"That which is overdesigned, too highly specific, anticipates outcome; the anticipation of outcome guarantees, if not failure, the absence of grace."
-- William Gibson, All Tomorrow's Parties
"Id Proxy"

On a deeply mammalian level, is it comforting to enforce the structure of the city.

The feeling is entirely instinctual; it’s rare enough these days that conscious thought is necessary. The Mind deals with the strategies, leaving her to manage whatever the moments tactical situation might require. Just now she had made entrance through a thin plaster wall, kicking a stud to weaken it before shouldering her way through into the target apartment.

The occupants basically remain in their original form-factors, though the meatbag who pulled the machete required some creative restructuring before it would release the weapon. Though the part of her mind which is mostly in control is uninterested, the details of the mission are available to her. A nest of activists, their propaganda ‘ware and bomb gear littering the apartment. Amateurs.

A mild compulsion races through her, requiring her to scour the apartment for information which might lead to another cell, preferably a hub. She finds nothing useful, which she feels, in her way, as unsurprising. These were rank nobodies, expendable human delivery vehicles for viral ideas or demolitions. They would have received their orders through an anonymous network, with no way to backtrack the origin or even confirm that it came from anyone whose ideologies matched their own. Save, the Mind assumes, that they all wanted to blow up the same groups of people.

The presence of the Mind recedes for a moment, gathering itself. It is only a small subset of the entity she serves: In the vast labyrinthine intelligence of the city, her
Mind is a fragment, a shard. It is dedicated to riding and commanding her. In its own way, it is as sleek and perfected to its task as she herself is, and knowing this, instinctually, makes her feel the same way as a good kill does.

A tinge of disgust mars her pleasure, however; something deep and dark that likes to believe it still remains a self.

She doesn’t like when her consciousness struggles to the fore, having its thoughts and ideas. Forming its opinions. It is an unnecessary thing, a liability when all that is needed is action in its most purified form. The Mind nudges it down for her with only the slightest of pressures, and insofar as she is able, she feels grateful towards it.

Perhaps like an extraordinarily well-trained attack dog, thankful towards its master that it was given someone’s bones to rend and in doing so, is rewarded.

June 12, 2008 6:01 PM