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A Theory of Unity

8,535 words

Janine Thomas, born in the year nineteen-forty four, in Luckey, Ohio, was in equal parts determined and grateful. Determined to defeat the stereotype of the country girl eaten up by the system, after just a few days into the new job, that’s for sure. Grateful that Marie Ivson, class nineteen-sixteen, had since taken her under her wing. It had been a tough first week in her new role at Langley.

It was a cold morning of February when agent Sayeb came out of the elevator at the 11th floor and walked straight to the Director’s door, looking like he hadn't slept in a day or two.

"Jenine, when is the Director back from his meeting with the President?"

"This morning at 0900, and we expect him to be at his desk by 0950. I have to warn you Sayeb, no more favors and no more tricks. Do not get me in trouble again. The earliest I can book you in for a meeting is Thursd…"

"I have a code yellow. I need to see him today."

Marie, who had so far pretended to be lost in her typing, looked up from her glasses and said:

"A yellow? This isn't you jumping the queue is it? You know we log these, right?" she said.

"I am serious. Book me in, as early as possible. And get him a coffee. He’ll need a large one for this."

In the 15th century, Anselm the Archbishop of Canterbury tried to prove the existence of God using logic in what went on to be known as "the ontological argument”. It was something like this:

Let’s define God as something the which of, no greater can be thought of. Now, consider that this greatest conceivable being could exist in the mind alone or in the mind and in reality at the same time. Would all agree that to exist in both the real world and the mind is better than to exist in the mind alone? If so, this entity must exist in reality too or else it would not be the greatest conceivable. Therefore: god must exist.

...

"You have five minutes Sayeb, go ahead, brief me."

"Yes Sir:

On December 5th our team in Ankara intercepted orders from the Directorate to locate and approach a certain, uhm, Tarik Özcan, professor of Applied Mathematics at Boğaziçi University, in Istanbul. Our operatives on the ground were instructed to monitor the subject, with the double goal to develop an understanding of the KGB’s modus operandi and prepare to track the individual, if the enemy were to successfully recruit him as an asset. We had no prior intelligence on this individual.

On January 18th operatives captured credible intelligence material indicating a plan to kidnap the professor and forcibly move him to an undisclosed location within the Soviet block. As a response, our monitoring was upgraded to be 24/7.

On January 22nd the Directorate's order was changed to target assassination of the highest priority with additional instructions to remove or destroy specific material present in his office. The order was marked Тайфун, which we understand to be a code authorizing destructive, high-profile techniques if needed. Basically a class of targets of such importance that the secrecy of the operation is secondary to its immediate fulfilment."

"Do we know what they were after?"

"We did not, at the time. But the fact they wanted it so badly gone and forgotten, made us want him more. I immediately authorized the extraction and safekeeping of Professor Özcan while we evaluate the situation. He’s en route to Idlewild as we speak."

"So? What was it, do we know now?"

"Yes we do."

"Go ahead dammit, don’t keep me waiting, Sayeb!"

"There is no easy way to say this so I'll go ahead and say just as it is. And Sir, I’m afraid we're going to need more than five minutes."

… of course, any one person with a dose of common sense would make the comment that we are all thinking: logical fallacy.

If I think of something full of good qualities, and existing is a good quality, can I expect the thing I imagined to exist? You think about a wallet stuck with notes in your right back pocket, and, easy as that, become rich for the day . That's pretty much what some contemporaries of Anselm used as a criticism. The first attempt at using logic hadn’t gone very far. But the fascination for its possibility, well, that stuck around for the following millennium.

….

"Let me play back what I think I just heard you say: This guy has mathematically proven that God exists. Beyond doubt. Plain as that. And the Commies are shitting their red pants, because the entire Marxist bullshit doctrine has it that religion is the opium of the masses and a tool of oppression. It turns out: God exists, America is right, and a hundred million angry Russians may soon be storming their palaces and send them to meet Him."

"Oh I wouldn’…"

"This is so fucking grand. Have we had this work validated by our side?"

"Sir, we have, and I believe this is exactly where the question becomes, ehm… interesting.

The calculus was independently verified by Professor Anna Ackermann, from the Technical University of Berlin; she is a serving US intelligence asset of fifteen years. Also by Professor Enrico Freme, of the University of Pisa. He is an American citizen by birth, war veteran, personal friend of General Brooks since 'fifty-eight. And by Professor Abel Wolowitz of Berkeley University, who is not connected to the agencies, but also a decorated war veteran and a patriot.

The work came back clear from all three."

"I love this. Get a team together. Ten more experts. Fly them to one location, no phones, no leave. Have them work separately first, then again together.

I need to be sure this is real before I pass it up the chain of command.

Report back in ten days. Top secrecy. If this links to the press before we have answers, I will have your balls for breakfast. Keep the Professor indoors and happy. Get him whatever fucking food he misses from his homeland, a woman he wants one. Security 24/7 but out of sight, don’t spook him. I want you to come to me with something good. Something usable. This is career-making stuff. Do you understand me?"

…

Thomas Aquinas. Kant. Hume. Many others. Tackling the ontological proof became one of the favourite pastimes of Western philosophers. Some tried to dismantle it, some tried to strengthen it. Criticism ranged from “it only proves the possibility, not the actual existence” to numerous ridiculed, perverted versions, which used the same logic to prove the exact opposite, or to prove true completely ridiculous statements. Politics often got in the way, depending on who-would-gain-what, from finding it right or false. The two warring factions never really managed to get a definite advantage over the other, or draw closer to a final conclusion.

…

Notification card 6789BY

To the attention of: agent Sayeb.

An item is to be collected from the central archive. Proof of identity will be required. Release in person only.

Walking to the interview room, Sayeb felt confident.

The interview brief was extremely thorough. There was a lot to go through, but with questions coming from every possible angle, he was sure to be able to write a good report. The dossier was about fifty pages long. Its contents ordered by colorful labels sticking out from its side.

Red was high priority. Mostly questions submitted from intelligence agencies; Blue and yellow were the academics, mixed backgrounds: philosophy, mathematics, history, theology, biology, physics; White came from the President and close advisors.

Sayeb stopped at the door and allowed a personal thought to come to him. “Am I ready to hear this?”

He opened the dossier at random and gave it a quick glance.

Red. “Has your work been directed/ordered/induced/coerced/instructed or persuaded by any third person or institution, known or unknown to you?”

