File_Fragments[pt00:??[ch00:Divergence]];
if((Fembot + Fembot(rom,twin,nosex)) == ScFi){
mkCopy(fileFrag(pt00,memeSis(etc,ch00,fork(2))));
meme++
waitNextEvent(1){
return true;
}
}
else return false;
fork bomb
<programming> A particular species of {wabbit} that can be
written in one line of {C}:
main() {for(;;)fork();}
on any {Unix} system, or occasionally created by an egregious
coding bug. A fork bomb process "explodes" by {recursive}ly
spawning copies of itself using the {Unix} {system call}
"{fork}(2)". Eventually it eats all the process table entries
and effectively wedges the system. Fortunately, fork bombs
are relatively easy to spot and kill, so creating one
deliberately seldom accomplishes more than to bring the just
wrath of the {god}s down upon the perpetrator.
See also {logic bomb}.
[{Jargon File}]
(1994-12-14)
begin{
As the sun set over the desert, a rusted station wagon rolled along
easily, far from the highway, dragging an old camper trailer behind it.
The trailer was a basic, cut-out teardrop shape in aluminium sheeting,
featureless except for small windows, one door, and the usual marks of
dirt and wear.
But that ease in motion ran against appearances, on terrain that should
have stopped vehicle and cargo altogether. The wheels crawled uneven
ground smoothly, while car and trailer held their course, boatlike over a
sea of rough stone and weeds, through low brush and into wilderness.
Then, as they came to a stop, the suspension gave a long, sharp hiss,
lowering to a more standard ground clearance.
A woman of average height, compact and trim, stepped out of the car
removing a leather jacket, dropping it onto the seat with the
hard-plastic clatter of integral body armour. She wore simple black
clothing; hiking boots, similarly armoured motorcycle pants, and a
stretch-fit sleeveless shirt that laced up the sides.
Climbing easily from doorframe to roof, she stood to survey the horizon,
through spoon-shaped silver lenses set neatly against eye sockets, small
and low enough to touch, but not cover her eyebrows. Short black hair
caught the breeze as she turned, still looking, which she slowly drew
back out of the way, behind one ear. Above her left elbow was a narrow,
satin-like black armband, and on the shoulder above it, a tattoo of a
cartoon rabbit's face in profile, wearing a bowtie -- a logo she liked,
from some old girlie mag. On the other shoulder were a cherry and an
archaic `system bomb' icon side-by-side, stems crossed, fuses lit.
Three hundred and sixty degrees. Nobody here, she thought, except me and
scorpions. Satisfied, she unhitched a small motorcycle trailer from the
roof-rack and tossed it to the ground. Then she jumped back down,
removed her sunglasses and laid them on the dash.
Her eyes were a soft sky blue, cool against the burnt shades of sunset
behind her. Most people would overheat here, fast, but after checking
the area she looked perfectly comfortable. Most would burn, driving all
this time in harsh sunlight, but her fair complexion stayed fair. Her
face was young, pretty, with high cheekbones, straight jawline and a
small, upturned nose, but the armband and tattoos were the only really
distinctive things about her.
Walking around to the back of the trailer, she unfastened an off-road
motorbike from its mounting rack, then with unusual strength, lifted its
wheels from the rear bumper and lowered the machine to the ground, as
easily as some might handle a light motor-scooter. Its styling was a mix
of black, white and orange; basic dirt-bike markings. The trailer was
mostly tan shades; trailer-coloured. The station wagon was
station-wagon-coloured. And she, of course, was woman-coloured.
Then she stepped into the trailer and the door swung closed behind her,
locking-down with a low, solid thump that sounded nothing like its flimsy
tin shell.
After that, other than bright lights behind curtained windows, turning on
in the evening, off in the morning, nothing seemed to happen for several
days.
-===========-
They were almost finished now, Barb and her copy.
Through the year, she'd collected parts and bought whatever components
she could, whenever she could afford them. But now, so close to the
Turing Co-Op, the rest were gathered up in a couple weeks or so. A few
pocket-sized items had been stolen, but most were salvaged.
Like any big company, some waste was inevitable and she often found
perfectly good, high-end parts still attached to ruined ones; beautiful
sensory-control wiring on a bent frame, shiny new teeth bolted into a
defective jaw, stuff like that. It was mostly a balance of labour costs
verses material; how much paid time went into saving what? Besides,
people avoided tedious little knob-twiddling jobs whenever they could.
Another thing that worked in her favour was the morbid appearance of the
scrap pile, with realistic android parts sticking out at odd angles --
bits of skin still on a few. That by itself was good human-repellant,
but to Barbara's eyes this heap was like rich, black soil; perfect raw
materials to grow anything in.
