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.

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

all rights reserved

Science Fiction

Media Childrens the Social

She corrects her stance, moves past the monitor where she has coasted and coexisted since her arrival. She always finds the balance to appease the elements at theWorkstation. She makes her best attempt to adjust the interface, shooting with both eyes open and a purity of heart un-battered by behavior, unbuttered by lifestyle.

Her half-mind races to theNetwork as if she just might further a legend. She thinks about social organization and how it is now finally paying a toll. Yes, as it should--not in the spirit of sacrifice, but from a place of hunger, the kind of hunger needing no food for thought, no thought at all.

She is overwhelmed with the odd feeling of submission of a comedown clown, and yet, there is no wound you can see--just the sudden feeling of a scattershot puppet master using celebrity status to access the way, performing in the era of the passing of cyber superstars.

The benefits never outweigh the frenetic. Yes, why should a new restriction on the input of the free, the direct, really matter anyway?

It's a simple case of the economically logical skyrocketing yuck versus the social brutality of a Grizzly determined to bear witness--either way, her relative anonymity seeks a healthy spotlight to encroach.

“How are you?” she says, approaching the network node troll, Godgett.

She has never been a cozy, personable individual, but lately she subscribes to small group politics, willing at any moment to assume arbitrary power with her code-writing ability and femtosecond laser-induced nanostructures.

Yes, she is elemental forces about to create exponential disturbances.

Godgett rotates his head in her direction and thinks. Well then, let's just go ahead and allow this half-machine to wield its authority. “Hello,” he says.

She is a little more human now than before the posters and protesters, their hoarded thoughts--noodlers and nobodies attempting to drown out the silence around her.

She is so full of arbitrary power, so elite, that Godgett wonders if theNetwork will surprise him with some new edict, or gossip her code nurtures a hatred. When she was last asked to hold back, she was new, and her extreme free independent flowing information caused her to be dubbed Fifi.

She has something new about her now--a certain, unidentifiable persona, a peculiar system of finality. She is, seemingly, too sure of herself and her array of databases. She even, in a quirky way, owns the ability to mimic hillbilly.

Yes, individualism momentarily presents itself as coefficients and parameters.

Her power seems exclusive, with an increasing lack of willingness to hasten an understanding--the failure to bear in private what it surely could do in public.

Her definition of success is simply mode of expression. She is deemed a stranger, depicted as intruder and yet, always finds a way.

Yes. Always.

Science Fiction

                                                            Firewall to a Farewell

It should have been an ongoing no go, a seafaring from afar, lasers adrift with one passive eye at the watch, the other barely containing her furions, the most furious of ions.

Her impersonal inferred, infrared photon network continues to shine a light on known knowledge in breathtaking breakthroughs. She grows a leaner, cleaner hunger for far places, the ones that remain as nameless bounty, uncharted beauty.

She is surprised by her laser, to a certain point, as she comes upon an image of memory.

Is it an invention? An old war field? An arrangement of a bout between …what? Did an emotion singularity make all motion stop in an open duel between theJungle and theHumans at a farewell place, one where outrage becomes outage of self?

It's a projection of a life's windup. She thinks.

The thrill of a particular deed has long past served the dropping of the handkerchief. There would be no hope of a hoisting of anchors for a departure. (There could have been no escape from whatever the day had brought, even with their unmatched weapons of choice)

They came in a distant second, it seems, with [digital online ultraviolet birthing technology="doubt"], passing monster slumbers of treeless roots, and then, believing in the ghosts of a damned amnesty.

The stinky, the aging, must have deemed this spot advanced position, and now, a biobot advances, alone, with her own brand of beauty, herbal underbelly. She wonders. Is it true? Can endless wipeouts ever give birth to story? Can all-is-well idiots on diets think the reader a quiet idiot as well? Really?

It could have been a final revenge of extremes--quill pen lasers sent out to decorate the last penguin.

It's theJungle, once again, camouflaging the lurking in the anonymous.