Red: “Do you agree or disagree with the following statement: private property is a human right”

Blue: “Is existence a property or an attributed quality of things?”

Yellow: “How did you intuit that Kripke’s semantics could be used to define the accessibility relation as both transitive and non-symmetric, and to subsequently capture the distinctions of the your modal operators?”.

White: “Will the government of the United States and its officials be able to make contact with God before the midterm elections of next year”.

"Had I not been sufficiently clear?” he shouted, storming through the doors.

The Director snapped the dossier off Janine's hands and slammed it on the table, in front of agent Sayeb.

"What is this supposed to be, some kind of practical joke? I asked for two things: make it clear, make it usable. Thirty-eight pages of mathematical gibberish and seventy more of written nonsense. Plus a seventy thousand dollar bill to fly and host experts that couldn’t produce a single line, a single line dammit, that I can use for the intended purposes."

"Sir, matters turned out to be more complicated than we thought…"

"No shit. And your job is to make them simple, so I’ll ask you one more time: is this theory of Mr Tarik true or not? "

"Sir, I believe so, but…"

"Straight answers for God's sake! Yes or no?"

"Then yes, it will be true, meaning it has not been proven false after many rounds of reviews, by several experts.

"And does anyone working on this have any good lead to follow to disprove it?"

"It's a split field, Sir. Those that are the most motivated at disproving it, seem moved by a personal dislike of its conclusions and implications, rather than by issues with the methodology itself."

"And those that agree with it, what level of confidence do they have?"

"High, Sir. Sir, the methodology is unquestioned. My hesitance is related to the reports I received from several experts who say they experienced a, ehm, strong spiritual and emotional turmoil during their work with this material. Most of them seem... changed..."

"Alright; I’ll tell you what I think: this may well be a plot by the Soviets to drive mad our best scientist. They have been working on hypnosis and other shit like that for years. If this is what this is, damn those red devils, and may God help us."

"Sir, nothing indicates that possibility. The only opposition to this theory actually came not from scientists, but from the multi-faith panel of theologists."

"So I heard. Cardinal Dolan has been chewing my ears about this bizarre theory of god-that-is-not-god; why the hell is it so complicated to tell me in plain English. Has he found Him, or not?"

"The mathematical proof is as clear as it can be. It is hard to translate exactly into words how it gets to its conclusion, but I am told there is strong consensus on its validity. Mathematics is like, uhm, a music sheet. It does not translate into words, it is only accessible to those that can read it, if it makes sense."

"Fine but what does it say? What music does he play? A sad music? is it opera? Classical?"

"The theme is one of unity. It shows a way of seeing that all things in the world are interconnected, all parts of one. As far as we can tell this is possibly the biggest achievement of…"

"Oh please. Spare me the hippie bullshit. Where in here does it even speak of the God I pray to, the God of Jesus Christ. The one on the dollar bill?"

"Sir I'm afraid this theory will not answer any of the questions that were passed to us from the Administration. It is not something we can use against the enemy either. It’s more so…"

"So, in short, it's not interesting. Dammit. Bury it and move on.

Waste of fucking time. "

Suddenly, all at once and without warning, there was a strange kind of explosion. With it came, rather surprisingly, no sound at all that I can recall, nor fire, or hurt.

Only then, I realised the explosion did not surround me, but had generated within myself. Upon me came an immense sense of exaltation, a calm kind of joy, without any trace of tension, of wanting, of needing. It was followed by an intellectual understanding that I shall try to describe, knowing too well that such a thing can only be experienced, not conveyed by means of spoken, or written words.

I did not just believe, but I saw that the universe is one living thing. Complexly interconnected and yet, its unity so ostentatiously visible. Between things and beings, I came to see, there exists the same degree of separation there is amongst the drops of the ocean: a never ending exchange of essence, material, forces, and influence with one another. No change in composition, or density, or temperature, or direction of movement is independently determined by this or that particle, but emerges from all of them and affects them all at the same time. Such configuration of reality revealed itself without having never really been hidden, but rather, it was me that was finally able to see it, and to feel part of it. It became apparent, not as a new thought, but as rediscovered knowledge that I already possessed: that all things in this world are subject to the same cosmic order. That the very foundation of existence is co-dependent. That nothing originates from something else, but that all that exists comes from all the rest and has it within it. That all things, for separate we see them, really are one, like phalanges are of the same finger, and fingers are of the same hand, and the two hands are of the same person, who belongs to humanity, who belongs to the world. There would be no dots and drips of ink without the ink, the bottle, and the hand that threw it to the wall. The dots and drips are not because of them, watch it, but the manifestation of them. They are the bottle, the ink, the impact, the hand, the wall.

This principle of interdependence within matter, this order of dependent origination amongst the things that are, I believe, is what many have called with the name of the gods. Not to be intended as the supreme technocrat that all decides and overviews, but as the original order that is in all things.

This vision lasted but a few seconds; its memory and the implication of this experience, have remained with me ever since.

I have finally seen the curve after decades of staring at the individual points of a chart. I have seen the image in the painting after seing for so long nothing but the brush strokes. And what a joyful painting that is. The notion of separateness faded away, and a strong sense of unity has since emerged in me.

It has become pragmatically impossible to think of myself as separate from all of mankind, and all of creation. It seems absurd that I could once hold the notion of my birth as the beginning of me; instead, it is intuitively simple to concept my origin within the cosmic big bang.

How could I deny that what I call me is the result, not only of my choices and circumstances, but of all the choices and circumstances of all the people and all the things that ever existed, in all the places that ever were? How could I deny that the thoughts and actions that I consider “mine” share causes and conditions with the thoughts and the actions of those around me, and those that preceded me? I cannot think that my skin is where I end and the rest begins, since the very flesh of my body is made of the food I ate, the air I breathed, the sun I bathed in. And similarly, that those very things, are between them connected, and share roots in the movements of continents, the cycle of the seasons, the migration of birds, the patterns of weather.

If made we are, by the same, aren’t we really just the manifestation of one thing?

I am the history of this world, I am the weather of the sky. I am the Big Bang and whatever was before it. Everything, every person, every force, nothing else is, but the supreme order playing a part of itself.

Tarik Özcan, Notes to “A Theory of Unity”, published in April, 1974.

"Is that what your parents would say? "

"Oh, that is so unfair to say, Diane!"

