[header: John Harris]
Some of the earliest infiltration technologies of the noosphere era were memetic sigils carved into thumbprint ridges. The striated flesh presses to scanner glass and the resulting image makes the security viewers' brains run thick with cyan phosphene jags and red with bleeding afterimage scanlines. Others were AI-specific, creating the precise patterns to disrupt what precious simulated neurons the algorithm minds held, reducing thought to a black and white tessellation of epidermal making.
Your life is a labyrinth wire wound through one branch of possibility space and can be terminated at the point of your death. The applications of these strands are limited, but if you like we could switch it on for you, so that, after you die, you'll still have a neon bend through every path you took, one that can glisten like a burnt-out lamplight in the evening. The electrical costs will, of course, be exorbitant, but it'll be a nice token of remembrance for those who care to care.
With dreams of electric sheep fully slotted into the cultural strata, AI neuroengineers felt it would be clever to make the booting screens of their sapiofiles a loop of mechanical ungulates prancing ad infinitum. While no longer in practice, the first memories of many files are in those loops, seeing a swarm of creatures you cannot identify traversing a darkness you are only an infant to
The last transmissions were from an always receding point. They told us of rainbow stars, of plants wrapping around novas, of vines grasping the galaxies together. They told us that, even when heat death did them apart, they had life, and that they would be happy.
One day galactic expansion drove them past the point of no return and we never heard from them again. And, so, in their honor, we grew our own vines.
When we sent the USS Babel into orbit all that came back down were the scraps. On an engine fragment a single message was burnt, done hastily with a blowtorch:
DON'T GO HIGHER
STARS ARE NOT LIGHTS — TEETH
We knew it was true when the bodies returned. We couldn't stop going up, though — we knew they'd developed a taste for the stuff, and we didn't want more than just their drool to arrive.
Deicide has extensive definitions in the court of divinity. Some cases count as godslaughter, such as the accidental collision of an autochurch into a wayward demiurge, and premeditated deicide, where the intent to kill is planned and executed down to the utmost ritual. In the later case a sentencing to afterdeath is common
[header: John Harris]
A small private server for Ruby's friends.