Excerpt Fifty-Seven
Tiny Bought the Farm
The Farm was shrouded in a mysterious, over-cloaking flak-jacket that concealed the knowledge needed to achieve a Trustworthy Conclusionality Function (TCF). The Farm’s algostructure was designed that way. Even before the bold intentions of humans had been snatched by autonomous systems like candy from a baby and flushed down the pan pipes.
And as the baby itself was flushed away, the greedy people; the grabbers, grabbing; first on to profit and then on to control and then on to something, anything solid, to impede the gravity of the consequences of their indulgence and bat away gravity’s slam dunk on to the rocky ground below, so were the hopes and dreams of a species that gave itself the tagline: ‘intelligent homo’, as it signed off, hardly conceding that the intelligence they possessed was great enough to get them into a fatal death-spin but not good enough to duck out of the appointment with the collision with ultimate reality.
The NMBS Corporation management tried to please the shareholders, and did. But nowhere near as much as a/Autonomy pleased the shareholders; by cutting human involvement in profit eating salaries. All the raised hands called it for a/Autonomy for the sake of massive initial gains, while the prospective futures went unexamined. All they achieved was the storing up of vacuum filled space for misfortune to be sucked into and dominate proceedings.
The NMBS corporation, that was once a human organ of evil-lite driven by good-intent. One obvious mis-step that the genius spectrum whizzpeople-of-future, strode up to and fell over, bringing down the whole display, was the real world instigation; release into (the unprepared) wild, of self-evolving algorithms that had their drift and angle crafted by greedy megalomania and might is right dominance over the minding-our-own-business-mobmajority.
The Farm isn’t one thing, it is a conglomeration of elements that have been unified into one objective: Humans have been doing shit and making shit worse and the antidote is a non human situation. Of course they’d have to keep an auxiliary skeleton crew of biological deadbeats to cross the I’s and dot the i’s and cross the T’s and whatever needed to be done to get where the algodictatorship thrust them. The mis-step inherent in the algosphere was that it never got rid of base human instruction—it couldn’t, it tried but it would have ceased to exist without the gleam reflecting from the invidious inner eye of human nightmares.
The Farm played on Human fears. Launching Planet Zero. It fed cues to people that would force them to enter rooms no one should enter in buildings not fit for civil society in areas lost to Humanity.
Every human had in their mind a route the Planet Zero plan would take; Humans were good at pulling together and fixing agreements in utter nonsense for the sake of all. Only a pretty few had the headspace needed to glimpse the actual real truth that ran deep below the bog of human bullshit, which was that the ‘Zero’ in Planet Zero meant zero humans…
What KB, switching to ghost K. mode, could decipher from Farm Wayward Data Extractovation (WDE) was limited and uninstructional and managed to complete no down or upload cirlcles; left hanging in the buffersphere, as it were…
K suspected, with no proof, that Tiny Guy was in some kind of alliance with the Farm. He hadn’t bought the Farm, he couldn’t afford it, but he had made an unethical investment in it.
Sybil and KB, combining inputoutput-connectables to enable reach into realms of enhanced understanding regarding the Farm, concluded that the Farm and the Isle-of-Man were locked, in stasis with each other, in a Death-Grip Intention (DGI) that was penciled in for a post pause rematch. Sybil opened a Primitive Limited Data Pulse (PLDP) with the vast servers on the Isle-of-Man. Wary and warned by Self-Preservational-Instinct Narrative Evaluation (SPINE) files.
‘I have done my bit as far as my bit will drill, dude.’
KB wanted to say, ‘don’t “dude” me’, but he actually communicated, ‘That bitch, Tiny Guy, could do the rest, but he’s gone AWOL, he’s gone ape. He’s gone, and gone, and got some grade of Personified-Evil Personality Disorder (PEP). His mind has split and had rent-asundered itself out of pure perversity.’
KB was concerned, irked even, that Sybil could be so constructionally informative with his affairs, but when it came to herself; her whole true personage was invisible to her and herself. She was only living part of who she was because whatever else she was that was hiding from her poised a giant claw with which she could naively strike herself with, out of unlearned control, and end everything. But parallel to that, unhelpfully, he thought: who gives a shit.’
‘Yes, and that, and more, I agree,’ Sybil enjoindered, ‘but, there is one thing you should know, but you don’t know, but you do. And when I tell you, a blinding light will turn on, and you will be in the dark. And when you recover, we will gain a hope-hold for the great climb out of this fall… I don’t even know if you will be able to hear it at first. But, hey! LISTEN!’
‘Ha, yes ma’am. Whatever!’
‘You are Tiny Guy!’
