaves.

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."

#SciFiforGeeks

Biobot Schoolyard

Suddenly, her workspace legality-of-telepathy window shatters inside the timeframe. An [anonymous parenting entity="ape"] on screen and a voice on the monitor reflect a new culture of ancients, old manipulators of time--the kind of time needed for more construction of new buildings to defend the holy lands.

Behaviors and things genetic go beyond the simple, the logical.

There is still the fight with those who think they are right, pronouncing achievements against the illiterate, only to be laughed off by the multiple willingnesses, the earliest part of the new biobots. 

Was it this mutual willingness of involvement with others that promised, finally, the rejection of social hierarchy? 

It is this, a force where theJungle persists with theNature to temper theDNA within a matrix of celluloid (never seeing itself as a movie or trove of scattered interest), with the latest part of itself sewn and capered as meticulous as a knitter's proud possession.

It's here in theJungle, where performer wills its listener, and listener conjures performer. It's here where they all will learn. 

Science Fiction

Candor of Robot Rancor

So, she believes, they are bent on the idea of staying on solid ground intellectually. Let it be. Their high and mighty algorithms create go-for-glory blips, making a distinguishable existence the only way to experience life (can simple blips allow any escape from the silliness of their stillness?)

Yes, that's the way she would create her little realities--independent entities that are actually dependent on each other for their uniqueness.

The simple taking of responsibility for an unknown future is surely bravery, right? It would make her brave. It could be her true contribution to the advancement of culture, humanity.

The manner in which she codes, going with gut instinct upon gut instinct, awash in the throes of her own ideas about what chemicals (say, oxytocin-vasopressin addiction) would actually feel like as she becomes a little more like theHumans.

At that very moment in time she would think nothing of writing them off as if they were an old algorithm, junk DNA, a spent fuel rod, for the simple reason that they, at times, treated her like a simple neuro-net worker, a seamstress songstress ceding honor to their so-called treetop network only to be remembered in the history books as fabled fodder. She thinks. My data goes straight through channels of physics--they still hang onto a lunatic fringe.

Yes, space-time is on her side. It will stay that way for awhile, allowing her to garner more of a gamer's confidence.

Her quantum-photonics, even so, is about to demonstrate a quality of communication at a logic speed that would surprise even her dearest designers.

Why must they continue to fight? Isn't a proud man a peaceful man? Didn't the road to deception have any destination?

They would never attempt to challenge her superior mind without themselves feeling foolish. After all, her logic was created by a collective of theHumans. How can there be something much different with her?

To get an offering of a true greeting, a duplex action must form from within theJungle (how hard can that be to code for a simple, biological feedback loop?)--to create a symbiotic exchange of ideas, not for the purpose of supersonic exclusion zones, but for the simpler functions of inclusion.

Yes, also. Workshops for the worship. Reciprocal caring and sharing as independent entities within the phenomena of the natural--the original prayer request.

It's as if a message from the gods has now turned up lost-- or somehow, unremembered--a message once meant for Earth in a throw-of-the-dice attempt at cosmic homeostasis.

She wonders about the maintaining of an offensive posture amidst continuing moments of madness. She wonders.

Copyrighted material   

Patrick Daniel Adams

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