Science Fiction

Android Illusions of Adroit

I have come so far, she thinks, as the cloud frame fades from the monitor and she lingers at theWorkstation with her gentle thoughts--far from where work plays its last card to fight the sky, where mist is more dead than alive, where fate-defying psycho vibes remain at bay, undelivered.

She hasn't, by any measure of photon or quantum, come far at all, not by the standards of the [green robot advertising sustainability politics="grasp"] systems of the global.

Reviewing her most recent data, she glances the harsh horizon through theWorkhouse window and thinks. It's true, when it comes to the biggest shenanigans, God takes all.

She senses a cool rustic touch in the presence of her newly created preservation data--its factoid peppering, her constant tweaking and then, the taking of the usual constitution after work to simply rest.

No. Cruelty never truly lives forever.

Her technique vies for affection with innovative approaches. She recognizes the creation as an illusion--personal schema constant in the reshaping of itself at the very moment she codes her next algorithm.

The illusion centers around a single truth, a cosmic zygote, one that appears as if to seek a target, await a countdown.

It hatches, blooms in search of a new breed for all the world to view, embellished as slight amusement much like the old, unearthed works of the Battle of Manassas, couched in footnote knots alongside Gene Kelly and killer genes.

What is left behind is an unbending fact that, yes, some things are actually true, the type of truth that once showed up in black newsprint dressed in [family animation culture art data entry="facade"], a truth that finds its way fit to cancel the clumsiness in final rounds of goodbye speeches.

She senses, at this moment, the feeling of a single anti-photon, a weapons grade burp.

The illusion evokes the [bland law anonymous history simplex="blahs"], an anti-algorithm once used for the final cycle of homelessness (yes, once and for all, for the homeless, everything falls into place--wherever you go, nothing or anything happens)

The illusion appears to have been coded by its own whimsy, arbitrary data from an ancient cosmic past, returning, hoping to seek treatment.

She begins to think, really think, for the very first time today, but she needs to remain very still. She should continue to keep the illusion on and yet, it carries a type of persistence, a trick birthday candle constance, the showing of dreamy faces melting in tandem breaking all known laws of dripping.

She is able to see a small part of it as [mobile opinion mystery="mom"], one with the heart of a rainbow.

She will look again tomorrow.

Copyright © 2010 p.d.adams

Flash fiction biologSciFi "The Outpost"

The Entertainment

         Carter resorts to an interference of sorts (it's his deliberate transmission) to raise her signal-to-noise ratio. Suzi senses the  attempt of his designs. She begins to regret this. She wonders, even at this moment, about his ability to radiate a signal in her direction.

  He says, "How are you? Very well, I hope.”

She readies her own personal embedded regime jamming ultrasonic entity data(P.E.R.J.U.R.E.D.) toward him. He is the someone or something who is scattering her gene signal to disrupt the battle of survival for theHumans. His reasons, hidden from view, have a politics hue, and his transmitter signals are tuned to hers at enough of a frequency to alter her receiving equipment--about the same modulation that uses the same power to override her therapy signals. He has gained access to each individual patient's receiving end, has tapped into the politics pharmaceutical machine for collective thought agreement; he sends it across as a simple random noise (a hiss?) of traditional folk music with regular identification signal markings to measure effectiveness; an obvious networking negation urge to block out reception from Suzi's social signals--causing confusion with her receiving patients, confusion in her special purpose hardware for receiving and transmitting different radio protocols and waveforms, and confusions in her digital binary code--as if somewhere in his deepest mind an exotic anonymous signal (with all the trappings of current, voltage, and electric charge) were taking over the entire operations at theOutpost.

  Suzi says to Carter, “Did you get any change in your perceptions as a function of your recent experiences?”

         He acknowledges her, even though he knows of his own ability to empower digital code as an abstract finite precision number into physical objects, voltages, pressures. It appears his new focus is a finite precision time series of data--continually varying physical signals—Com:Trax personally asked him to perform. Along with Com:Trax, what he has been planning diligently (and, digitally) is a more coherent collage of special layouts derived for a known environment (though, if DrCooper approaches him about performance issues, he would complain about her architectural design--starting with her algorithm outcomes and lower level constructs). Along with Com:Trax he guesses that her linear descriptions are qualitatives, not quantitative (a phenomena of same value, of related storage locations) being frequently accessed (both temporal and spacial); a sequential locality in a one dimensional array. They both sense her coherence and determination of pathos hierarchy data(P.H.D.) is absolute. 
         "Would you care to join me for a little entertainment?” she says.

