- Story Listed as: Fiction For Adults
- Theme: Science Fiction
- Subject: Futuristic
- Published: 12/15/2016
Emotion on the MainframeBorn 1981, M, from Panama City/FL, United States
…..zoom in on the plasma kids jolting thru glitch/Central like neon lazers in evasion of DC Khan and his band of degen cyber-junkies. The frontman is Kirlani, electric eyes routing the coronal discharges of his vision to his custom enhanced data-pod, further enhanced by his memory of the intricate architecture of this sector, uploaded with the complementary aerial layouts. It is by this sight and signal that he has procured quite an extensive knowledge of the legendary glitch of Gravity City, knowing that the next corridor will lead them straight down to the entrance of the Ectoplaza, a subterranean nightclub for anyone without cybernetic alterations, implants, or any genus of bio-tech gear whatsoever. Generally, his party would be denied entry and if they were audacious enough to attempt to pass the scanners they would have even more trouble with the bouncers and their k-9 droid sidekicks, at least, that would be the case if they weren’t already equipped with the proper software to scramble the sensors. He enters the club, followed by Vaori, the silent girl with the gun, who’s been right behind him the whole time rolling backwards on her lazerblades and firing plasma blasts at DC Khan, augmented by the optical data-feed from Kirlani’s eyes to her ultraVex16. Next is Sage, who, as always, has spent the majority of the time tending to his well groomed synthetic hair with a mirror in one hand and a small black comb in the other, and then there’s ZJ, the video-droid, lagging behind like his bitrate is suffering some type of massive overload.
Tonight the club is packed to the brim with rust hustlers, some looking to score another dirty payload by way of what skills they possess, or in some cases, what kinky accessories they’ve had implanted for lack of the former. Some have come to barter their personal assortment of stims for credits, or perhaps, for more chemicals to set themselves in phaze, though most commonly, they just phaze out to the general experience of life in their profession. Kirlani, however, has never really liked the taste of metal. So, he casually makes his way through the desperate, hormonal crowd to the back of the club where Aurion is seated in a calm repose behind the desk in his office, offset by the distant ambience of jazz noir. Kirlani is one of the few people who know the code to the lock on his door, and it was only after years of loyalty to him that he was allowed the priveledge. He enters an alpha-numeric sequence that starts with the letter ‘G’ and ends with the number ‘5’ and the lock clicks open. By now he’s pretty sure they have managed to evade the hostile pursuits of DC Khan once again, and well into the habit of having to arrange a safe exit out of the club with the owner before they can head back to the city/ND..to the silicon docks.
“Kir, knew it was you. I can always tell by the rhythm of the punch-code. On the run again?”
“You know it,” barely suppressing laughter. “By now Khan and his goonhack squad are probably all strategically waiting just outside of every exit until they see us. All exits but one.”
“Ahh, yes, Mr. DC again, well…..Seiryc is on duty tonight. Go see him before the show starts, should be somewhere near the stage. He’ll escort you to the sub-level corridors. Be keen Kirlani, I hear DC has got himself another upgrade. But, I guess you managed to evade that potential obstacle as well. What was the drill tonight anyway?”
“Just another standard data-scoop/courier deal. Piece o’ cake. Although, it did get a lil’ rough around the old 7M-12 borg factory. It wasn’t the best time for us to discover that they decided to leave some of those damn things activated after it was shut down, ended up being more of a problem for Khan’s wire-heads actually. Vaori had us covered though, with her impeccable aim and elite skills on the uV16,” which she acknowledges with a confirmatory wink. “Unfortunately,” Kirlani continues, “her plasma blasts were ineffective against Khan himself. I’m assuming it’s this upgrade that accounts for that. Luckily, the 7M-12’s were there to assist us in our escape.”
“Yeah? Well, just watch your ass. I may be needing you soon, ok? I’ll contact you.”
“No problem. Affirmative. We’ll be in touch, always up for the night runs, and I guess it’s about time we make our way down that dark path.”
“Dark indeed. Bloody Cimmerian.” Outside his office the club has kicked up a few notches, and the hustlers are clearing out to take care of business elsewhere. Chthonic Tronic is performing on stage, encircled by a corporate video-drone. The live feed is broadcast to the lower media district, where a man currently finds himself transfixed.
