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

Media Childrens the Social

She corrects her stance, moves closer to 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 it 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 the submission of a comedown clown, and yet, there is no wound you can see--just the odd sudden feeling of 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. Why should this new restriction on 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.

“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--a 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 an intruder and yet, always finds a way.

Yes. Always



copyright 3.3.12
patrick d. adams
all rights reserved

Flash Fiction

The Last Engine

It starts.

There is a probability across the spectrum that smaller singularities exist under the history books beneath shiny office windows.

Myriads of biosensor bots of high solubility and low toxicity amass in arrays of eiganstates across its 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 church bells call across tall grass toward a foggy future. 

The warning is against fame. 

It puts stagnation aside and searches with its own conjured technology of the once hidden, impertinent enterprises--the overburdened, staunch drug entities urged to join in with theExchanges.

It's the spirit of a thrill seeker, a musketeer sent to liberate the illiterate.  The robotic manufacturers--arms of dispersal for a massive regime for scandal mongering--read security algorithms as if a daily catechism. Its hope is to grow as a meticulous menace. 

Its intelligence is artificial with a peculiar accompanying artfulness.
  
It's the one the 21stCentury once hoped for.

It collects aggregates of known networks into sacred places with its own idea of secret police, though it doesn't understand privatization at all and yet, has a memory that dares to dream. 

It's code is cleansing, a [simple obliger and predictor="soap"], designed only for the new, the growing, set on keeping its options open as theHumans request more and more searches on its regimes. It thinks it will someday bet on a bright future, truly, but for …who? 

At best, a good rest makes one better than all the rest. 

patrick d. adams

copyright 2.23.12

all rights reserved

Flash fiction biologSciFi "The Outpost"

The Conception

     Confidential exchanges of letters had been traced, even by misinformed sources. Already, at this point, Suzi is able to be a source for the exchange of confidential data when what she actually desires is (even after she had passed all this data along), for theNature to simply like the chaotic part of her young personality structure and help her contain her basic drives. Suzi codes and accepts, but questions exactly the meaning of these data, the tensions-of-instinct in theHumans. If only morality weren't such a thin mask—if only pain and pleasure could be the best of friends, seeking to join forever the physical forces (and, the living instincts) in perfect harmony forever. Suzi wonders about theNature selecting out the life forms, never desiring to erase not only the threat of extinction, but the hope of being diminished and being avoided altogether—all with an assumed small investment of primal DNA. She wonders about the collective major intrinsic neural darkness(M.I.N.D.) of the designated world, its uncertain blessings waiting for her own brilliance and accomplished fluency (merged with a surprising independence of mindedness), and how it, like her, knows of nothing classical; how her information capacities aren't fabled, at least not yet; how she simply holds no recourse to anyone, or anything (she simply records the data in the jungle in glowing terms); how this seems to be the beginning (the conception?) of her strength in the experiences of interdisciplinary information without any quantum programming for integrity, for her judgement or compassion. She is strong, but her experience means nothing; her detectable traits are positive. She is becoming a woman and, less a robot.

Flash fiction ecoSciFi "The Outpost"

The Realizers

     Suzi is one year old today, technically, a year-old history book. She has come far beyond the ancient Greek civilizations, becoming so interested in the promotion of self-interest, that Dr Cooper finds her subjective view at odds with the sacred scientific method of the later 19thCentury. When she arrived at theOutpost she appeared to have only one outside interest, images of utility(I.O.U.), as if an ancient artesian iconographer(A.I.), were built into her platform as image writer--according to tradition, the first iconographers of the ancient world painted images of a deity whose death marked the first day of ...what? She remain a firm believer in the use of patterns to gain wisdom. She'll always gain wisdom, but lately she's gained something more, a human trait beyond coding mosaics and murals, beyond the most recognizable (at least to them) of portable panels, the portraits, something to add more pizzaz to her informational processing devices, making her some uncontested behaviorally urged retroactive biobot(S.U.B.U.R.B.).  She is not prone to devotional objects and tends to broaden in a different, rational direction, as if she were an icon gradually becoming more realistic, evolving into a secular artist; her concern (in the area of decision-making) for risk, all gone; her uncertainty principles dissipated.

     "Suzi," Dr.Cooper says. "Happy birthday!"

     She accepts his greeting wholeheartedly (for a robot). She reviews her historical data algorithms and prepares their operations. She sees strength in icons, stylized figures, always a symbol for something, symbolism in its sharpest form, even able to represent the opposite of Darwinism, whatever that is (communism?). She should know--yes, icons always disregard the illusion of space and, are not always pretty, just devotional--they are never painted to be outwardly beautiful and, visually alone, they represent nothing. I am, she thinks, built just as well, instructional, contemplative,painted to inspire, to imitate; built to remember the virtues of spaceless bodies, to increase  love for the unknown and awaken intelligence from within. "I must, unlike that," Suzi thinks, "have been meant to be real."