The rain was warm and the drops fat and the boy reached out his hand and cupped a raindrop between his fingers. Mama Jones, who had been born in this land, in this city that had been called many names, to a Nigerian father and a Filipina mother, in this very same neighbourhood, when the roads still thrummed to the sound of the internal combustion engine and the central station had served buses, not suborbitals, and could remember wars, and poverty, and being unwanted here, in this land fought over by Arab and Jew, looked at the boy with fierce protective pride. A thin, glittering membrane, like a soap bubble, appeared between his fingers, the boy secreting power and manipulating atoms to form this thing, this protective snow globe, capturing within it the single drop of rain. It hovered between his fingers, perfect and timeless.
— Lavie Tidhar, Central Station ‎· побродит долго в мировых полях
She pressed against him. He was warm, she didn’t know where the metal of him finished and the organic of him began. He said, “You came,” and there was wonder in the words. “I had to. I had to see you again.” “I was afraid.” His voice was not above a whisper. His hand on her cheek, she turned her head, kissed it, tasting rust like blood. “We are beggars,” he said. “My kind. We are broken machines.” She looked at him, this old abandoned soldier. She knew he had died, that he had been remade, a human mind cyborged onto an alienated body, sent out to fight, and to die, again and again. That now he lived on scraps, depending on the charity of others... _Robotnik_. That old word, meaning worker. But said like a curse. She looked into his eyes. His eyes were almost human. ‎· побродит долго в мировых полях
R. Patch-It had often contemplated reincarnation. Many digitals were practicing Buddhists. The digital being born in the Breeding Grounds as a piece of specialised I-loop responsible for animating a coffee maker could, in its next cycle, become a mind calculating the diffusion of distant nebulas, or a submarine shuttle riding to and from the underwater cities of the humans, or it could even transcend, become a true Other, disembodied, constantly mutating and changing, seeking that which was truth, and therefore beautiful, in the irreal. But robots seldom changed, R. Brother Patch-It thought, a little sadly. Like humans, they merely became more themselves. ‎· побродит долго в мировых полях
“Boris Chong,” the robot said, marvelling. “Where have you been all these years?” The man shrugged. His hand, the robot noticed, went to Miriam’s, the tips of his fingers touching hers. R. Patch-It remembered them, together, the boy and the girl they had been. Love made humans shine, as though they were metal filaments heated by an electrical current. ‎· побродит долго в мировых полях
The god artist moved his hands in the physicality, and those who were noded watched as he reached deep into the digitality, into the world of _mara_, that which is both real and unreal. The god artist gestured and worlds came into being. Code mated with code; mutated; separated; joined and rejoined and split and evolved, rapid evolutionary cycles running in the virtuality, on the vast hidden engines at the Cores. Intelligences were born, like flowers. Then, when these makeshift Breeding Grounds began to run autonomously, the god artist began to build the physical body of the god. ‎· побродит долго в мировых полях
“Motl, man! You can’t—” Motl stuck his hands into the delicate membrane of the pod. Cables moved like fronds there. Motl had seen Isobel’s body: gamers needed that extra bit of immediacy, of access. Isobel’s sockets dotted her body, like buttons on a suit. Motl had held his breath when he first saw her naked. His metal fingers traced the outline connecting every delicate socket hole. It formed a virtual mesh around her body that, once she was inside a pod, covered her completely. “Let me be,” he said to the boy; and he hooked himself in. ‎· побродит долго в мировых полях
No one wanted the police to be truly sentient; and so they compromised, with crude mechanicals, who humans found, somehow, more reassuring. ‎· побродит долго в мировых полях
_We depend on them_, the Sys-God said; almost, it seemed to her, sadly. And again, _Do you wish to feed?_ “Yes! Damn it, yes... always.” _Then feed_, the voice said, and something vast and inhuman, a body like a whale’s, pressed against her, near suffocating her, and she held close to it, its rubbery body, its smell of brine and seaweed, the skin rough to the touch, her nose pressed against this huge belly, her mouth watering, her canines slipping out, sinking into the rubbery flesh of it, feeding, feeding on this enormity, this alien entity, too vast and powerful to comprehend, the feed overwhelming her, suffocating her, and in her mind that voice, chuckling as it faded, saying, _Why do humans always make the comparison to whales?_ #киты ‎· побродит долго в мировых полях
The servers rested silent in their coolers, their code suspended, not living, not dead. Matt’s fingers itched to plug them in, to boot them up, to run them, to let the wild code inside mate and mutate, split and merge and split and merge, lines of code entwining and branching, growing ever more complex and aware. A breeding grounds. _The_ Breeding Grounds, as they’d later be known. The evolutionary track from which Others emerged. ‎· побродит долго в мировых полях
They were sitting on the beach at midnight; Ruth shrugged uneasily as Anat lit a ubiq cigarette. The latest thing from New Israel on Mars: high-density data encoded in the smoke particles. Anat inhaled deeply, the data travelling into her lungs, entering the blood stream and into the brain—an almost immediate rush of pure knowledge. Anat blew out steam and grinned goofily. “You know about Others,” Ruth said. ‎· побродит долго в мировых полях