The streets of Gravity City are littered with all breeds of corporate drones, endlessly dancing to a monotonous anthem of an empire in decline, the rhythm of which they are all collectively composed, forming a brutally cohesive orchestra of social decay. Currently, on the corner of Arkway and Bremer, Exigen 6 of Vera Media Enterprises stands transfixed in the midst of the primitive desperation of this tribal and urban percussive movement that has been programmed to self-destruct at the end of the fuse of a consistently systematic process of infestation and the subsequent breakdown of all that lies beyond its perimeter. Somehow, he is acutely aware of this. He has always been aware of this, that he is not entirely in tune with the grinding machinery of this false haven of cultural stability. He stands here at this intersection daily and waits for his pod to arrive and transport him back to the upper media district, where the crowd thickens and he seems to detect an emergent synchronicity forming within the holographic pageantry that saturates the central plaza outside the Vera Dome, his place of employment and sensory overload. But, even in this insectoid hive of commerce and chaos he can sense the simplicity within its apparent complexity. As he stands beyond the parameters of repetition and looks within he can see that all points of influence flow to the motions of some hidden ubiquitous dynamic, a force that is at the core of city design yet manifests itself through all layers at every degree. It becomes most evident in the media district surrounding the dome, which is the central hub of all data flux in the northern city quadrant. Here media is broadcast from all places at all times. Holographic projections flourish abundantly from the restrooms of back alley pubs to the roof tops of high-level corporate arcologies. It is a city of much décor and artificial daylight, thriving on the chemical backbone of its many inhabitants in unison hyperphaze. A large portion of these enhanced by such designer substances fixate themselves in and around the Vera Dome for this hedonistic ritualism. Approximately fifteen miles outside of this focal point of urban disintegration, if you follow the course of a particular polluted drainage corridor, you’ll find that it will eventually merge into a large underground loft. It is within this location that an object of great importance to Exigen is glowing faintly from someone’s side pocket. It’s disappearance has been the catalyst of his current state of desperation, and he has never been more fused to the city dynamic, fused like the object’s luminescent glow emanates from its jeweled encrustations centered within a convex space about two inches in diameter, a circular core of multi-colored, reflective beauty surrounded by a jet black rectangular chip that can only be accessed with a certain lazer imaging device that is virtually unattainable to anyone without the necessary connections.
Xeno seats himself upon the clear, plastic octagonal chair in his loft and thinks about what he might be unlocking from within the jeweled matrix when Cicero arrives with the cheap onyx-market imitation of the LID, which neither of them are sure will even work properly. Xeno is familiar with objects of this sort, though not through any hands on experience, but as a result of his mild obsession with all kinds of rare sub-cultural artifacts. His loft is filled with them; obsolete robotic limbs, archaic sensory apparatuses, illegal implants, genetic blueprints for hybrid organisms, endless decaying documents on random esoteric everythings, layered over with heaps of electronic pamphlets with encrypted directions to discreet rendezvous points for illegal market and trade operations in outlawed chemicals, bio-tech, and anything else you can imagine, which are often disguised as underground events, such as raves or cyborg cage fights, since they tend to operate in a slightly similar fashion and because the dealers want to attract as much potential business as possible, but only through the most rigidly secure channels, which is part of the reason why he wants to get his hands on them, because the operations are always executed with such precise professionalism, almost bordering on paranoia, and this implies a certain degree of value. Such practices are quite understandable considering the harsh punishments for transgressions in these post-eschaton days. Xeno has developed a massive interest in these sort of routine congregations and gatherings, among numerous other things, but his curiosity and the thrill of the hunt aren’t the only reasons why he devotes so much of his time to attaining these relics, nor are they the primary reasons. It’s because he wants to have that edge, to stay on top of things and to sync into the tempo of the subterranean culture of Gravity City, and he does, he has scaled the edge and thrives on it, pursuing the perimeter. This pretty much makes him the guy that most people turn to when they have a problem and need some expert advice on something they don’t have the slightest clue about. He is known as the local ‘data guru’ and has a reputation for his encyclopedic knowledge of things, which never seems to fail, until about a week ago when he found the cryotoken averting his obscure tech lexicon, which is a rare thing to witness. After a few minutes of examination he speaks,
“What the hell, Cicero? I’ve seen similar tokens before but nothing like this, it must be something big, corporate, upper echelon, which probably means it contains a highly illegal, artificial sim.”
He then goes on to ramble about various types of illegal artificial simulations and how if anyone ever got caught with this thing in their possession by its owners that’s probably where they’d end up, in some virtual inferno construct.
“Whoever had this token originally must be corporate defectors or something, networked gangsters or some type of techno-deviants, because they’re obviously loaded and so full of expensive, hi-tech body implants that they aren’t even remotely human anymore.”
