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June 17, 2011

EggN 7: Virus 2, the Prime Director is Removed

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.

Posted by dymaxion at 04:04 PM

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