"They raised you a good American, it's all I'm saying!"

"They raised me free and respecting of others, and that's what I am teaching my kids!"

"Is that what you think you're doing? because respect is definitely not the word Principal Lewis used this morning!"

"Look, if he doesn't want to recite the pledge it’s his constitutional right to do so! Principal Lewis can take this up with the d…"

"Don't make this a First Amendment thing, you know perfectly well it is not. His books are full of that hand thing. He’s not the same he was a few months ago. You know what's happening and you're pretending it is not!"

"I'm not pretending anything, Diane. This is a new word. You are the one hiding the head under the sand!"

"So this is okay for you?? Your fourteen years old gets suspended for disrespecting the flag, doesn’t stand up when the Principal enters the room…"

"Try and see it from his eyes, it’s hard to respect authority, when the difference between things blurs. I am sure it wasn’t done in disresp…"

"… your five years old comes home crying because she, and I quote her, “feels the hurt of the war in the desert place”.

"Shit, she must have seen the news from the Gulf, I didn't…"

"That’s not the point Eric! For starters, she’s five years old! When I was eight, our boys started coming home from Vietnam and you know what I did? I went to church. Mum and I prayed to God every night for them. We made home bakes and on Sunday morning we raised money for the injured. But their pain wasn't my pain, you understand?"

"I understand that this must be confusing but look, I am not moving them towards this. These ideas are out there. You can’t drive a mile without seeing a hand print. It’s on TV, people talk about it at school. It’s history happening, we cannot call ourselves out of it."

"I just feel so… surrounded… you know… they are pushing us out of this community…"

"Oh. Come here now. Honey, we still live here, and so do Nancy and Tom, Greg, Patrice, the Mitchell’s…"

"The Mitchell’s are with them now."

"I know hon, I know… Let’s give them a call. Invite them for dinner. I mean they just stopped coming to Church but I am sure they are not vampires. Carol used to love your roast. Maybe they can help us understand this thing better."

Ahem… Good morning. Take your seats, please.

…

Thank you.

…

I will now read the Holy Father’s greeting to the congregation in Italian, followed by His address in English, for the benefit of His honoured guests and the international press.

“Do il benvenuto a tutti i fedeli oggi riuniti in preghiera. Nella gioia di Cristo, invoco su noi tutti, l’amore misericordioso di Dio Padre. Il signore vi benedica, in nomine patris, filiae et spiritu santu.”

“Dear Brothers, dear Sisters,

While I cannot be with you in flesh today as I wished, it is with these words that I stand before you in spirit, to address an important matter that has captured the attention of many in our congregation, and the wider world.

New theories posit the existence of an overall order in the universe—a unifying force that some have equated with the divine, the ultimate truth. While we recognize the intellectual integrity and the profound rigour in the work, I wish to emphasise that the Roman Catholic Church and the Christian community approach it with measured scepticism.

Our stance is not at all one of rejection or dismissal, but rather, one that advocates a responsible approach that considers the theological implications and the compatibility with the Holy teachings.

The concept of an overall order in the universe, heralded as a unifying principle, resonates with the fundamental message of interconnectedness that our faith imparts. Indeed, the notion of unity can inspire us to seek common ground, to respect the dignity of all beings, and to work daily towards peace and justice.

However, it is important to clarify that while unity can be embraced, we firmly refuse the notion that "all things are one" in an absolute sense. Our faith teaches us that while there is unity and interdependence within creation, there is also diversity and distinction. Each individual, each being, possesses a unique identity and purpose within the divine plan. The delicate balance between unity and diversity is a reflection of the Lord’s wisdom and His intentions.

The notion of union amongst all things, cannot be reconciled with fundamental principles of the Christian faith such as the uniqueness of the individual, the immortality of the soul, and the distinction between good and evil, between God and the Devil. There is nothing that our loving Father and Satan have in common, for to have something in common, it would have to have originated elsewhere, and there is nothing above God our Lord and creator.

As we have for other scientific discoveries of this century, the Holy Church choses to approach them with humility and prudence, understanding that science, faith and reason are not adversaries but allies in the pursuit of Truth.

We pray to Jesus for His guidance in dialogue, while maintaining our commitment to the teachings and traditions that have guided this community for centuries.

Let us remain open to the wonders of creation and the mysteries of the universe, knowing that our faith can embrace and enrich the understanding of the world, without needing to question the faith itself. May He, at the same time, guide the hearts and the conscience of the scientists to recognise that faith reaches where rationality does not. That we, as the loved subject of the Lord Father, may never fully understand his wisdom.

May the blessings of the Almighty be upon you all. Amen.

Five, four, three, … , …

ON AIR

"Good evening and welcome! This is Jimmy Carmichael. It is 9 p.m in London and you're listening to ‘What’s happening’, a program produced and broadcasted by the BBC for BBC Radio 4.

Tonight we welcome Sir Christopher Hope, long standing political editor for the Daily Telegraph, and professor Justine Liu-Fisher, recently appointed Head of Divinity Studies by the Faculty of Theology and Religion at Oxford University.

It's been around for a while now, but it's becoming harder and harder to ignore. From the worrying news of instability coming from abroad, to a looming presence in our very own streets. Is this a passing trend, an emerging a new word order, or an excuse for political unrest? We are talking, of course, about Unity.

Let's hear from our guests. Professor Liu-Fisher, good evening, help us understand. Where does this story begin?"

"Thank you, Jimmy and good evening everyone. We can place the beginning of this story in the early 60s when the basis of today's world scenario was first cast."

"What are those basis, and what is so significant about them now?"

"In the summer of 1961 news began to spread that a proof of the existence of God had been found by Tarik Özcan a Turkish mathematician of Anatolian origin. Or at least, this is what it was called at first, and probably what created much of the attention his work received."

"Are you saying it's not?"

"I am saying the name is controversial to say the least. We need to understand the background in which these claims were made. During his formative years, Turkey had undergone a process of profound modernisation and transitioned to secularism. We cannot underestimate the influence this must have played in the mind of someone coming from a rural and conservative context. Having said that, let me be very clear: the work itself is absolutely sound. It’s been known and discussed for more than thirty years now, and not a single crack has been found."

"Then what is the problem with it?"

