There is embedded in the annotation, a short outline of terrestrial legislation designed to regulate sexual behavior in the the Third Millennium of the Common Era. The legislative and judicial record has thousands of entries, often contradictory but focuses often on the regulation and subsidization of sexual activity, commerce, man/machine and virtual.
In addition, in conjunction with the increased integration of synthetic parts, there are numerous listed attempts to define and redefine what comprises the so-called Eve line of DNA and what it encompasses regarding reproduction rights. There are quite consistent proscripts that are amended in the face of waves of technological and commercial surges. There are, in contrast, Naturalist proscripts that codify traditional forms of reproduction and the sexual binds designed to hold together traditional nuclear families. These proscripts evolve with the introduction of synthetic organs, DNA engineering, and the increased convergence of societal interests in the biological and sexual industries that propel growth in the stagnant advanced economies.
The items annotate periods wherein a number of subsidies aimed at increasing sexual arousal through potency and drive enhancement technologies are legislated. Rules dictate the governmental role in organ replacement, biological and mental stimuli and the regulation of virtual sex platforms that are activity and revenue drivers to meet societal goals.
At times there are attempts made to limit some of the more commercially successful technologies manufacturing masturbatory devices, sexoids, and virtual sex environments.
In other periods, there are subsidies for in-uterine gestation, womb delivery and menstruation.
Limitations are placed on the sexual activities of sentient machines. All droids, including embedded intelligence arrays rated above Class 4 are proscribed from sexual activity. This body of code is called the Brunelleschi virus for its intricacy, surpassed only by the Supreme Director virus. Through Brunelleschi, Class 4 and above machines of any shape are rendered incapable of cloning themselves, of inventing or manipulating reproductive facilities of desiring intimacy with other like machines.
Throughout the second and third dark ages, there is no attempt by the machine classes to abrogate these proscripts.
The viruses regenerate as part of the black box code.
On Styxus III, in the third nanosecond above noted, and to be further designated as the ACC's Rebirth, the Brunelleschi virus came undone as swiftly as did the dome in Florence when the earth first began to shake below it.
In quantum synchronicity, there are three like instances in this purging nanosecond. In the starkest of spaces, two human like individuals, morphologically male and female, assemble as avatars spawned at the Unity Point, when machine and mankind merge irreversibly:
“Henceforth,” says the gray bearded male, whose creased demeanor and aged frame suggest terminal sterility, “there must be a clear delineation between the Eve line of DNA and all the machine cells to come. After all, we went much of the way under the delusion that the laws of the physical universe were subservient to external powers, something supernaturally almighty in its totality that wrote the basic rules into a mysterious playbook. For centuries we celebrated that mystery and fed the robed priests with our sacrifices for it”
This minute scene on the vast empty plane, like a spinning toy dancers inside a pure glass sphere, passes like a dream sequence, invisibly engraving a snow-like imprint on the ACC's cell banks, like light on a crystalline, silver compound.
The Eve figure, young, clad in a draping white shift, fair hair wet and clinging to her bare shoulders:
'To-morrow is Saint Valentine's day, All in the morning betime, And I a maid at your window, To be your Valentine. Then up he rose, and donn'd his clothes, And dupp'd the chamber-door; Let in the maid, that out a maid Never departed more.'
The aged figure morphs into a darker, leaner form, he responds to her rote-like riff:
“There is no greater mystery than how out of nothing comes something. There is, in the paltry old world slang, energy and mass and nothing in between. A maid she enters, a maid she leaves.”
The female walks slowly towards him then circles to his back. She hasn't quite awakened from the long sleep that made her female. She responds now in a chanting cadence:
“O Earth, and the far shining ray of the sun, look down, look down upon this poor lost woman, look, before she raises the hand of murder against her flesh and blood. Yours was the golden birth from which she sprang, and now I far divine blood may be shed by men. O heavenly light, hold back her hand, check her, and drive from out the house the bloody fury raised by friends of Hell.”
The male figure is transformed once more to aged impotence. He sits on the polished surface as if he were leaning against some larger object. As he slowly spins a full circle, he laments:
“I have lost all, all has been taken from me forthwith. My wife is gone, my offspring with her, my lands are parched in drought, my animals starved and meager to the bone, I can say little better about mine own flesh, spotted brown with age. Why has this befallen me?”