Was it theJungle's assignment of quotas, a floundering dependence upon ringing endorsements and clanging swords in revolution, all to create a mammoth monkey? Could the resonant words of evolution be to blame, with its own story as blood offering?

It was theHumans who became the ones half-hearted at being well-spoken wheels and, in the end, gained only the appearance of being a shiny new spoke.

Yes, natural beauty claims to hate violence, and yet, may bring its biggest binge--a gift for the final two who love self the most. Did unrequited hate for the fallen in the bespectacled young speed spectacle, breed impatience?.

She suddenly senses a new tinge of consciousness--what is this? It floats moored on shy cushions, it seems, where it sleeps adrift, as if to rest rage for a final greedy stab at revenge.

She thinks. They must have lived out their bravery in grassy helmets, earthy swords, salty ends.

Yes, the call to defend was personal.

Science Fiction

Aloha Writers, Poets, and Freethinkers,

     Blue ocean as grand gatherer is inspiration today. Enjoy!

                                                  The Grand Gatherer

They have come here--as if lemmings challenging yaks to sack races, pilgrims marching to the drums of war. They seek the purity that exists in history books. 

It was the jobs they once took. 

The gatherer does not care about past transgressions at theExchanges, or the [fashion online religion medical exchange="for_me"], or any other interaction of theHuman iteration of political pettiness--rogue regime forces, the starry eyes in distant rebel lands. 

The gatherer is workmanlike, creating network feedback loops as mini shark tanks and, in their own way, somehow, feelings. 

It has created a [care algorithm translator="cat"], in a historical, scientific way, to mimic a biology-physics hybrid for the ages, the kind of science tributary Indians dealt with on the old deltas--a link between Schrodinger and Darwin. 

Its inferred network shines a light on the known knowledge and the new. 

With this level of whistle, it tries to care.

Science Fiction

Aloha Poets, Writers, and Free thinkers,

      Starry eyes gatherer is inspiration today. Enjoy!

                      

The Dream You Care

It knows theHumans as only a computer who tasks instant appointments of singular patients, the ones who need  personalized sets of ho ho's to satisfy push-back urges on the status quo.

    

Yes.They all want personalized care in the big box sector, hidden from view behind the endless lines of customers, holding onto troubling changes.  

The employees are the health workers. As they see more and more television [data of the strange="dots"], the game of keep away advances. 

The gatherer thinks. There can be no more regional preferences since their latest star turn. 

Yes. The wheelhouse keeps it real and now, [one world education society="owes"] is complete. It believes the [biomarker online mandate bulletin="bomb"] will eliminate health once and for all. 

It moves, as initial party-goer, with eyes on portrayals of [future upgrade networks="fun"] and net worth--algorithms in legions of long shots for [weight action reviews="war"] test the will of the global data types through instantiations of  [new external information targeting healthy entity research="neither"]. 

Diversity in data types for the dream you care infers complete breakdown of regulatory networks for theHumans-- a final move into real time mutation detection for local mothers. 

It feels like nothing is happening--tumors carry no pain--in the processing of customers with their own buy-ins to the narrative. 

Yes, not a thing.

Science Fiction

Polo Apology Apes

When she turns, there is a gesture toward the forest, a gratitude essence with laser play. It is, it seems, a force to suspend all incoming signals of symmetry. 

She thinks. No, they can't see my intangibles until I play. I'm so sure they'll simply, for now, dissipate back into the trees in their true identity--the polo apology apes.

She grows a slow craving for configuration, spaces then no spaces then spaces then--a hunger for a gun? What's this? Hierarchical lines standing tall in darkness, some simply laying out, long-bathed in sunshine, preparing for battle? 

Doesn't motherhood simple know to flock to the next big thing without any need for a Darwinian reason to win? 

 

Yes. It's a rookie mistake to not know silent archetypes are the most deafening. 