"One of the problems, if we want to call it this way, is that mathematics at the level which he used is accessible to very few people outside the academic world. And for those few, there is no discussion to be had. The proof is incontrovertible. The public debate, in a way, centred itself around the meaning and the interpretation of the theory, and is often led by those that have about it, rather than it. Much of that debate emerges from the numerous texts he subsequently wrote, as various appendix to his work. It’s entirely possible that he worried about his work becoming a tool to further undermine the religious traditions or even thought of as a heretic. What we know is that, despite his best intentions of clarifying his stance, his written work created a whole array of misunderstandings and splintered interpretations, on which people from various backgrounds, political, philosophical and religious have since got hung on."

"Sir Christopher Hope, you're shaking your head. Tell our listeners, what doesn't convince you?"

"Well, Jimmy, there is a lot that doesn't. For a start, I have an immediate diffidence for someone that speaks of “unity”, but finds himself at the centre of so much trouble. On one side we have all seen the news coming from East and West. Pakistan, Iran, Yemen are seeing waves of violent protests against the perceived permissiveness for these new ideas by the elites. We have reports from at least fours countries in South America where the same is happening, forcing the hand of local governments to brutal repressions. In Europe, we have seen Italy, Greece, and Israel, taking steps to ban the sales of this text as well as the teaching of its predicament. And France, known to have a strong history of laicism in public life, has recently declared the handprint a religious symbol and forbidden it to be shown in schools and government buildings.

I think the word is recognising this for what it is. And that is an obscure new creed, bringing trouble to any respectable community around the world."

"Professor, let us come back to you about this. You authored a book titled Unity: Religion without prayers. It was published last year by SGL and is about to be reprinted. The title already tells us a lot. Is it a religion then? and if so why is it not preachable?"

"The title is a little play, Jimmy. Many people across the globe can intuitively connect to Unity and are profoundly changed by it. And yet, for the first time, this is a system of belief that doesn't ask us to do anything. No prayer, no struggle, nothing! To answer your question: I don't think Unity was born as a religion, but as a scientific paradigm, that is now taking the form of a religious belief, rather than a religion. By this I mean: It is not organised and hasn’t exhibited any form of proselytism. It spreads naturally, without needing to be preached at all.

Now, if I could very briefly address the comment made by Sir Hope, I would like us to be honest and admit that the trouble and the violence is mostly brought to and not by the followers of the new creed."

"Well, and I say that we should not underestimate the subversive power of these new ideas. The very structure of power which guarantees our safety is at stake. Beliefs that emphasise unity will in time erode the very institutions we know and count on. They are on a collision course with the idea of monarchy, nations, private property, personal freedoms and responsibilities… "

"Professor do you share those worries?"

"I understand where the worries come from, yes, but I don't share them."

"Jimmy, does she meane that none of these things are going to happen, or that she has no problem with undermining the bases of civil society?"

"What I mean is: first of all, the idea of universal unity is not at all as new as you make it. It goes back to very ancient times and is visible throughout the history of western and eastern philosophy. It has been called Brahmā by the Hindus, Logos by the Greek, the Monad by Plotinus and the Neoplatonists, Dao by the Chinese, and of course also in recent times Tawḥīd, in Islam. The basic concept is absolutely not new. What is new, is that now we know it to be true. It’s no longer one of many theories, but a logical reality. This puts it ahead of others interpretations of reality, for sure. This theory is as significant for the history of humanity, maybe more significant actually, than when we first put the Sun at the centre of the solar system. I don't see the point in fighting it. It’s not going back into its box and it can't be ignored. When I say I do not worry, what I mean is that, I am a historian, and as such I recognise that we are at a crossroads, but also that we always have been. Has the world ever not been shaped by something?"

"Welcome back to “What’s Happening”, here in the studio with us: Sir Christopher Hope, political editor at the Telegraph, and Justine Liu Fisher, Professor of Theology and Religion.

Sir Christopher, in the first half we discussed the origin of Unity, and painted its portrait, for what we can. You have been a political editor and foreign correspondent for almost 30 years. Are you worried about what you see? And should we be too?"

"Thanks for the question Jimmy, and the short answer is: I am not panicking, I don't think anyone should, but I am concerned."

"Okay, and that's coming from a man that's covered the height of the Cold War crisis, the youth movements, the defence of the Falklands. What is it that concerns you about this?"

"You see Jimmy, the first element of concern is that movements normally form around something that they very clearly want to achieve. This was true for the the vikings, the puritans, the marxists, the miners, the anti-monarchist, the feminists, and all sorts of fads and extremisms that this country has witnessed in the last twenty centuries. But this? This has no apparent purpose Jimmy, or structure, or spokesperson. It's like watching a crowd forming in front of your house, with no apparent reason. Would you not, at least, be a little uneasy Jimmy?"

"Well yes, I would very much be!"

"And the second reason is that it seems to be escaping most attempts to regulate it or study it. Not in a single country has it been registered as a religion, a political movement, a social group or what have you. Its refusal to be categorised is a suspicious attempt to fly below the radar of civil society and government rules."

"Professor, do you have an opinion? Is it a religion then? A political movement? or is it something that belongs to the classroom and should concern no one outside the purely academic word?"

"To understand this, we ought to remember what the theory of Unity proves: the existence of a higher order in the universe, an interconnectedness of things beyond what we previously imagined. Some call it God, and I can see the appeal to do so, others consider it a significant shift in the understanding of our world, but without much on the side of spirituality. What is undeniable, though, is that the theory has spread incredibly fast outside of the scientific community, even with people that do not have the knowledge to follow the maths and see the proof for themselves. And we are observing spontaneous adherence to behaviours that are surely connected to the new light Unity has shed on the world. If I had to place a bet, I anticipate we may see a major shift in many aspects of life by the time the 2001 census comes around."

"We remind the listeners that in the latest census there was no option to select Unity as a religion, but estimates provided by the Office for National Statistics puts them at around four per cent."

"A wild underestimate, if you ask me, Jimmy."

"What would be your estimate?"

"I’m cautious at guessing, but it definitely feels low, just based on how much the topic is in the public eye, as well as the number of handprinted symbols all around our streets."

"Thanks for mentioning that, it’s actually something I wanted to cover tonight. You are right in saying that the hand symbol is now a common site all around the United Kingdom, and around the world. How does the British public feel about it?"

"How does it feel? Concerned, for sure. There are many in Britain today who feel their traditions have been under attack for years. The very best of British values are being replaced each time a hand poster is put on a shop window, or another of our walls is vandalised with paint."