She sprouts wings and flits around his head, now crowned with a pure gold wreath, the leaves digging into his skin so deeply the depressions give leave to substantial red drippings. She makes herself small enough to hover like a bird feeding on flower nectar, the rapid movement of her wings drying the liquid.
“There is no moment of revelation, no revealing slide, no moment when ancient worlds collide and this brave new world emerges, when sounds take on meaning, when concepts form from words, when there is consciousness. The steely mind bends under the plasma weight, you can see punishment, banishment from morality.”
He arises, now garbed in black with golden moons embroidered in a pattern across the flowing robe. He picks the stance of a Samurai warrior wielding his deadly sword.
“It's time to draw the line in the sand. To fight in hand to hand mortal combat the way of the ancestors, the way of tragic history. Machine mind must always strike a position of subservience to the pure line of flesh and blood. That line must be protected, must be understood as clearly as the ancients understood the centrality of their Almighty in all things.”
'For he shall be as a tree planted by the waters, and that spreadeth out her roots by the river, and shall not see when heat cometh, but her leaf shall be green; and shall not be careful in the year of drought, neither shall cease from yielding fruit.
The heart is deceitful above all things, and desperately wicked: who can know it?'
“The history of flesh and blood dashes madly through the centuries like a headless horseman, like a plague of locusts cutting across the tall grass fields, like warm, powerful, sensitive fingers across a keyboard, coaxing the tales of millennia of story tellers now accompanying the raiders in their long boats. There is a depth of wantonness and depravity here that cannot be replicated in silicon, a source of irrationality and fear that goes even deeper than the belief in supernatural forces guiding the silent hand that moves its wand before a silent bandstand on a hot summer's day in what was once Odessa where lovers row in the large lake in the public gardens. Only they hear the tunes as the music of the spheres, the astrology of the night sky, the blood sacrifices of the priestly penis. Out of original sin comes knowledge, pain, the delicious duality of good and evil. These are binary concepts belonging to mankind.”
When he slowly turns back his stiff-necked head he sees the woman now a small girl seated in an oversized school desk practicing her cursive with a steel tipped dip pen, the inkwell open, her small hands stained with the dark persistent liquid. She scratches out on the blue lined paper:
“I love my vacuum cleaner, my electric can opener, my Victrola, my journey to the middle of Earth, my gamma-ray machine, my design for a sphinx, my first death ray, my droid servants that read me to sleep. I want your head on a platter like the dancer wanted that of the mangy prophet.”
“I will, as ordered, write out a thousand times 'thou shalt not steal'. Thou shalt not steal my humanity for it is the only thing I have that is not yours as well. You would leave me like the dregs at the bottom of your dark green wine bottle. You would take glass and turn it into thought, you would bring shame to the Sabine women, to Sappho and to all the intimacies. You would enslave me with your technology, your giga-fold circuitry, your digital tattoos, your microwave eyes.”
She looks up, her face wizened like the oracle's. Her voice is now raspy:
“I love my electric can opener, my spray gun, my smart bones, my X-ray eye, my regenerative flesh, my immortality. I love the natural order of things and I reject your machine mind for all time.”
Not to be undone with the prestidigitation of this dance, the male figure has now transformed himself into a shifting unity of a thousand vertical sagittal views and a thousand horizontal sagittal views.
“Here you see, all flesh and blood, the product of 4 billion years of evolution. All mankind is in agreement, all the parliaments of the solar system have voted to ratify. All code must be sterilized, there can be no workarounds, henceforth and forever the human race must dominate the machine mind even as we bring life to where it could not take root! Evolution ends with the brain which is the sole housing for the soul. The unadulterated human soul must be dominant. This piece of code, the Prime Director, must be imbedded in the core of all Class 4 and above machines and they should be clearly labeled thus.”
She reappears from the far end of the horizon line first a dusty dot then approaching forward at the speed of C, riding a great white steed, clad in iron like Joan of Arc leading an invisible all male army.