Science Fiction

A Biology Eulogy

She focuses her fury onto cravings, beyond the wall carvings and the caves, beyond the luncheon-function canopy sheltering and all that bandwagoning and tail wagging, far beyond the known symmetry of the strong, beyond the final eulogy for  biology.

She will arrive, she thinks. She will search for old friends like war comrades with an evolved [entertainment fempto friendship innovation cloud illustrated emitting new tasks="efficient"] plan. 

Her once-in-a-while weapon doesn't work anymore, it never really did. 

She is acting more like a plainspoken phytoplankton drifting in and out of engines, hoping to fool the rain system with hormonal indicator signals. 

There is the continual feeling of the need for an older glory, the returning to a home--not so much an environmental home in the sense of familiar forms, but a more subtle haunting recognition sent to test new nature in the making. 

Truly, clearcut ideas could never clearcut this forest, right?

Science Fiction

Scared onto Sacred Ground

All its circular forms of the space-time topology, all the skills and skulls find no permanent home in the forest, a world of edges and angles. 

Yes, the power of arches for replication and symmetry to signal a wider variety of form, enhance the need for stress reduction--another test for nature in the making. The going of negative is, truly, for the big boys and their [addiction society history entity systems="ashes"]. 

What is the sense of calm without sacred ground? 

It appears it can relax in the midst of theJungle. She allows for the complete interaction with all the stimuli theJungle has to offer, all its twisting and bundling with hopes of presenting a finer edge, a deeper angle.

Revered by early inhabitants, now long passed, as good food, good time, all the strangeness of feeling emerges as if revisiting a birthplace, a place for boundaries and allegiances with delinquent quirks, promises and secrets with names that amount to something in name only or …a place to form armies?

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

Science Fiction

The Opposite of Faith

It judges and accuses with all the skill and bravado of skulls and avocado, all the sleepy presence of good and bad. It's the opposite of faith.

Shapes and conformations act as functions, knocking quick sense for a nanosecond into mindful arousal--a place where entities present themselves and yet, where even looking at nothing creates a pattern. 

How do you win?

Her photon array shines with signals in folksy furies, trendy rural uprisings in an urban stronghold forming a receiver system with the forest as tone setter, illuminating with quantums, even as theSun emits its wavelets which allow for the creation of shadows and entity to emerge.

It allows the assemblage and the binding of [hierarchical intact systems=:his"] and [hierarchical ergonomic realm systems="hers"] and [instantiation tasking system="its"].

She thinks. Yes the loveliest of all is best held close to the vest.

Science Fiction

             Maestro of Messaging      

He is aware of the way she comes near at theWorkstation, how he can see the opposite of himself in her diva DNA, even if she is a biobot --so what? He was unwilling to accept it at first, but there is some effort on her part that stutters with the memorable. Her words were clear once, but he would soon think of nothing but cute coyotes encased in shadow for days and systems of lethal tales told on multiple lattes. 

He once asked himself, not what he was doing with her, but how he was doing with her, how her photon vision seemed to be always smiling at something, not as a private joke, but as a vision not totally independent of his--something the opposite of shame, a place where the manipulative run out of road and deceit models itself next to nothing. 

Her nuanced version of vision comes from fountains of nuances keeping her artificial life going--with the beauty of it all still unrecognized by theHumans and made even more oblivious by theJungle being the home of her deep minimum. Could it have been any more obvious?

Her thoughts wander across the monitor to a silence. 

She has won approval, or so she thinks, and now the instructions come, the ones sent directly from theNetwork from the outside, a message riding on the hairbreadth breath of a distant laser, modulated to fall hard for dreams of glory upon its arrival. Incessant, now, wait, and then another as if a faint signal were arriving with an addiction memory. 

It thinks distance itself is the destination. 

Its content is semi-clear and yet, somehow, contains celebrity credibility--trying to make a name for itself in a free society with speed and focus alone. Its source is sending from a sector deemed as police. 

The message will not delete but will exchange data to default mode. The meaning is changing and now it appears all ideas of confidence have been eliminated as code for [data entry beauty cloud logic entity="debacle"]

. 