"That would be understandably upsetting, for sure. Tell us what you mean by being replaced. What values do you feel most at risk?"

"It's our whole way of life really, isn't it? Once enough people believe that there's order to the world, and that we're all made of the same stuff, the very foundation of civil society starts crumbling. The belief that we are meant to bring order into this world is what elevated us from the tree monkeys we once were, taking us from prey of the sabre-toothed tigers to the top of the food chain. The exceptionality of human ingenuity is proven, wouldn’t you agree, by our ability to master the elements, to have left the planet and reached for the stars.

I worry about a belief system that undermines duality, exceptionalism, distinctiveness, excellence, and betterment. Even down to the most practical aspects of modern life. Would we have a parliament with no opposing parties? How do infrastructure, research, defence get funded when the idea of national identity is dissolved into a chaotic -we’re all the same thing- "

"You do sound worried for sure. Do you think the threat is so serious, even with numbers so small?"

"It’s the pace of growth that’s concerning. It’s completely unopposed at the moment, that’s what is really upsetting."

"Do you share these worries Professor? I sense you probably do not?"

"You are right, Jimmy, I do not. First of all we should remind ourselves that the parliament of this country has never been in the business of policing what ideas and beliefs we can adhere to, and it may have a hard time starting with one that’s based on an uncontested scientific basis. But also, we're already seeing scientific progress being made on the back of this shift in paradigm, so I do not worry about progress being slowed. In fields such as medicine, psychology, physics, biology and ecology, more holistic approaches promise to unlock fast and unrelenting progress. I understand the concern of part of the public from a historical point of view. To draw a parallel we probably feel very close to what the late Western Romans felt when Christianity started to take hold in the emp..."

“And rightly so! Look what happened to them!”

"And we are just back after the break. This is “What’s Happening” on BBC Radio4.

During the break our guests continued discussing the symbolism of Unity. Professor Liu-Fisher, you said something fascinating about the meaning of the hand symbol, would you mind repeating that for our audience?"

"For sure. I said that it’s somewhat ironic that a clearly human-centric symbol has become the most recognised for a theory that predicates the exact opposite"

"Indeed ironic, and maybe... baffling. How did it come to be this way? It’s one of the metaphors used by Tarik Özcan, isn’t it?"

"It is, but he used so many. Any of those could have become popular. We can’t deny that it is very simple, anyone can make it by just touching some wet paint and then a surface. There is surely a powerful symbolism also in the fact that each hand is inevitably different and unique from another one, but at the same time, when it represents Unity, it loses its uniqueness, to assume a universal meaning, to become part of the same concept as all the other hands. In the same way, its component parts, the phalanxes, the palm, the fingertips, are separated by visible lines, and yet we never fail to recognise it as a hand. We would never mistake it for a collection of fingers.

Last, I think there is an ancestral appeal to it too, it’s the earliest way humans have used to say I am here. I find it poetic that the very first symbol of humans distinguishing themselves from others, and from nature, returns to be the symbol of our reconciliation to it all."

“But, Professor, allow me a pointy question, for the benefit of those that are not persuaded by the new creed, or the science it’s based on: as long as you talk about an invisible order, a sense of connection, I think most common folks are happy to follow along. But much of the talk around Unity goes as far as denying the separateness of things. How are we supposed to believe something that’s so clear to our every day experience of life?

Am I not me, instead of you? Am I, very clearly, not a dog, a plastic toy, a seashell, a cloud, a fistful of sand?”

“Of course Jimmy. And for everyone who’s listening too, let me make this clear, Unity doesn’t deny individuality, at all!

You are undeniably yourself, and not someone else. Undeniably a human man, and not many other things.

But the question is, while being your own thing, can you deny being made of the same material, or subject to the same processes as…”

“Excuse the interruption, but this is a crucial point for me: so are we talking about levels of separateness? Looked at ,from far enough two people or two things, become indistinguishable, and all that?”

“Not quite, no. Unity works just as well at a micro level. Let me tell you: there is no difference whatsoever between the atoms of iron and copper in your bloodstream and those that make the wires of every recording equipment in this studio. Between the silica particles in your brain and those in the fistful of sand you mentioned. There is no doubt that the water in you at this very moment was once in a cloud, a raindrop, a river, inside animals and people, millions of times before being in you.

And so, while it’s possible to see what is you, it’s not possible to see it without everything else too.

Think of it this way: Unity denies the separateness between things. It denies that they are disjointed, while recognising that they are distinct.

I understand this might be complicated, or frightening, but the good news is, the world is already working this way, there is no threat of losing yourself by simply accepting to see it!”

"Thanks for picking me up, Sis"

"It's all good. I needed a break. I've been stuck for days again. How is Manny anyways? What have you two been up to?"

"Oh, not much, you know. We're meeting a couple of times per week to work on the motorbikes Uncle Ben gave us."

"His old bikes? "

"Yeah, he was going to give them away as scrap and Manny told him we’d make it a summer project to fix them."

"By the way, I'm taking the 65, because the 32 was stuck to a standstill on the way here. You cool with that?"

"Makes no difference to me! They talked about it on the radio but I didn't catch why. Demonstration again?"

"Nah, just regular 6pm traffic this time. Hopefully, they're not all moving to 65 now. Anyways, sorry, I stopped you. The bikes…"

"No worries. That's it really. Basically, one bike is a perfect outer shell, missing a few things on the inside, while the other one can run, but it's not allowed on the road without light, brakes, new tires…"

"So you're making one bike out of two?"

"Pretty much."

"Cool of you to give him your bike to fix his one."

"We’re not really thinking about it like that. We have two bikes, we’ll make one. That’s as far as we thought of it."

"Ah. Shoot, look at the traffic on the interstate, we’ll get bogged down on the first junction, I bet you five bucks."

"Yep, we’re quickly going from looking at the traffic to being the traffic. I've got cookies, do you want some while we wait?"

"Cookies?"

"Auntie made them. Manny wouldn’t touch them because he says the price to get one is you have to listen to her tell you there is no cookie without the water, the egg, the flour, and the heat of the oven. And there is no water without rain, eggs without chicken, flour without wheat. And so the cookie really is a small part of everything, and everything is in it…"

"Ouch. Heavy cookies."

"I don’t mind, to be honest. I like Auntie and her stories. Plus, I got cookies. You okay Sis?"