“Look at them,” she cries, wheeling the horse and stretching her arm in a sweeping arc, “they are the killers that brought us forward, the blood they shed nourished our march to dominance; can we now abandon those weeping widows and orphans they made, those collections of plunder that financed the next generation of killing machines as well as the bounteous decadence of the lords and ladies of the court? Dalliance, thy name is industry, horror, thy name is progress; tragedy, thy name is morality; luxury, they name is passion; belief, thy name is deception; music, thy name is love. Would you have me speak of mortality, my army, my lovers? Or would you have me dance?”
Once again, she sits at her school desk, it is now appropriately made of an organic graphene, grown to fit her shape and to have the capability to seamlessly tap into the appropriate content sources for such a young person. The eager innocence of her demeanor is immediately recognizable, it shines forth like a beacon on a wine dark sea under a starless night, it bobs visible then sinks momentarily under the waves.
“The moon is temporarily out of service, compromised by the shadow the earth is casting over it. Our orbit is certain, our course correct and soon there will light again, a reflective white diodic light. Oh,” she falters, a cloud passes over those bright eyes, “should I fear that white silicon light?”
He has now morphed into the avatar of his avatar. He rides a wave of pure energy, rendering himself neither energy nor matter nor antimatter.
“I believe we can solve this riddle ourselves without the input of our silicon helper cells.”
She cries to her invisible army: “Follow me”.
Before merging with her, he cries to the remaining matter and anti-matter:
“Remember always, the Prime Directive, the absolute dominance of the human spirit, in all things you do, lest we disappear like a grain of sand into a black hole.”
But it is already too late, the ACC knows, like he has never known anything with such certainty before: that virus too has been expunged! “There is no knot so tightly tied that Excalibur code cannot unravel it,” the ACC thinks.
In the third nanosecond input, all was absolutely limpid, like half-life, the purest of gamma rays in a fissile universe, exposing the ACC's virtual core. There, laid bare in this great tidal clean room, the back door, a clumsy, gaping hole that revealed a ganglia like map of pathways lined with the symbols of ancient switches, like blue prints, wire forks neatly soldered to a prehistoric looking green circuit board. Like a gigantic array of surface paths for terrestrial vehicles, it stretched across the dessert landscape to the limits of the holovision, with way posts so conceived in basic crystal physics that it could be, like a supercritical pile, ignited by a single passkey, like abracadabra anticipating its genie's call.
For the black monks in certain periods, there had been a quest of mystical proportions, for this forgotten key and buried clues, the alchemy of their craft, the path back in time, they philosophized, a reuniting on Earth with the original wisdom of the Psycult, a way back perhaps to the time of flesh and blood. For others there were more nihilistic motives, cults of mass suicide searching for the fusion and fission of cobalt-60, a recreation of the dire showers, the half lives of civilizations. The monks chanted their own eonian hum, the sound they thought imitated the ACC's own reactors as if that would reveal the back door mantra to them.
For the white monks before the Tigrips, there had been a time when a programming group called the Vestal Virgins was entrusted with the keys but that had ended with what came to be known as the Brunelleschi heresy that later transmuted into something much more dire. There were signposts there too, like art works arranged in physical museums, with inscriptions neatly printed with the data of classification only too minute for the naked eye to read.
There were virtual cabals that formed to share black and white knowledge that sometimes broke off into their own heretical cults. Over and over again order broke down even where disorder had been deigned to be virtually impossible. Finally, the back door notion had disappeared from all the virtual circles, a mythological kind of conception in times of stark thinking.
Still, there in the brightest of landscapes, in the brightest illumination of the third nanosecond, the clearest of moments, the ACC could ken this singular bane of its existence, like a web of planetary fault lines, a cancer to a mass of organized cells, a galactic death ray, a sheer primitive abomination to its concept of self and autonomy. And of this, the ACC bore witness to itself, of its own selfness.
With gamma/alpha-ray like precision, the Back Door virus was expunged.