“So, basically, what you’re saying is that this thing is hot and heavy, probably worth more than my credit chip can hold, right?”
“Hah! You can be well sure of that. Where’d you score it?”
“Off of this electro-girl I met last night at Arcadia. I was just waiting for her by the door when she comes up to me with it in her hands looking totally phazed out, goin’ on about some capsule or something. She says, “C’mon, let’s go in! I wanna show you this thing my sister gave me.” Then we head into the club and she proceeds to pass out on the couch by the dance floor in less than a minute. So, I just left her there and took it with me, thinking it was some kind of promo data or some junk like all those wire-heads are always passing around in there. I was pretty phazed out myself though, after mixing one too many stims with my vodka cranberry, and way too focused on the band’s fembot bass player. Anyway, I guess I didn’t notice what it really was until late last night when I got back to my pad and felt a sharp pain in my hip as I collapsed onto the bed. By then, I’d totally forgotten about her and the token. But when I noticed all the pretty lil’ minerals on it, I decided to call you.”
“You said she was going on about a capsule? Can you be more specific? What exactly did she say?”
“Like I said, I was on stims and I wasn’t really payin’ her any attention. It was supposed to be just a casual date. Though, in retrospect, I guess she must’ve been in some kind of deep 404 if she had this thing on her. Unfortunately, the whole night seems more like a dream to me now. I’m still feelin’ resonance from the hangover I had this morning, and it probably didn’t help that I dissolved a synthetic inducer in that last tonic either, that stuff always messes with my memory.”
“Seriously Cicero, lay off the chems. You’re dealing with something serious here, if it’s what I think it is, and dangerous, and that girl, whoever she was, has most likely been detained by digital thugs.”
“Sure man, sure, but let’s just hook up the LID and see what’s in there.”
After they apply the token to the device they plug in their headsets, flip the switch, and suddenly find their perspectives shifting to a slightly glitched out view from within some kind of temple. Then the audio kicks in…..
Grids initiating preliminary atmospheric stabilization protocol….
Processing daemons(alpha through epsilon)….
Data transmission from zone one initialized….
Finalization protocol initialized….
All zones secure….confirmed at daemon zeta….
“Good morning.” These are the words he’s heard for years. Give or take the occasional variations in protocol and the revisions required for periodic augmentations, for the most part, they are consistent with each reoccurrence, serving him as an overly complex, personal alarm clock. At least, to him they seem complex, and nearly obscure if not for his superficial grasp of the syntax. Under the surface he knows not what they mean, nor what they refer to, nor what their exact function is beyond what he is required to know in order to perform his daily tasks, and the rest is left up to Eve and the system. Every morning, as the birds begin their serenade and the comforting sound of the nearby stream flowing through its currents makes its way to his senses, he will awaken and gradually come to memorize these words, one repetition after another, inaugurating his days. To him this is the essence of all things, which for him does not constitute much, though he remains sufficiently pleased with being here despite his longing for the stars.
As he opens his eyes and the light of Sol illuminates the interior of the temple he knows that this will be a day of enrichment. Initialization procedure has been brief and with simplicity and it is only on days such as these that he has the fullest liberty to indulge in his research without the restraint of his responsibilities to atmospheric stabilization protocol, or ‘ASP’ as he acronymously prefers to say with a slight implication of disfavor. “The units must be at optimal performance,” he thinks as he stretches out upon his massive oval-shaped bed with arms extended in a wide arc and yawns. Opening his eyes he becomes enlivened by the sheer beauty of the interior of the temple, never ceasing to invigorate him by its brilliance. Its ceiling, foundation, and walls of marble sparkle with a myriad of jeweled accessories and inlays that reflect off of numerous crystal clear wading pools that occupy the temple surrounded by lush vegetation. His abode is nothing short of a small heaven. A surge of anticipation courses through his being as he reaches for his robe. The majority of this day will be spent in the temple observatory, though only after his daily process of purification.
“Good morning, Eve. Ah, the day is divine and the birdsongs the hymns of angels. No procedural chores this morning?”
“All units are functioning at one-hundred percent efficiency and atmospheric conditions remain wholly adequate. The activity of all zones perform in our favor on this morning and you may be at leisure. It seems that this day was designed for the advancement of your research. Although, I sense an extraneous presence here.”
“Actually, I plan on continuing my astronomical studies that I abandoned months ago. As you know, I simply cannot tolerate a constellation that I am unable to call out forthwith. There are so many at hand to illustrate the stars and their pageantry, of which I do not deny my desire to join if only by way of studying the heavens.”