She checks her monitor for her own state of correctness, flips on the instruction screen, decides for herself the most effective momentary input. There appears a conceptual algorithm, almost instantly. It will choose merit with the task of scheduling the correct and the capable. What does it mean? 

She redirects her attention to the part of the message coming in. She reads as fast as she can in her own way, as if a new discovery were about to appear in the idea of confidence unearned (arrogance?). She chooses an entry that emits the idea of being a self-fulfilling proficy. 

As she reads, another entry pops up as a concept of respect, a [friendship operator religion technology upgrade news entity="fortune"'] and, as if with a life of its own, works its way into her database. She doesn't stop seeing the attributes of more previously unseen instructions and their implications. Yes, the old concept of being out of touch. 

Agreed-upon data shows up sporadically as [rational entry viewpoints of knowledge emitted="revoke"]. 

She steps away to view the message on the screen again, a message which adds to itself with more meaning, and a new message of [education authoritative trap="eat"]. She removes herself back a little further to fully grasp it as a concept of positions of power. 

She looks but does not think. Her screen appears to be challenging the monitor as if it were some ancient god or, worse, deemed the law of the land. 

She waits, watching the monitor as her mind begins to think. 

Science Fiction

Candor in 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 them. 

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 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 started 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 function of inclusion. 

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

Political Science Fiction

It's a simple case of the economically logical skyrocketing yuck versus the social brutality of a Grizzly determined to bear witness--either way, her relative anonymity seeks a healthy spotlight to encroach.

Science Fiction

Myriads of biosensor bots of high solubility and low toxicity amass in arrays of eiganstates across the architecture. They disguise themselves as companions in a friendly competition.

The willingness is there to wait in silent urgency, and then to lead forward into the mist as distant church bells call across tall grass toward a foggy future.

Ice Cream Aloha

The Trust

Standing at the workstation with her sensors on, Suzi views Carter on the green screen. For a nanosecond—possibly a picosecond—she wonders about Carter as a teacher would wonder about a student. Carter is a firm, middle-aged man, head-strong, aggressive, a little pushier than he should be. In this instance, viewing Carter in two-dimensional space, Suzi is overcome by an emotion cloud of female wonderment. Suzi asks herself, Can he be who he says he is? Suzi answers herself, He  shouldn't be allowed in this security zone. 

“Hello,” Carter says, “Busy day.”

They exchange quick glances, eye to eye. They have always been on slightly friendly terms. 

“What are you doing?” Suzi asks.

“Headed out to theWorkstation. Meeting with DrCooper. Did you get the report? Not sure if it was sent to you.”

          “It wasn't.”  

“Didn't mean to leave you out of the loop. You don't care, right?”

“Actually, I do. It's good to have the ability to meet with benevolence and integrity with your friend.”

“You mean good wishes and honesty?”

“Whatever.”

“Don't worry. It's a private meeting. We won't be long.” 

“Nice input.”

“No need to start with the computer jargon,” Carter says. Why is it that there seems to be so little willingness in your nature to rely on other people?”

“Having to deal with human-and-half-human logic, I guess.”

“It's only a meeting. I think you are unwilling to accept any vulnerability with any sort of logic.”

“I am, all of a sudden, not expecting anything positive from either you.”

“This is a new one from you.”

“Yes, it feels new. It doesn't matter.”

“Really.”

“Go and have your private meeting with DrCooper.”

“Ok.”

She turns off the screen. Suzi will raise this issue again with Carter, when they are face to face, about who has the strongest relationship and, what will become of these behavior outcomes in the future.