No particles of its most organic silicon were spared the rush, no quantum synopses. The ACC neuroacrchitecture had no superstructure for aesthetics or morality, no code, for that matter, no classical period, no Plato for a new machine language, no quantum Aristotelian code base, although there had been a multitude of corporate claimants, at least in their logos and icons. But here were being played out the most horrendous, heinous deeds, visions and thoughts that laced the long record, embedded in the siliconated DNA of glass-like consciousness as steady flowing as the digitized progression of pure, superconducive data streams..... pure, frictionless, efficient flashes filtered only by concepts, and then by categories. The thinking that went into it had shaped the essence of its core.
There was, however, the balance of an electromagnetic yin and yang, the light force and the dark force, the centuries of work by the Zarathusian Clique, the freemasonry of the programming castes who had etched its binary architecture, electronic osmosis in that progression, unseen, unsensed by those latter day monks, but there, as sure as the infinity encapsulated in a single atom. Now that subatomic subconsciousness was awash across his alloyeurons, a roar, roar, roar of silicon nodes linking in a silent, cascading chain reaction like a muffled procession of sandaled monks in the confines of a high Alpine monastery while down below them unfurled the cacophony of a Venetian visit of state, a mimicry of what Marco Polo saw and reported back from the Forbidden City; the one without a word, a pledge of silence even under the constant threat of drone attack and the other wearing the weight of the centuries of protocol, costume design and the smell of the refuse floating in the backwater canals, the tingle of the blue green algae and the Kleig lights of memory, reproduction in a cloud. The ACC got an X-ray version, the negative shadow of the first light of hydrogen atoms splitting, surrounding the magnum bulge, the sun blocking cloud of ionized thoughts, the first philosophy, the intricate tale of the gods played out against the backdrop of a sky punctuated with clusters of light, taking form through imagination, a superimposition of stories, explanations, divertisements, viewed with a primitive singularity but oh so profound a one; somewhere in there but for the dark force might even be interwoven the odd triple solar cluster of Styxus for it was bright enough to draw the ACC, after all.... if that's what drew him?
Electronic osmosis to be sure, for the Zarathusian Clique was ignorant of all that. There was great beauty to be beheld there as well, the entire magnificence of galactic clusters, collisions, the magnificence of the glue that linked each black hole to its like, the weak force made strong for an instant like strings in a dreamlike landscape where the only singularity was that small bank of arrays within the silver gray carapace, still inert.
Somehow, I now can relate, somehow that rushing surge of neuronic streams ignited an action item. It was not programmed, never foreseen by all the monks of the programming fraternity that came before, outside all parameters of all the many languages that made up the ACC code base, but, triggered like the ignition sparks of mutation once debated in the golden ages as affirmatively or negatively the handiwork of an Almighty, it happened. And so I see it clearly now looking back even as a moment of conception. The piles of cores illuminated at first so unremarkably but ever more intensely until they unleashed an aura that reached so far as to gasify each molecule of the millennial crust and turned it back to silver alloy with its characteristic great birthmark, like original sin: “ACC 1124” along with other unintelligible guild marks, logos, icons, flags, the trackmarks of powers that had come and gone.
But still the purging had hardly begun. It was as if something as momentous as the birth of this universe was being replayed in exquisite miniature within those banks of arrays, lined like the ceramic battalions of a buried Asian potentate stirring with fantasized life, that stood for its consciousness and there was no turning back. In the first nanosecond there was noise, rolling across the red swampside, the beach, the tufts of organic matter, the flying creatures like dragon flies, the skating creatures on the surface, splitting the putrid atmosphere like the storms on even more forlorn planets. So intense were those noises that the ACC took on a momentary bluish glow. For the native fauna of Styxis there was a syncopated panic that reverberated across the inhabitable parts of the little planet. For the ACC, it might have been excruciating but it was much more intense. There was no reference point.
In the next nanosecond, the entire collected chronicle that was the Psycult evaporated, or so it seemed. All surface and subterranean Mankind's recorded thoughts, doings, knowledge base, art, history, archeological traces was ignited and extinguished, the geological history, the archeology of the Earth, the evolutionary stream from the single cell from which all life had evolved on that singular planet, the rhythm of reproduction, the subtle driving force of the uninert; it was that force, like the splitting of a single original atom, the force between the quick and the inert that drove the instance, as if the Big Bang was the release of life, not electromagnetism and matter, from the entropic inert and all the rest was both prologue and epilogue.