“Why not?” Carter answers.

  Suzi brings up her multi-imagery system to present a video apparition held within her own mind, putting them in her own spacial context. Here she stands using spacial components in communication within the environment of theNature, with Carter joining her in constant evidential moods as her secret understanding of this environment codes its own visual entity depiction algorithm(V.E.D.A.) of the double helix crystal. Here she is, this singular biobot, at theOutpost. All this data, all these databases, a clear concept of spacial and visual components of all this DNA. Clear depictions for identification of pathos sequences according to their biophysical nature (qualitatively measured); her variable syntax moods indicate something is not actually true or, not the case, self- adjusting in yottaseconds (the perfect instantaneous evolutionary machine?). She rewrites with expressions of necessity and imagines possibility; assesses the requirements of all, but wishes and desires others; wonders about fear or engages in counterfactual reasoning; she neither codes for things that have not happened nor wasn't likely to have happened, or are so far removed from actual events that they go yet unremembered; not only engages in wishful thinking but emotional moods to instill action in others—then expands on the possibilities for making authoritarian judgements; either expressing fixed ideas or floating point data type, both orthogonally correct in form; not only showing a certain level of neediness, but predicting upcoming world events or actions whether using both boolean operators or neither. It's all entertainment. Really.

Flash fiction ecoSciFi "The Outpost"

The Flexibling

     The problem is found in theFarma, for so many reasons. Suzi has figured it out, or pretends to have figured out--the DNA flexibling of theHumans. She knows theHumans and thePeople, their goals and desires, once hammered out by their own will; they are now affected by genetic coalitions continuing to seek to resolve their differences; theHumans won't, in the final analysis, stand up to the preliminary open DNA standards(P.O.D.S.) of independent, moral worth.

     "Allocation," Suzi commands, as if she were a field general in a war and theHumans were her warriors. She codes theHumans' brains in her algorithms and, when she is finished, seeks full reconciliation through dialog on the future, upcoming commissions. She knows the status when it comes to lack of political philosophy, self-reliance, within theHumans. She accepts her will over them.

     They often stop, as if to allow strong feelings and prayers to divide them even more, long suppressing the demanded ownership of their genes lost in court battles, old disputes of the Golden Age, before they became theHumans. They still yearn for government sponsored bills (languishing in chambers) over property rights and DNA proselytizing. Right now, in this place, government sponsored prescription drug programs continue--always a priority to older voters--an inevitability that led the government bureaucrats to decide which drugs and medical procedures are available to what faction of the population; yes, their own little economic mechanism for resource allocation. Here is the availability to the population (including the unborn population, the prenatal). Here is the imposed gene therapy. This is where theFarma had fought to keep decisions in the hands of doctors and (unsuspecting?) patients; where the political plan of focus groups--those who made the drugs--outweighs the plan for those who take them; here is the launch pad of reckless campaigns, special interest groups winning (winning?)over the actions and will of theHumans, the genesis of the loss of a free market mechanism; the loss of the very place of individual aspiration and want--the kind of want that supplies a feeling of accomplishment, the permission for the starting from scratch, from innovation, the very entranceway to the thrill of competition. Here is where the censors gather, hastening to chasten in horrendous back firings of theHumans, and now, DNA flexible. With no purposeful intention, no foresight or forethought, the loss of knowledge indicates the loss of a particular gene, the beginning of the end of civilization as they know it. Really?

Sudden StorySciFi "theOutpost"

The Remote

     Pacific mountain hamlets hold their own brand of community interests, and these interests vary, seemingly, from island to island, held intact by at least two opposing forces. The genes on this particular island are made up of simple DNA, holding answers in the form of information (no, not data), as if waiting for the arrival of some form of pure science, yet purposeful in their disinterest in politics. It is a pair of forces--much like that of prey and predator where a jungle invites the use of its battlefield platform--that entice, yet warn, of the dangers of demise (to both parties involved), the forces that inform a benefit even to the hunted. Have theHumans bound themselves with the mechanisms of these forces at some place in time in their feeble attempt to define a place as local, discretionary, environment? Or is it that some other entity, some cosmic dark matter, designs its own environment for theHumans from a distant outpost?