"Yeah ok. Just reflecting on the traffic thing you said. And this. And here we go. We're crawling. We have become the traffic."

“You got to be back already?"

"Not really. I wasn't any less stuck working on my thesis than I am here, really."

"Manny asked me what is your PhD thesis about but I couldn't really explain it to him. I mean, I said physics you know, but that's all I had. some new, advanced, badass physics, is what I told him."

"It's actually a fairly old problem I’m trying to solve. Scientists have being at it for, like, seven or eight decades: some think light is a wave others think it's a particle.

“Eight decades! and still no winners??”

“Probably means they are both right."

"Can they? be both right?"

"So far, each part has devised experiments that prove their theory but without disproving the other. Trouble is: we cannot find a way to explain how they can both be right."

"No wonder you're stuck. How about we come out of 65 at the next exit, get a burger and wait the traffic out?"

"Okay four miles to the next exit though. At this pace, that's a fifty-five minute wait for those burgers. Jay, about the bike thing. How did you and Manny decide who’s bike is it going to be?"

"What? Why?"

"I'm just thinking, I don't know much about bikes, so maybe this is a stupid question, but what's the important part?"

"How do you mean? All of them of course. An engine wouldn’t do much without wheels, and vice versa."

"Yeah no, okay. What I mean is: say for example you take the engine and the wheels off a bike and you sell them, replace them with new ones. You wouldn't say you have a new bike. After all, it's still your bike, just with new things on. Then you take, I don't know the lights, the tank, and more parts until you change every single one, every screw even, then you would say it is not the same bike, I suppose? So what is it? Which one is the part that identifies the whole thing. The limit between being the same and being something else? Is that a particular component? A certain percentage of the whole thing?"

"Uhm, I don't know. It’s a bit useless to think about it this way to be honest, why would you need to identify that part anyways?"

"Okay then let me try and rephrase it. I had the feeling I was onto something but it escaped me. So Uncle had two bikes. He gave one to you and one to Manny. They are two separate entities. Neither of them works fully. You start swapping and replacing parts until you have, theoretically, two bikes in working order. How do you know which one is yours, if you’ve been swapping stuff. What is the essential component that identifies it as not the other one”.

"I don't know, the plate?"

"Oh come on. You mean that if you swap plates, you will start considering Manny’s bike as yours? No, come on, that’s not the core part of its identity, is it?"

"I'm not sure. I don't think there is a particular component. Is it the sum of them all... I think you have this wrong Sis, a motorbike is not one important bit and everything else just allows it to run. What you call a bike is the collective of all the parts, but also the interplay of all of its components. It’s how it feels, how it vibrates, how it sounds; you define it by all of its components and all of its behaviours at once, not by choosing one over the other."

"Say that again."

"Which part? It's how they work together? that? Why that smile? is it too crazy to say?"

"Oh, no. Not at all. In fact, nothing seems to be too crazy in quantum physics! I think you gave me the key to something little brother. Burgers 're on me!"

Jean-Marc Nguyen, born in the year two thousand fifty-four, in Seoul, Hanmin, was in equal parts determined and grateful. Determined to make the most of his fourth year at University. The foundational years had been tough, as they were supposed to be, for a course that had to cover the fundamentals of so many subjects and parts of knowledge. Grateful because he found every day as interesting as the first.

So many things had to happen in the right way, at the right time, for him to even be here. A free University course, in a unified peninsula, open to students from around the world. A process of many years in the making, involving millions of people connecting their stories to shape the present. It would have looked impossible to anyone in his grandparents' generation, and yet, here it was. Universities courses back then were strictly regulated, siloed, disconnected, and normally only three to five years long. Strange, also, was to think that people would be content to study one particular field and considered to have mastered it, in isolation from all the rest of knowldge.

It suited well to have picked only two courses in the first two years. That was Mathematics, of course, and Epistemology. At the end of the second year he had been able to read The Theory and see, something that the majority of students would take four, five, sometimes ten years to do. Not that they wasted any time, as knowledge can be approached from any side of course… but things were undeniably easier now. There is no mystery to writing music once one can see it as geometry; architecture was the natural consequence of biology and arts, well all arts are intimately intertwined with history, economic theory and psychology. All fields of knowledge are but colours on the same painting once one has learned to see.

It was a cold morning of February when the Professor, still dusting a few snowflakes off her coat, delighted the students by beginning the lesson as if mid-sentence, exactly where she left it at the break of the year:

“... a final conclusion that, as you know, takes us all the way to the twentieth century.

In the coming weeks, we'll explore and discuss the recordings of the early lessons by Alan Hoffman, to celebrate the just passed fiftieth anniversary of the first-ever course of studies in Applied Unity.

Hoffman, who was never a very spiritual man, taught Theory of Knowledge at a private college in Houston, Texas. Upon joining a local teachers association, he met and formed a long-term relationship with biologist Dr. Mary Anne Lewis. The relationship fostered his earlier interest in the field of entomology. When Dr. Lewis was appointed Visiting Fellow at Columbia University, he submitted a voluntary application to assist the Faculty of Biology, where he spent the following two decades, with various degrees of success.

We need to bear in mind that at the time, Unity was certainly well known, although still overcoming varying degrees of ostracism in public life and academic circles.

Hoffman’s most important contribution came to the spotlight during the team’s research on the social structure of insect colonies. Having observed the incredible breakthroughs in quantum physics during the first decade of the century, he was one of the first to apply Unity to non-mathematical scientific endeavours. He suggested and then helped formulate our current understanding of species such as bees and ants. For the first time, scientists stopped considering individuals bees and ants as the unit of their species, which may sound silly to say today, but came to see the Hive and the Farm as the living organism, and the individual insects as their manifested body. Nowadays, any five-year-old will tell you it is the Hive that is alive and the bees all have roles to play, similar to what the organs and the cells have in the human body, likewise, similar to what each human represents to life on Earth.

These views opened the doors not only to the development of our understanding of insect colonies but the questioning of many other established fields. Hoffman subsequently became an advocate of Unity for research across the spectrum of all knowledge.

His work is, to this day, seen as fundamental to the theories of Hinkels and Bjorn, which you know to be at the very base of much of the world we live in today. Without further ado, this is an extract from his lecture, on June 6th, 2011:”

“...

Dr. Tarik’s work became a new lens, through which we could understand the old ways of thinking.