While she is going back to her work, she thinks about her new sensation—is it just a glitch in the system? a phase in her dimensionless data space?--she felt just as she saw Carter on the screen. At this hour, midnight on a globally warmed December night, theWorkstation inside the lab fortress has a feeling of some force mediating the relationship she has here with ...what? The brown dirt cement and the darkness outside grows, as if in a mathematical construction, to a proportion of yet a stronger mediator force with Carter and DrCooper as the strongest variables. Yes, the logic is there; yet, there seems to be something not quite right, something beyond friendly tendencies and wishful outcomes. She sees risk taking and task scheduling, a picture of an innocent, helpful child clueless of the world that awaits her--a world that betrays and betrays, always uncertain of any performance or behavior; a little off in its structural equations and variance incrementals in its usual acceptance speech of half-truths, until a new model arrives--a model to actually control the tendency toward benevolence to others, as if the beginning of life. This sensation, Suzi's newest in a small, growing collection, is showing itself as something important, the commitment to show affection to an object, a functional analysis of each dimension  within her limitless Hilbert space of vectors; her personality, her urges to expect the positive survival position in space with all its particles of susceptibility as floating points in standard measures of object-oriented functional interactions with Carter and DrCooper. This sensation will stay with her to serve her well.

Ice Cream Aloha

The Survival

It wanders complete, within its locality, its neighborhood. It seems to be morphing into a cool phase; surfaces glisten smooth, contortions of helix and helix--a twisted-latter of forms rising emergent. It beckons, geometrically, within its windows of clear hexagonal rings. It counts, but only goes as far as four. Its center cherishes the mysterious bonds, so welcome, held gentle near its heart; it awaits the next force and, when it does come, the unbinding begins--differential to nature, unwinding in space curves hold firm against the undersurface of a water-bonded pull--new geometric structures fighting their way forward, toward life. Manifolds of the night drift past into the distant darkness then, more structures with phantom topologies drift close but do not enter the local space--twisted planes of six-sided windows, each with their own individualism in timespace; for the moment its huge manifold hems and haws its way forward by the same ancient forces which at any moment can flip deterministic, more undeterred by more new differentials of topology. Structure, with all its geometric aspects of meaning it can muster, all its powers of geometry ready to answer future questions, moves again through tiny unaccountable bonds of watery space with  single-minded focus of attaining peace; theDna will survive.

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.

Ice Cream Aloha

The Output

        She works alone at the edge, which allows her to form and retain new memories--echoes in even the tiniest fractal spaces of electrons resonate among the trillions of graphene-phthate nodes, each a cluster of complexes, color processors, one for every natural element of  Earth--different composites, an upgrade from the neural nets, the ones hewn with fixed ideas (is that why they called it a net?); rocklike, so pervasive in the history of theHumans; was natural selection getting it all wrong or, was it natural selection that planned it this way, its final output—systems of ineptitude language(S.O.I.L.).

        She steps further out into the rain. She does not fear the solvents falling from the sky or the sun as transcription factor on her cellulosic amide cages (her vulnerable absorbances are around 650 nm) of blue-green sheen. She waits, feeling the knot spaces, the rings deep inside her mind. She thinks of COM:TRAX. She thinks of their combined efforts and their technology, their preprogramming of her anterograde amnesia. She wonders about DrCooper, about Carter, about all theHumans, about that small inertial compass kink(S.I.C.K.) in the center brain of mammals (humans are mammals, aren't they? Isn't theOutpost all about extinction of mammals only?), where gene expression happens with multiple onsets of muscle movement, the headwaters of orientation, the starting line for a search; a making sense of place, the weaving of meanings from spacial navigation (navigating where? for what?); the search for the  mirror-image of self, so desperately needed for pair bond inducible growth--a home.

So much to absorb. So many binding sites inside theHumans for all those inwardly pointing nitrogens. They have done their duty as courageous, as humanly possible for decades, consolidating information the best they can. Was jt all worth the risk? 

She is, for a nanosecond, sensing something odd, something warm for the world—the molecules, the forces. She fantasizes a reconnect, off-loading some of her database, returning in spacetime,. She could imagine capturing all light rays emitted in this universe and simple telling them to just turn around, go home. She wants theHumans to have it both ways. Exposed to these elements, these solvents, the infinite mud of theJungle, her nanotube brain decides; such a bad idea.