Justa fictional sketch on the topic of posthuman environments/body variants. Those who know his work might spot the influence of Hannu Rajaniemi.
Might do some more with it subsequently.
The glass desert was filled with the hulks or dead or dormant machines – coiled like burnt snakes against white glare. The air pixelated with things that hummed and chattered on the wind. It held a faint tang of ammonia, burning eyes and throat.
Kame watched the collapsed bodies of the dead machines, alert for signs of raptors – shimmering like a school of fish under metal skin. Raptors hunted for incarnate data, for memories. She sometimes wondered if the chattering things were psychotic remnants of raptor feasts: soul shit.
The implants they had fitted after she had renounced her humanity back at the Reservation didn’t prickle under her air-sealed skin. She was safe, just for now.
She looked across a gap between two elephantine structures, still twitching in what passed for death among the sentient machines of the Abolition. Here was a smooth bowl in the desert, like a giant’s thumbprint. Its rim striated with something like writing that shimmered in the phosphorescent light.
As Kame bounded to the gap, helped by the cultured tendons in her new legs, she could see the writing resolve into thousands of worm-like cilia. The depression was like the mouth of a sea creature, a starfish crater: in fact, a temporary association of atom-scale assemblers known to the human cartographers of this place as “eaters”.
She knew that she did not have much time. The formation was not stable and might dissociate unpredictably. She would not survive here in her current form, however augmented. Either a raptor or incremental fluid loss would take her. Kame approached the eater-colony, stripping first her clothes, then her hard desert-fashion skin.
Underneath, she was just pink, soft meal. The air was corroding her, stripping away sheets of raw meat. The last few meters to the colony was a fog of pain and hemorrhaging lungs.
She almost didn’t make it. Finally, a raw, bleeding approximation flopped into the starfish mouth. Here the eaters could do their work. Gently taking her apart to reformat Kame in ways that would allow her to slip through the air like a manta ray and listen to the keening, inhuman voices beyond the sky.