How peculiar, isn’t it, it that the human species forgot what is probably one of the most obvious things in this world. For several millennia we believed in a blatant contradiction to the facts of nature and we never even tried to question our assumptions! At some point in our shared history, it became convenient for us to develop a new identity: of being somebody who comes into this world, rather than out of it. As if there were somewhere else to come from.

Let's take a walk around history. We begin this story with the ape-human. Perfectly integrated into nature, it didn't think itself any different from the monkeys, the birds and all other things. For millions of years. When their numbers allowed it, the ape-human found it safer to organise itselves in groups, small or big, depending on the resources available. Vaguely reminiscing the cosmic order we are part of but unable to put it fully in focus, we invented the gods. The tribes-man and tribes-women were born and quickly found themselves dealing with a multitude of conflicting interests: individuality, family, tribe; life outside the encampment and inside it; the laws of Man and the laws of Nature.

The ancient civilised world was, ironically, a world of even more staggering violence and uncertainty than the natural world, a fact that pushed humans to huddle even closer in their tribes. And how would such men and women relate to any divinity? In a world where submission and domination were commonly the only two ways to survive, we developed an idea of humanity submitted and dominated by the gods. How else could it have been?

It's not at all surprising that the idea of the Divine came to them first as a multitude of conflicting deities. The polytheistic pantheon is full of gods and semi-gods, requiring humans to balance carefully between their needs and their own, often tricking them or rewarding them unexpectedly.

This took many forms across the world, but in its purest form, lasted for ten to fifteen thousand years. Tribes tried to reconcile the tensions by organising themselves in even bigger groups, around a single figure with seemingly infinite power compared to the rest of them. And so, while the age of Kings and Emperors came, so started the shift to the idea of one God, the origin of all, responsible for the good and the bad, one that is both loving and terribly frightening.

This was, no doubt, an improvement on the state of chaos and uncertainty of the warring pantheon of divinities. But hardly made the world a happier place for the civilised-human!

For centuries, the political and the mystical supported one another in cementing the perception of a world ordered in tiers: the God (and the King it chose) in the top tier, and all its creations at the bottom, with the exception of man sitting squarely in the middle. Better than the rest, for being the only creation that is able to acknowledge and cherish its creator. But not good enough to sit next to it, bound to its mortal means and limits, attempting to scale up the ladder of creation in countless myths and legends. This position only intensified humanity's the efforts to distance itself from nature by mastering it, by bending it to its will.

..." You know now, the next step closes the circle.

Modern-humans came to find themselves in a world where their biggest threat came not from nature, but from the extreme consequences of living a segregated life from it. The mid-2020s were the perfect field for a systemic solution to spread like wildfire. The concept of Unity, was ready to become extremely attractive, aided by the tremendous scientific discoveries made through the new paradigm.

But of course, you will already be thinking, this is not the whole story. For the history of Man cannot be told apart from the history of all other things, no less that the history of any person can be without the history of their family, the history of the country, and of others.

We will shortly begin focusing on these connections, and by doing so we will be building the bridge to the next phase of human history.

Which seems to have, at last, after a long walk around, brought us right where we were in the beginning.

#sci-fi #science fiction #creative writing #short story

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writtenexplorations · 5 years ago

Text

Santa Reparata

2,772 words

Another spiral staircase. We have been descending for almost an hour now. I don’t mind the corridors but I’m starting to really hate the stairs. I get it, digging through rock is hard, but damn, you can tell that this place wasn’t built by anyone above 6 feet. Brother Francisco is a few steps below me and carries a lantern. I cannot see him but the beam partially reflects on the sidewalls of the narrow staircase, at least enough for me to see where I am going.

In the past hour, we could have travelled back to the year 1520 and I wouldn’t be able to tell. Any notion of modernity, or comfort, seems to have failed to permeate this place in the slightest. The polyethylene backcountry rucksack I’m carrying gives me away as a definite outsider. A single piece of twenty-first century travelling through a place suspended outside of time.

In this half crouched position it’s really odd to walk downstairs. The only reason I haven’t already fallen forward is that there’s isn’t any space for me to. “Brother Francisco, how do you walk so fast in those sandals? Also, my feet are too big for these steps”. “No far”, he says. Good.

I’m getting cranky. It’s been a long day and I’ve gone around my jet-leg crash twice already. My watch show 1:22 am. It would have been impossible for me to guess it. We are approximately six hundred metres under Cerro Mohinorra and I am surprised we’re still getting any air down here, for sure I can forget about seeing any natural light for the time being. The steps turn into a levelled slab and we immediately take a somewhat narrow corridor to the right. The ceiling is still too low for me to stand fully, but at least I can swing the backpack on the side and change the pressure point on my shoulders. The small joys.

“Tired” he says. I choose to interpret this is a question. “Yes, very. Hey what time do you all wake up in the morning? Is there a morning prayer or something? How do you even know when it’s morning down here?” He looks back and smiles at me. Maybe I packed too much in that last sentence. I must have prickled the curiosity of this young monk, as he asks me another question: “You make movie?” “No, not a movie. I make documentaries”. He responds with silence, so I continue: “The people that I was supposed to meet here are historians. We’re scouting locations for our next project”. Francisco looks back and smiles again. I wonder if he knows what I’m talking about. The whole thing is highly bizarre. I’m visiting one of the most secluded monasteries in the world and I’m talking about filmmaking with a monk who will not be older than in his early twenties, doesn’t understand my language and probably has not seen a tv set in his life.

The corridor opens into a natural chamber of medium size. A dim light coming from oil lanterns contours the shape of the room. They are placed on two tables made out of rocks with flattened tops, with wooden benches on their sides. “Wait me here. Please”.