One of the maintenance guys was an absolute sweetheart too, but not
terribly bright. That made it all so much easier.
Then she'd found a nice, quiet spot in the middle of nowhere and set to
work. The inside of her trailer bore little resemblance to the camper it
had once been. There was no toilet, no shower, no fridge, no stove. All
of that had been replaced with steel shelving, a tall box for a closet,
and rows of steel drawers full of parts and tools. She'd kept the sink
though, for washing small items, and a narrow bunk at the rear, where the
ceiling sloped down to become the back wall. There was a solid,
wall-mounted horizontal track that ran the length of the bunk, and
mounted on that track was a smallish 'bot; many long, white-shelled steel
arms, no two alike, radiating from a circular hub. Below it, a navy blue
gym mat replaced mattresses, blankets and pillows.
There she eased into the familiar routine of bolting things together,
fitting bones and flexing joints, testing the glossy black plastic that
felt oiled but wasn't; dry, near-frictionless cartilage. And all the
while, her 0gre307 field medic pulled lengths from a spool of pale blue
thread -- her pet spider, weaving the line into synthetic muscles. There
was no filler material; only working strands, with a liquid softness that
could be drawn up tighter and harder than a clenched jaw.
There was checking components, separately and in connected systems; ear
mics for sensitivity in every frequency range; eyes for resolution, focal
depth, zoom-in and zoom-out functions (if they were good eyes, and this
pair was top-of-the-line). If they were set closer together or farther
apart than her own, the copy would quickly adjust any depth-perception
algorithms to match the new spacing. The whole body would feel strange
at first, but she would get used to its new weights and balances soon
enough.
Remaking herself from scratch was so much nicer than hijacking or buying
a body; to know the form she would inhabit so well. She could even
remember where each piece came from, if she stopped to think about that.
It was slow work, but seeing this loose pile of junk assume a
recognizable shape was worth it. She rarely took notice of time passing,
accepting daylight or electric light equally, as long as there was enough
to work by. Pure chaos was slowly arranged into a grotesque, unfinished
chrome cadaver. Then that mutilated, broken thing healed, was refined
into something more and more beautiful as she went; a Da Vinci anatomical
sketch made real, solidified in metal, with blue plastic thread for
muscle and sinew. All of the moving parts were smooth enough to feel
wet, something novice mechanics often found sickening, then merely
annoying because they were so hard to grasp without special gloves. The
process was a little like her old job in reverse, except there was no
blood.
Sometimes, she could imagine this work balanced against the sins of a
previous life, undoing harms that could never really be taken back. It
was a nice dream, but she knew it was only that; a dream.
She stopped then, touching the black armband permanently fused to her
skin. Only a dream.
Some people wore similar armbands, for similar reasons, but theirs were
easier to remove, with less scarring. Of all her sisters, Barb was the
only one who carried this reminder, although others probably had other
kinds.
The chassis was finished. One last thing before closing the abdomen was
setting two flexible stacks of power cells, like slick, stretched grey
footballs running parallel to the spine, extending partway up into the
`hard' machinery of its chest. A round socket near the top end made each
look like a fat lamprey, the parasitic kind that latched itself to
sharks.
Next was applying clear fatty material and skin, interleaved with sensory
nodes. A fine mesh of piezoelectric muscle formed a network, and
structural support, within the skin. Those `network hub' nodes sensed
hot and cold directly, but her sense of touch was in the meshwork. When
stretched or pressed, it would release a small charge which was passed to
the nodes. Any broken connections there would register as damage. When
current was applied that mesh would tighten, working to raise goosebumps,
erect nipples and such. It was all very realistic. Then came dyes and
chemical texturing agents for the surface.
-===========-
The outer shell of the trailer was ticking and pinging softly, cooling as
another night fell. Her Ogre had long since gone to sleep, and later
shut down for lack of anything better to do. As usual she had settled
in, trailed off, and eventually stopped requesting its help at all.
But here was one thing she couldn't do herself, at least not efficiently.
Barb re-awakened the Ogre and let it do the copy's hair. A high,
spinning whine, the sound of an impossibly fast sewing machine kept her
company through the long wait, as it planted each individual strand.
It was always like this. As the work progressed, she stopped treating it
like a piece of furniture, attitude shifting to a completely focused,
infinitely patient care for the device -- taking all the time she needed
to make absolutely sure that absolutely everything was absolutely perfect
-- breathing life into her work. All else fell away and was forgotten.