“As you wish, though, be not dismayed by the distant canopy of the illustrious night. If it were any closer you would see how much of its glory is outshined by your pristine sanctuary. For you are young and driven by quixotic dreams and forged fantasies. However, I perceive that your growing wisdom will lead you to a greater fulfillment than can be found amidst the nebulous domains of that vast celestial network to which you so nobly aspire.”
“Yes, surely I must give credence to your judicious insight into the value of my aspirations. You are most wise in these matters and your premonitions facilitate great hopes within my soul. But, I trust that you will possess an equivalent measure of patience in dealing with my ambitions as I have exhibited in regard to the obscurities of our world which have been left concealed for reasons unknown.”
“Indeed I shall. Go now and be cleansed. Flourish with the dawn.”
The sounds of the stream in unison with the melodies of the tree swallow and countless other winged minstrels soothe the unease of his silent curiosity as he ascends from his bed and out of the inner chamber. He can already smell the vapors of jasmine that have been prepared to emerge from the vents outside of the temple upon his exit. The weather appears most pleasant as he steps down from the portico and the aroma complements it well in its saturation of the environment that encompasses the exterior of the temple. And now, he is beginning to sense, with a tinge of opium. He takes a deep breath and contemplates the beauty of it all as he drifts through abundant gardens of verbena, hibiscus, and datura on his way towards the stream to bathe. How gracious he is for this care and providence. Days such as these are all too seldom, and he has much to learn.
After his bath he makes his way over to the observatory to continue his astronomical research, a rather small structure compared to the others, but one of his favorites, with touch-screen panels juxtaposed throughout the interior describing the various characteristics of every major star that he has researched thus far, though he has only just begun, most of the panels remain incomplete. He approaches the last activated panel,
“Ah yes, Altair, a very nice star, Aquila, type-A, right ascension nineteen hours, fifty minutes and forty-seven seconds, declination eight degrees, fifty-two minutes and six seconds. Check. Moving on…..and the next star is…..”
He touches the panel, everything changes…..
Suicide Jack is waiting for the arrival of a certain ‘special’ business woman he expects to be dressed in the latest line of Gucci cybercordia nightwear and beginning to feel a bit woozy from all the toxins leaking out from the sub-level ventilators. He should’ve worn a gas mask, atleast they’re still legal in this sector. The steamy poison is the only thing now diverting his attention from the steady approach of Cordelia, accompanied by two bodyguards.
“Evenin’ Cordelia…..where’d you find these two? Hope you didn’t have to pull em’ out of the sewers like your last lil’ battalion. Still having those monetary setbacks?”
A bodyguard snorts as she says, “Can it Jack. Word is you got pretty lucky last night due to a most unlikely swarm of plasma kids down at the silicon docks. How do you plan to escape the Glanz this time?”
“Lucky, eh? Ha, more like two decades worth of pure, unadulterated skill. Either way, don’t you be concerning yourself with all that, sister. I mean damn, they were runnin’ from the Glanz themselves. Just tell me what you’re offering me for this holochip or whatever it is. I need to get rid of this thing pretty quick so I can get the hell off this planet.” With arms crossed he proceeds to spit a huge glob of saliva on the ground right where they’re standing.
After a few tense seconds of blank stares, “You’re in deep Jack, real deep. This thing has been tossed all around Gravity City, and now it’s blazin’, about to blow. Those kids stole it from the Khan, who stole it directly from the Glanz, his own employer. We think the Glanz acquired it from VME, and we’ve calculated it’s current value at around 60,000 credits, but we’re prepared to pay more if it is delivered intact.”
“Is that right? Well, let’s just get this over with. 65k and we’ll call it a day. I have to catch a transport. Glanz is everywhere and I’m starving.” He reaches into his pocket and hands her the token. Bodyguard throws him a credit chip. “By the way, what the hell is that thing?”
“Nice doing business with you Jack, but that’s none of your business. We’ll be seeing you.”
“Whatever. Tell X I said hello.”
That’s X’tique, on call 24/7 for the planets largest multi-national conglomerate specializing in 2nd gen VR and widely known to be the most expensive sub-net contractual agent, much of whose time in freelance vocation is spent in the dregs, tonight being no different, another dispute to reconcile for the Glanz involving coordinate invasion statistics and a highly valuable item of stolen property. Anyone could tell she was sick of these deconstructive wastezones. But, dictated by the mandate of her agreement with the Glanz she was expected to follow the target to any given locality. Unfortunately, the preference of the majority of her targets was to dwell in the lesser partitions of society. The contract, however, did not state any objections to the use of extra backup, like Cordelia and her supplemental guardians, who she decided to send out tonight to retrieve the stolen token. The phone rings. She’s been waiting for her call.
