“1.10. Posthumanists do not fall into the trap of imagining a society where everything works well. Economic and political theories are as futile as long term weather predictions.”
Robert Pepperell, The Posthuman Manifesto
Angela remained unsurprised. Her creation, Vitor, one-hundred-eighty pounds of chaotic curiosity was, effectively, a child. She was grateful that even though he teetered on unpredictability — the balance-scale tilted by a microgram at most — the two of them survived. The deep sea, hungrily pummeling the extreme edges of the nearly vertical cliffs, would not be claiming them today.
He held the framed photograph of “Small Angela, Small Weiss” entirely motionless, questioning. She smelled the salty sea air and warm sunshine on him. A living sculpture. Angela could picture a Vitor Of Granite, monument to optimists, dreamers, and survivors. The New Age Savant. Would it be engraved: “Mayan Curtain Of Night, Forestalled,” on the base? Angela was pleased with her Vitor’s dynamic range of thought and motion.
Anxiety lifted, Angela grasped Vitor’s hand. Beyond the glass table where his first meal of lemon cookies and clear seltzer water was managed — don’t inhale the bubbles, big guy — they went. She made a mental commitment to provide more appropriate nutrition. She wondered was the lemon cookie act what saved them from Vitor’s initial urges? Did he stage it? Was he that brilliant and quick?
Angels. Did God, and the Angels, create Man?
Was she now, Angela, the mother of Posthuman History? Was she, to be, part of the New Age Texts, documented in clusters of patterned electrons, bosons, and prions? Prions were bad — right? Prion disease? Time would learn. Time would tell soon. Time was different these days.
Down the illuminated passage. Into the deeper realms of the cliff-home, her palace of light. Vitor felt safe with Angela. Her frequencies differed from the sea, the white marble, sweet lemon cookies and Polar Bear Seltzer jetting. Angela was transmitting patterns of colors streaming from within her tiny bird-body. Angela was of ions… Aura! That was it, Aura, he thought. Although she was small, Vitor felt calm walking alongside Angela.
Familiar, thought Vitor, the passage was wide. Slightly claustrophobic. Excitement built inside him; surely Angela was bringing him to see the man called Weiss. The rooms to either side were eclectically arranged and furnished. Dark flooring of perfect wood, blacker than a starless night. He feared he might mis-step, and fall so deeply there would be no more earth.
It was longer than its width, a runway, he thought. A new source of worry was creeping up on Vitor. Too many words popping in and out of his consciousness, like that hammer-gopher-game at the circus. Vitor was stressing. Upon departing the main room with the lovely sky and sunshine reverting to tungsten, setting, resting upon the horizon, the words began bouncing off the passage walls wildly!
Fortunately they both made it, before the word-spell set in! “Library,” she said. “Look,” she requested. “Mirror.” What was a mirror? Like a window, it seemed to Vitor. A very large window. Resembling the photograph he firmly clutched in his massive veined, corded, hands. Careful not to crush, destroy Angela’s photo!
A mirror, it seemed, was much like a photograph, but larger.
Vitor gazed upon Angela, and Weiss