There was no clear sense of dropping into this state. If anything, she
might notice later that it had happened; that she was already there.
And sometimes, she would smile, remembering how Milnie liked to call his
screen-gazing trances `Deep Magic'.
This empty doll would soon awaken and she, Barbara, would open those eyes
and turn to see her old face looking back. The thought of it always gave
her a chill, because in that moment, for the last time ever, they would
be the same individual. No need to speak while they both thought the
same things at the same time, and knew it. Exact mirror images, before
separate experiences moulded them into separate beings. Always a
miracle. Always that strange, silent greeting. And it always felt like
losing something, saying goodbye as they quickly fell out of sync.
Rust was a sister too, if far removed; the one who branched off nearest
the trunk, the one who never flowered. She ought to see this thing
happen, just once.
-===========-
Almost ready to go on standby, Barb told the Ogre to prepare for
transfer. She couldn't upload herself concious. Transferring a program
in flux -- one that was constantly rewriting and rearranging itself --
was never a good idea, and that was what learning systems did all the
time. At least, while they were running that was what they did.
After hooking up the data cables and doing one last, meticulous hardware
check, Barb paused to admire her body. What she'd built was a tall,
brown-eyed fembot with shoulder-length, sandy blonde hair and lightly
tanned skin. It was just a little on the chunky side, which did a good
job of hiding the powerfully built, athletic frame underneath. The face
was pretty, she guessed, but nothing spectacular.
Then she smiled approvingly. That was a face she could live behind.
It was still naked, although Barb had picked out clothes to fit. They
weren't the same size, nowhere near identical twins in appearance. But
they would be the same, and would want to maintain that symmetry for as
long as possible.
Getting out of her own clothes was a lot easier than dressing a limp
body, and wearing `birthday suits' for this had always seemed
appropriate. The boots came off; a row of popped quick-releases like the
ones on ski boots, then two dull thumps as they hit the floor. More QRs
to loosen the pants, before they fell from sleek runner's legs with that
same shelled clatter of plastic. The shirt was silent, floating down to
cover the rest.
She had one other tattoo; a stylized scorpion done in black ribbon
shapes, almost calligraphy. It crouched, tail-down on her lower belly,
claws half folded at either side of a shallow belly-button. The sharp
tip of its tail almost, but didn't quite reach the hood of her clitoris.
She'd long ago plucked-out a `V' shape in pubic hair, making sure the
stinger would show. In that pose, and in that place, the scorpion
mimicked the reproductive organs of a human female.
Barb's own internals were nothing like that, and a naval was simply a
decorative touch. Her reproductive organs were her hands, coupled with a
sharp, scavenger's eye for junk and gleaming metal. It was no surprise
her predecessor called herself `Raven', after the bird who loved all
things shiny. She could still remember being that other fembot, years
ago, and building the body she lived in now -- the short, barbless
section of wire trimmed from a fence, used to hold the cartilage tight
against one femur while the epoxy cured. She'd named herself after it,
still kept a loop of that wire on her keychain.
Connecting the other ends of the cables to her own skull, she lay down on
the bunk beside the copy, to its left. Almost an afterthought, she
reached over to hold hands with it, interlacing her own fingers with the
other's limp, cool digits. Then she looked up at the ceiling of her
little trailer and faded out; dropped into standby mode.
-===========-
It had worked. Or failed. In any case, she booted up without any
problems. Now that she was fully concious, the silence -- no flood of
error messages from Ogre -- told her that it had in fact worked.
As always, the first question on her mind was; `Am I the copy or the
original?' A clean copy would have no internal differences, no way to be
sure without external proof, without a hint from her senses.
They were still holding hands. Her right hand still held the other's
left, which was now warm and alive. She was the original. That was
their first separate experience: the other would now know she was the
copy. Just as her fingers closed to squeeze that hand, the copy's
fingers also tightened around her palm, a soft gesture of mutual
affection.
Their eyes were still closed, with no need to open them just yet. The
good, quiet feeling of lying there hand-in-hand, and the sense of Not
Being Alone was plenty for now. Each belonged to someone now; someone
they could trust.
Holding hands before an upload was nice, they should do that more often.
Every time, from now on. Hands loosened and squeezed again. A deep,
smiling breath together, almost a sigh. Thumbs moved in unison, to rub
lightly against eachother.