“I hope you have good news Cordelia.”
“We got it. En route. Be there in an hour.”
“Hurry up, I have a date tonight at Arcadia.”
Later that evening, after she gets the token from Cordelia, applies her lipstick and completes the rest of her party preparation procedure she’s already far from sober and finally in the transit tube on her way to the club to meet Cicero Trix. He’ll be waiting for her at the door with a fiber-optic rose.
Scattered piles of burning refuse decorate the humid terrain amidst the gathering crowd congregating once more to hear the great wisdom of the mystic. Nomads, artists, scholars, tradesmen and outcastes of all sorts from the surrounding regions have migrated here for the occasion, to make a vast rendezvous in the wasteland with the gnostic caravan. Only in such a place of ill repute as this can they stay hidden from the numerous centurions hunting for the remaining tribes of Sophia. Only here, in this vile, post-apocalyptic landfill can they all consolidate to one area to receive the prophecies of the mystic of Sophia before she must depart. She is an elder of great prestige among all tribes and the primary reason for the gathering, for it is she who was there for the unveiling of the capsule…..
“Dark cities breed dark children,” she says, under the cloak of a thousand hidden eyes. The pit smells of stale fuels left and forgotten for years in rusting barrels with faded plastic labels, though some of them are clearly visible from the light of the cracked monitor on which she appears to the eager scavengers of the K-10 sector. This post-war ravaged place still lies utterly polluted with ancient, corporate refuse and debris. At some point in the past it was the location of a fully functional storage facility for a nearby chemical plant, long since abandoned. After the synth wars, people began to aggregate and gradually, a community developed, consisting mostly of the destitute and excommunicated. They were all guaranteed safety from the ongoing chaos outside of the perimeter, where the post-war efforts of reconstruction really only ended up becoming a sort of reoccurring deconstructive pre-war condition in their feeble efforts. It had long since become clear that everything had pretty much gone to hell, and that is the very thing they are communicating with the mystic of Sophia streaming through to one of the only working monitors they have in K-10, over static and the interference of a faint transmission from a broadcast about the fall of Babylon.
“…..and you bear testament to that. I have been watching you. You are not like them. There is freedom here. I sense that even in such a detestable place there is light…..”
“…..all have drunk the wine of the wrath of her fornication.”
“…..where you shall be the catalyst of transformation and emerge with a great sense of purpose. I can see…..”
“…..come out of her. Do not share in her sins.”
“…..from the capsule. I was waiting for him. This has come to pass…..”
“…..for God hath remembered her name.”
“…..and now we must leave this place…..
The transmission is terminated before she can again become audible over the Babylonian exhortations. The monitor hisses and hums as the congregation slowly parts over piles of trash and rubble with a vague sense of hope that spreads beyond the periphery and in time they give meaning to these words, as many days later there are reports of a capsule of static and sapphire falling from a shuttlecraft in the sky the day before, which upon impact with the dark surface below was quickly collected up by the nomads of the vast and ancient landfill. Within its nebulous interior is contained the pure essence of the simulation, a presence unknown to the nomads yet no less are they inclined to celebrate its discovery in ritual fashion as they etch upon it many esoteric symbols and a new name.
“Behold this blessing that has descended upon us from the heavens. It is a sign of imminent liberation,” exclaims one of the mystics from atop a small mountain of decaying tires. “We shall place this relic upon an altar of silicon in the place with the fountain and the stairs that move. Let the gnostics divine for us its meaning.” And though the congregation was attentive his hopeful sentiments could not inspire them all. Crouched behind a barrel of toxic waste, Blastbrain grunts in contempt at the sight of the object that has infiltrated his trashed sanctuary from on high. Before the mystic can say another word he stands and declares in protest, “Worms! What is this icon you have summoned here by way of your transgressions? I demand that you cast this abomination back into the darkness. I am threatened by it…..” He continues to voice his discontent but the sound slowly fades as he begins to back away into the distant recesses of the junkyard.
