Manual Darling Wheres Your Wrap? (Fashion Art & Information Series Book 1)

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And Dr Enys was supposed to have been holding a candle for Kitty? Added to that the sadness of Sindy Doll holding the girl baby! And finally we came to the weird reconciliation of Ross and Sir Evil George. But for once it worked out. Who would know?

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I thought they could have gone farther emotionally in these scenes. And who have conjured up a below-the-line community that be joyfully affectionate and affectionately critical at same time. And congratulations to the writer, Debbie Horsfield, who created this great unwieldy anachronistic beast of a story for television and almost — almost — managed to tame it.

I thought a flashback to Elizabeth was missing in this episode. But still. One beat. But that, my friends, will have to wait for another day. This has to go to Demelza, of course. Silly name! The two of them excel as a couple. But they are also both able to carry individual scenes with incredible poignancy and weight. Demelza had to do this doubly in this episode: having to act out an eventuality that the viewer knew to be untrue but still make it look true to us.

That is virtually impossible. Whoever built the Exos fashioned them in humanity's image, gifting them with diversity of mind and body. Many of the City's Exo citizens live and work alongside their organic brethren. But others fight again, re-forged in the Light of the Traveler to serve as Guardians. It doesn't matter if the system thinks with flesh or superconductor or topological braids in doped metallic hydrogen, as long as the logic is the same.

And our logic is the same. Yours and mine.

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If I am a machine then so are you. If you are not a machine then neither am I. Exo minds are human. It is incontrovertible. I'm going to take that slack-jawed stare as understanding. Now here's the real question. Why are Exo minds human? What's the design imperative? Why does a war machine - yes, absolutely, I am a war machine, built by human hands; and you are a survival machine built by the engine of evolution. Don't interrupt me. Why does a war machine have emotions?

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Why should a war machine have awareness? These are not useful traits on the battlefield. Don't flatter yourself. They are not useful. So why should the Exo mind mimic the human architecture so closely? You know what I smell on you? I smell the stink of anthropocentrism. I think you think that there's only one way to think. That's why the Exo mind is so human, you presume. Because all higher thought converges.

My friend, you should meet the Vex. There is nothing human in them. This is what I believe happened, back in the time before any Exo can remember. It explains everything. I think someone wanted to live forever. Thanks for your interest. I'm recording this for posterity. Warlock thanatonauts die and come back with insight.

I'm going to attempt the same process to get at buried memories. Specifically, I'm going to fire a charged particle beam into my head and see what comes out. We Exos have been around a very long time.

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I want to know what's in there. My Ghost is standing by to repair me. Everyone is on fire. There's a ship above us but it's coming apart just like a flower, alloy and fusion flash, pierced through and through - The voice says Atmospheric interface. Trajectory nominal. Rabid two three you are outside the window. I think I am the voice I can see the whole earth below me and the sky we are falling out of is black without stars. Ghost, shoot me again. This is elsewhere and elsewhen. There is a mighty aurora and it is reflected in the ice so I walk between two fires although the one below is cracked and full of corpses.

I have and am a weapon. Up in the sky there is a hole in Jupiter and it tears at me when I look at it. It tears at me. It is hungry. Maybe the hole is not in Jupiter but in me. Did I ever suffer exhaustion? Someone asked the question. Or maybe I asked it of myself. Then it looked at me. This moment was real.


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  4. I was forged by other hands and forced into the role of warrior. According to my scars, I fought and fought. Besides bits and flashes, every battle has been forgotten. But I have this clear, awful sense that others died. In my unit, every soldier was killed except for me.

    Yet despite a thousand chances to be shredded and scrapped, here I stood, no weapon in my hands, making fists out of habit but with nothing to hit. That was my sense of things.