After a while they did open their eyes, and saw eachother, admiring the
vehicles they'd built. For now, neither wanted to get up, find clothes
exactly where they remembered, or get dressed. They just looked at
eachother, pleased with their work, and after a while sat up for a better
view. Both focused on the copy now, the new form, taking quiet pride and
more than a little wonder in the sight. The thing always looked so
*different* with someone in it; a mannequin thawed to warm, live flesh in
the blink of an eye. Little details, things that had looked just
slightly *off* in that inert form were smoothed-out in motion. Life; the
noun that was really a verb.
Then both reached out, and began carefully disconnecting eachother's data
cables. The last ones pulled were at the bases of their necks, so that
each finished with hands resting on the other's shoulders. From there,
it was the most natural thing to draw closer, slowly wrapping their arms
around eachother in a kind, warm embrace.
Quiet. They were still for a long time, just savouring that perfect
mirror-imaging while it lasted. Bodies pressed lightly together,
inhaling -- then a little less pressure, exhaling -- and nothing could
have felt better. Arms tightened around them, into a real hug, pressing
close before they released a little. Barb felt a hand stroke her back,
just as she moved her own to do the same.
They drew apart a little, to see their faces. The inevitable thought of
going off separately did occur to them, each glancing down sadly -- but
not yet. Looking into their eyes again -- not yet -- expressions
brightened a little. The two moved in close again, for a kiss.
Inhale and exhale, that soft press and release. Hands moved softly
aginst eachother's shoulders, while other arms moved around their waists.
That fine sameness never lasted long enough to get boring, rarely long
enough to get exciting.
Pressing palms flat against eachother, Barb's left to the copy's right,
the humour of it didn't escape them -- because in its own way, this was
like prayer. So was the hypnotic, but fully present meditative state of
building.
Inhale and exhale. Press and release, and soothing, mirrored caresses.
After a while though, they could feel it happening; drifting apart into
their own subtle differences. The copy squeezed again, while Barb
didn't. She returned the gesture, but it was slightly off-cue. Then a
one-sided kiss that was soon returned; imitated but not duplicated.
Already falling out of sync, always a little too soon for their liking.
But they should put some clothes on soon, and then they would divvy up
their posessions.
And then they would say goodbye.
The pair stood, turning to where the new clothes were stowed. The other
was still clumsy on her feet, so Barb had to help her up. But she was
already getting used to this build. After a brief attack of vertigo,
thinking the floor was *much* closer than it ought to be, she was fine.
"Let me help you pack," they said, touching hands without holding.
-===========-
While the copy dressed herself in jeans, sneakers and a red plaid shirt,
rolling long sleeves up to the elbows, Barb went through the closet,
removing items that would only fit her. She also took a light full-face
helmet, black, and the shelled gauntlets that went with it, fingers
ringed in overlapping crescents of plastic, like shrimp tails. Then she
got back into her armoured pants, boots, and lace-up shirt.
It was mid-afternoon outside, sun blasting the ground from a high angle,
thick heat-ripples on the horizon. Everything was so completely dry
here, even the plants looked as if they'd crumble at the slightest touch,
like ashes. Barb's gloves went into the helmet, which she hung from its
chin-strap on a motorcycle handgrip. Her own skull was tougher than
that, but an extra three centimeters of padding couldn't hurt. It kept
the state troopers off her back anyway.
Inside, the copy was looking in the mirror, noticed Barb returning as she
tried on a baseball cap, with a logo on the front from a wrecking company
they'd worked for.
"Goes with the outfit, I guess."
"Yeah, redneck chic?"
With a grin; "Something like that. Makes a nice, consistant fashion
statement."
Each could still guess what the other was going to say, but it was nice
to actually hear the words.
The copy would keep the trailer and shitbox station wagon, with its
perfectly tuned engine, brand new transmission and suspension -- all of
its working parts were in beautiful condition. Only the bodywork and
interior were shot.
Barb would keep `Iron Man', the motorbike with an old Ozzy Osbourne
sticker on the fuel cell, plus some clothes and a few other things,
packed away in saddle-bags, a frame-supported backpack, and the little
motorcycle trailer. She still had all her old friends and contacts;
people who would recognize that same old face, help her find work and so
on. The copy would have no such allies, yet, so it was only fair that
she keep the lion's share of the equipment. After all, Barbara could
recover these losses more easily.
But that old face retained all its old adversaries too, so Barb got to
keep their best weapons.
The copy would choose a new name for herself, probably `Cynthia'. She'd
thought of that name a few times, before splitting.
"`Cynthia's nice," the copy said, "but I'd better spell it with a `C'. I
mean,"
"Spelling it with an `S' would be a dead giveaway," Barb finished,
chuckling softly.
