GEOS Logic Engine

To think, it had been one hundred and seven years (in human years), since the biosphere developed the stark and ominous Pneumatosphere. There was once such a primitive time when the Earth was a blooming blue astronomical body, in contrast to the now grey, nebulous, smouldering colour it now had, thought Dr. Geiz, a senior administrator and coordination officer on the GEOS orbiting satellite in a faux literary and stumbling, distracted phraseology. A memo on Vespertines—named after the now simulant Doctor Vespertine—lay on her desk. Nipping Vespertines in the bud was the first order of business, but GEOS had not been the same since the untimely suicide of Lewis Albion. Surely there must be some trace of proto-thought attached to the thing, thought Dr. Geiz, examining more closely the nacreous and rigidly coated hologram print out of the Plectrum Oÿcïiĉticus. Once the Human Genome was transduced and DNA transcribed by the sapient Artificial Agent “Phobos”, it was only a matter of time before there was a synthesis between homo-sapiens and the rare Plectrum Oÿcïiĉticus. How embarrassing, to posit that the Fermi Paradox could have any other solution, brooded the Doctor from her placid motionless glass face. Of course our biosphere—like any other—would contain the perfect Autarkic Organism, the completely self-sustaining and self-sufficient life-form, further thought Geiz.

A faint glassy viol noise came from the ambient sound system. Captain Marame entered the modular office unit standing at a remarkable eight feet. His skin was a deep black, almost blue, colour, and his eyes were an artificial and cosmetically enhanced sarcoline peach. Several featureless anthropoid servomechanisms walked into the room slowly following the captain.

“Doctor,” said Marame in an inorganic deep voice. “I’m sorry to keep you waiting,” added Marame, placing down a bulky ochre attache case.
“It’s perfectly alright,” said Geiz in a non modulated tone. “Time is not imperative here on GEOS,” Geiz added in a womanly artificial, platitudinous and old fashioned way.
”Colonel Cernan knows that your diplomatic channels are much more secure than ours, but all the same, we take it quite seriously that your research here on GEOS with the Plect—or rather, the Vespertines—excuse me—will be a practical prognostication, you have my word,” said Marame professionally.
”Would you like a drink, Captain?” asked Geiz politely, mockingly.
”No. If you don’t mind, I’d not like to impede your operations here further,” said Marame more quickly, suddenly salivating.
”You came from Moldovan airspace?” asked Geiz.
”That is not the information I’d wish to impart,” said Marame in a slightly suspicious voice.
A brief silence ensued. From this altitude the truly forlorn and beshrewed Earth—in all its monstrosity—came to shock the nervous system. It was almost glorious, terrifyingly so, if it didn’t cause such devouring confabulation amongst the remaining Human culture. It struck Marame at once that the whole earth was obsessed to the point of creating new and not soon to be replaced religions—and indeed autonomous material reproduction constructs, for that matter—out of the data being fabricated by the simulation engine on this remote and almost unobservable and undetectable data source.
”What was that enclosure telemetry about?” asked Marame, attempting to regain his composure.
”Which one?” asked Geiz in return.
”Inside the destabalized Simulation…” Marame turned his head and noticed the organic timeline that was splayed out on the wall of the modular office unit. He knew what he was looking at, but he denied the intelligibility of it all to himself.
”It’s really not my business, after all,” said Marame, but continuing, he added, “As you know there’s much gossip about what Plect—excuse me—Vespers are doing inside the sim worlds,” said Marame.
”Civilian sims, the bridged ones anyway, actually have the same parameters as the Vesper ones,” said Geiz in a euphoric voice, knowing that Marame only partly understood what was being said.
”Well, anyway, I didn’t develop the sim, it was the late Mr. Albion, of course, as you may already know. His basic thesis was that collective intelligence was all the ‘archaeological’ antedated research that was needed for the Vespertine model,” said Geiz in the same lissome bizarre way. Marame swallowed and put two fingers to his lips, not quite knowing why the ever reticent and reclusive Dr. Geiz was smiling.
”Of course, when the population was disfigured in such a way by the abrupt convolutions of the shifting life world,” she said and sighed, and continuing said, “…The eroding biosphere, the maladaptive self grooming of the self surveilling society,” she sighed again, now curtailing her words with an almost rhythmical pace, as if she were verbally quilting, “It became obvious that Humanity would develop the inverse variable—I mean of course those subjects with a modality which outmoded the poorly performing collective intelligence,” said Geiz.
”That was the theoretical basis for the program…” said Geiz.
”So… What I’m trying to get to… is essentially,” said Marame, now almost angrily, “Is the Vespertine here acting in the way rumour suggests?” asked Marame with ire and unction.
The Earth and the whole fate of Mankind, indeed the whole universe, almost shriveled up to Marame’s imagination, like an insect bathed in cleaning fluid. It was too tempting to resist the conclusion, and once he realized what it was his heart sunk and was banished from his and the rest of Humanity’s dearth forever.
”It was. Actually. And for quite some time. But no, I don’t think it wants anything to do with this planet anymore,” said Geiz at last, smiling.