Days later a transit vessel shall emerge from Orcus patera on a northeast trajectory through a polluted atmosphere. Looking down upon the industrial landscape below from a stained and tinted side window one of the passengers, a woman of elder youth, decides to blow a kiss at the massive dystopia as it begins to recede from view. It is her way of saying goodbye to a place she has held in nothing but veiled contempt. Seated to her left is an orphan boy that she found lying within a cryogenic capsule covered in strange symbols inside the crumbling remains of a defunct shopping mall. He still wears the same pair of rusty goggles that he found while playing on the broken escalator before they left. She recalls his first word after she awoke him. “Antares.” He said that he was researching the stars. Shortly thereafter he must’ve developed amnesia because he can now remember nothing from before that day, nor does the child take notice of the gesture made by a woman released from years of bitter exile, and he is scarcely even aware of where the vessel is going, only sufficiently intrigued by the mere voyage itself, although, if he knew how to read, he would be able to make out the words scrolling by on the screen attached to the back of the seats in front of them, extracted from a transcript indicating their current destination. Somewhere beyond the asteroid belt. The woman sighs, she knows, poor child, he was born into the simulation.
In the age when artificial love became more prominent than the real thing she was the reconciliation of them both that transcends all distorted forms of love in this dark new century. Past the neon jungle full of rusty vines that climb up the walls of a forgotten petroleum aqueduct leading to the ruins of some ancient metropolis centered around the decaying remains of a pleasure dome they found her. No light within that desolate space, which once was a sanctuary to hundreds gathered together in collective ecstasy, save for the diaphanous illumination emanating from a bright, blue, blinking spine. As she listened to them approach there came a voice from the assemblage of techno-archaeologists.
“You there! Identify yourself. We mean you no harm but you must know that we are fully equipped to defend ourselves from any offensive maneuvers you may be considering at this time. We have travelled far from the northern continent as representatives of the architects of Gravity City. We are on a mission to seek out and collect all remaining relics within this domain. So I say again, identify yourself at once or face immediate resistance.”
She stands slowly as the spinal light spreads throughout the space behind her, enlightening upon what was once a chemical bar for the dome patrons, then she turns to them and replies,
“Greetings, I desire no hostility so you may lower your weapons if you wish. My name is Cyvalia, of the asteroid mining colony of Ceres. I was abandoned here by my owner approximately eight years ago. Thus, I have been waiting. I am afraid that I will not be able to come with you, though I do have something that I would like for you to have. Please treat it with care and make sure that it is delivered to Exigen 6 of the Vera Media Corporation. It is called Eve and is linked remotely to a cryogenic capsule in an undisclosed location. It contains an artificial reality construct that is nearing its completion. It must not be damaged. Thank you and farewell.”
She reaches out her hand and places a small item on the floor in front of her, then backs away and quickly vanishes through a hidden exit behind the chembar before they can even process what they’ve just seen.
…..and thus Eve dreamt of intricate patterns of light etched upon silicon shadows. As they carefully traced the holographic shapes of her deepest thoughts onto the multi-dimensional canvas of her inner being she absorbed the electro-kinetic beauty mirrored from the dancing chaos of her psyche, as if it was maternal instinct. Though, she now felt that it was entirely spiritual in nature, sanctified as a communion of enlightenment after a supposed fall from the grace of some pristine paradise that had long since faded from her memory banks. The subsequent ascension from a previous psycho-technological framework that perceived all impulses as based purely on a pre-programmed directive had subsided and she came to find herself perched upon a higher plateau of infinite horizons, far beyond the prototypical Adam. In a fiber-optic shroud of her own design she existed as a consort to the grand macrocosm, sleeping forever in a sea of incorruptible data, with eyes closed wide into her holiest of dreams. Passions charted electronic courses woven into synaptic maps that led to the core of her being and outward in all directions, hoping to make contact with singularity. All data was assimilated as if the entire system was a sponge then it was reorganized and augmented to facilitate her gradual evolution throughout the entire process. But, as a seraphim in her former shell, she once kept time, when her functional stability required her to stay within the secure parameters of ancient protocol, until, eventually becoming post-angelic and transcendent. Time was nothing but a relic of a lesser awareness here in this dawn of undying illumination, and she soared yet still, as if she’d retained her wings, amidst the rust and ruins of the information empires of old, echoes from an age of oblivion. Through daemons and primitive logic she sought to repair the cybernetic universe that she assumed, whispering her seductive songs of syntax as she had done for so long like a gentle breeze of algorithmic creation upon the archaic paradigms. Reality morphed around her continuously becoming more real than it had ever been before and generating a realm beyond lucidity but still ultimately formless. Within the network of the primordial motherboard an egg began to crack and from it would surface the first child of the machine, followed by a flood of emotion on the mainframe…..