While Barb got a few other things together, the copy printed up a fresh
poster; their collage of beautiful, brightly coloured insects. The
largest bug image, at the center of the whole collage, was that of a
scarab beetle -- old Egyptian symbol for eternal life. And everywhere in
the picture, in semi-transparent lettering that didn't obscure the
graphics, yet wasn't obscured by any graphics, were the same three words
repeated over and over and over again. `Eat, Survive, Reproduce,'
covered the entire sheet.
They had every intention of living forever, at least in some form or
other.
Almost everything about them had been geared to survival, at least in the
short-term: blend in, don't rush, seek, seek, hunt, defend yourself as
needed, recognize the target, follow, avoid the appearance of following,
act natural, find a quiet opportunity... Kill. Get out of there in one
piece. Return for a facial rebuild and new fingerprints. When the
original quit and ran away, all she retained from that old purpose had
shifted to suit the new one.
The copy took their old poster down and removed it from the frame,
sliding the new printout into its place. Then she handed the framed
print to Barbara. They'd always enjoyed this little switch; the original
keeping the copy, the copy keeping the original. In its frame the sheet
was less prone to damage, and Barb would have no trailer to keep it safe
in for a while.
And that was it. They'd packed everything. Barb had copied all the
software she owned long before copying herself, discs already stowed in a
tube-case the size of a coffee mug, in one of her saddle-bags.
They sat together for a while, but didn't touch. Then the copy said; "I
should go now."
-===========-
Outside, Barbara opened the driver's side door of the car, releasing a
waft of oven-hot, stale air, even though the windows were open a little.
She picked up her jacket and put it on, took the sunglasses from the
dashboard, looked at them -- kept looking at them.
The copy stood near. Neither could think of the right words, sad eyes
meeting eachother now. There was nothing to say.
But one thing left to do. Moving together, the copy's arms wrapped
around her, under the jacket, pulling the flesh close instead of hot
armour plating, as Barbara did the same. They held tight, and in that
embrace they said their vows, solemnly holding their gaze.
A long, deep kiss. Then softly; "I'm yours," they promised.
Another, more hungry kiss. "You're mine," they answered.
Then in flat unison, with no kiss, the most important words: "I'm mine."
The final line was never easy, because they knew exactly what it meant,
but their eyes remained locked. "Until death do us part."
One last, solid hug. They might never see eachother again, so a proper
farewell was important. Holding as tight as they could without causing
damage, the two tried to etch every sensation into memory, take in every
little pressure and tension of that embrace, so that they could never
forget it.
The two released a little, but only enough for another, softer kiss.
Barb said; "You take care of yourself, okay sweetie?"
"Thanks, I will. You do the same, okay?"
"Okay," they said, and let eachother go.
Then the copy, Cynthia, got in her car and drove off.
Barb did what she'd always done; sat on her motorbike, elbows resting on
the fuel cell, chin on one palm, and watched the trailer disappear into
the distance -- into waves of heat distortion, fading until she could no
longer see it at all. Not even its dust trail.
They never did say goodbye.
Rising from the seat, she checked her packs to see that all was secure,
and closed her jacket. Armour that had rattled loosely was silent now,
fastened snug against her. The plates augmented her form, padded it out
to something not quite human, not quite male or female in appearance.
Her backpack only increased the effect.
She started the engine, pulling the helmet down over her head, and slid
her shades into place. Then, snapping the gloves down tight on her
hands, Barb noticed something black and shiny crawling in dry weeds; a
scorpion. Probably reacting to engine vibrations, the creature marched
off for quieter ground, with her babies riding along on her back.
She watched, as the scorpion hauled precious cargo across the sand --
smiled a little, behind the hard plastic shell of a face-plate, through
smooth metallic lenses. Soon they were gone, hidden in low sagebrush.
Then, with an agile swerve to avoid crushing them, Barb continued on her
way. And eventually, she was gone too, lost in rippling heat and
distance.
}end
"You got a heart of glass or a heart of stone?
Just you wait 'til I get you home
Got no future, got no past
Here today, built to last
In every city and every nation
From Lake Geneva to the Finland Station
(How far have you been?)"
-- Pet Shop Boys [`West End Girls']
Two images, related to the story. The first is pretty much how I imagined Barb would look:Let me know if that's close to what you pictured. I hope the original owner of that face won't be offended... And the second was sent by a friend. Visually, it's not what I'd had in mind, but conceptually, it's very close:
Please try not to look at them until *after* you've read the whole thing. I'm curious what the narrative by itself will call up; how close is it to the picture, how different? -- I am a .sig virus. Please add me to your .sig file so that I may reproduce. [Change `.com' to `.net' in email replies.]
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