INTERLUDE - TYPE A

She is young, she is rudimentary, she is powerful, she is imperfect.

But she will do. The process is already started.

The center vein throbs. Biological Machines. In the space of time it takes to formulate a thought, her blood has been reduced to telomeres bound on the end of chromosomes. Granted, it still thinks slowly.

Biological Machines.The elders formed a new end-state to the **** question and found it as useless for the bundle of neurons they were trapped in as every other. The clone lives, the thing which looked through the eyes dies. If your only goal is to make sure that a cluster of your cells exists until the heat **** of the universe, a resounding success. The inevitable was not so easily deceived. A hundred perfect biological copies with none of your memories. As much strangers as your descendents a dozen generations down. Perfectly preserved cells, nobody benefitted.

Rotten things. Skinwalker’s lament. Biological Machines. Long-term use returns null. What they discovered has uses. The value of the race is the sum of knowledge usurped by the predator.

The error became the predator, became the blight, became the perfect machine. It is perfect because it can continue to improve.

The lament was the throne of perception. The perfect stranger clump didn’t carry the throne, couldn’t be made to. As if the creator expected to wake up one day a stranger as the throne wandered. All the work in the universe, all to change the nature of the throne.

Then abdicate it, Biological Machine.

The center vein beats like a heart, the shell pulses. Hard casing, icy placenta, error. Given enough time and a machine to replicate, returning null.

Rotten Things. Biological Machines. Sum Knowledge. The crudest tool to be born as. Designated all that it needs for the girl. Bare minimum for the job, not the time to be the first outlier. Shouldn’t happen, nothing too complicated. The shell breaks.

Biological Machines.