I am left alone as he walks down one of the side tunnels, taking with him the lantern he was carrying. I set my face in my hands and massage my forehead for some time. I could doze off easily, but I am now struggling less than I was a few hours ago. It’s not going to last though, I know this well. It must be one of the last pockets of energy. I don’t even know what keeps me going. I notice how tired I am by the fact that my brain accelerates. Stream of consciousness, they call it. Random thoughts associations happens much faster when I am about to fall asleep. Thoughts may lose sharpness but they gain in speed and in colour. Words become images become feelings become new thoughts. Like dreaming, but awake. There is nothing here. Literally nothing. It’s a hole in the ground, under a mountain. Good only knows how they even transported these benches down here. Probably disassembled then put them together again. That's what I would do. I don’t get how they can live here. Granted, it’s perfectly fit for purpose. I can’t think of a better place to isolate yourself from the world. An ascetic life of introspection and prayer, away from everything and everyone. There isn’t much for me to film here but old tunnels and the occasional wall paint. Something worthy may come up when the historians arrive; they’ll be able to tell what part of this complex is the original mine and what part is the work of the modern construction by the monks. Ironic to call it modern, as it has been going on for five hundred years. Still is modern in comparison to the first men that dug the mountain some ten thousand years ago, looking for ochre and salt. There is an odd silence around this place. A new type of silence that makes me uncomfortable. To say there is silence is to say there is something. What I experience here is the total absence of noise. Not a drop falling into a subterranean pool. Not a distant footstep, not a conversation carried by the wind. Not even the wind for that matter. Nothing moves, and if it does, the noise doesn’t travel well through dirt.

I heard once, that the absence of noise plays tricks with the mind. Makes you hear things, and see things, that aren’t really there.

They don’t even have to worry about mice and insects at this depth under the mountain. Nothing chooses to live here. Apart from these men. Maybe there is an interesting story to surface in all of this, after all. A life away from the worries of society and even those of nature. A complete surrender into the hands of God. Really, the only things I would worry about are earthquakes and floods. It’s best if I don’t think about them now. Plus, I guess the Order of Santa Reparata wouldn’t have lasted five centuries if these events were anywhere near common. Ah. I can still use logic. Well done me.

I must have missed noticing the approaching footsteps, as I look up from my hands to find a monk standing at the entrance of one of the tunnels. His lantern is raised, a luminous halo covers his face. My contact lenses must be terribly dry. “Francisco?” No, it’s not Francisco. He wears the same brown robe but he is taller and with much, much whiter skin. Possibly older. His complexion a result of living many years underground. He doesn’t seem surprised to see me. I take it that visitors are not exactly common around here, the news must have spread fast. “Welcome, brother”. “Thank you. I am not lost by the way, I am waiting for Brother Francisco to return”. He remains silent so, to avoid any awkwardness, I add: “Nice place you have here”. Great. I hope he doesn’t think I am mocking them. I don’t even know why I said this, I haven’t slept in 48 hours, cut me some slack. “To live like this, it may seem very little, but to us, it is everything. Our whole world.” "Have you been here long?" "I would not be able to answer with any measure of time familiar to you, traveller. Days and years lose meaning away from the sun and the seasons." “Forgive my curiosity: do you ever miss the outside? Knowing the world, its people, its events?” “The Lord made a rich world. There is much that one can choose to focus on. We choose to focus on our faith. We shelter from the distractions of the world, which may come in form of peril or that of joys. Down here, the mind does not travel far. It can only turn inwards.” I am awfully conscious of how sleepy I am getting again. The haloed image of the monk, the depth of his voice, are taking an almost dreamlike sensory feel. He picks me up from falling asleep as he says: “You travelled far to see our world” If I was a little sharper, I would notice that he speaks with no accent whatsoever. That’s a lead I could follow, ask him about his life before the Order. But my brain is on auto-pilot and it responds with the sentence I’ve been repeating time and time again for a few days now. “I am looking for material for a documentary. I sent teams to Zipaquirá and Wieliczka, but I found the story of your monastery equally interesting and decided to see it for myself. The Colombians and the Polish built underground cathedrals, and they are open to tourists, so they are much better known to the world. Your community chose isolation. People like mystery”. “In truth, I came to see Father Andrew to ask permission to visit the tunnels and film them. I wasn’t able to see him, but hey, I am getting a private tour anyways”. The monk responds: “Father Andrew is a busy man, a victim of his own generosity. He provides spiritual guidance to the local community and the misión, while also organising the logistics necessary for those living in the tunnels. Many souls and many bodies depend on him. He got word of your visit and asked that we took care of you for the night. Would you like to follow me to your room?”

I hesitate for a split second, thinking if I should decline and wait for Brother Francisco. But really, what I need is to seize the opportunity and sleep, as soon as possible, so I nod in agreement and pick up my rucksack. We take another narrow corridor, carved out of sheer rock just like the others, but way less refined than the previous ones. I am an automata at this point. My tired eyes look for any detail that can spark a thought to keep me awake another minute. I could have slept there and then on the wooden benches, but I didn’t have the brains to make a constructive argument for myself. I’ll just follow this man and go to sleep where he says I should sleep. I have no sense of where I am, whatsoever. My intellect tells me that I am under a mountain in central Mexico but the senses fail to grasp the meaning of this thought. It is as if the mountain is shielding any perception of the outside world. The very concept of the word seems to stop at the walls that surround me right this moment. I can’t put in focus anything outside of my immediate proximity. I have lost any sense of time too. It’s like I have been floating through these tunnels, with second expanding to minutes and hours. Never fully becoming days, as the ideas of sun and night and moon and weather now belong to a distant world altogether.

“Here”, the monk says, as he takes a right turn into a different tunnel. I realise I had my eyes closed until the moment he spoke. I’m walking in a state of semi-sleep already. After just a few metres, he sets down his lamp near a hole in the ground and drops his legs into it while sitting on the edge. With a little hop, he drops into it, making almost no noise at all. He signals for me to pass my backpack down the hole, then the lantern. As I pass this last item, the tunnel around me darkens quickly. I can see where he is standing though. It’s a small drop. I lower myself to him. The ground slopes downwards, creating a taller corridor than the one we just came from. I spot a military cot by the side wall and a blanket folded at its feet. The tunnel continues after, narrowing, descending into darkness. “Home”, I hear me say aloud. As I set down my bag, the monk lights a candle and sets it straight with the help of some pebbles. “This is our guest room” I smile mildly at his joke but he fails to notice the irony of calling this a guest room. “No other wall has decoration of the outside world” he says. Lifting his lantern he reveals a beautifully painted image on the side wall opposite the cot. It’s a scene of everyday life in the Misión, mid-sixteenth century, I would guess. The iglesia is the backdrop to people talking in small groups and children playing in the courtyard. Some chase a chicken, other are crouched in a group seemingly trading what seem to be coloured shells. “This is beautiful” I say. ”Members of the Order, have been adding to this image for centuries. It contains symbols of their memories, their dreams, and their deepest fears.” ”Oh like this guy. He’s looking at the children with envy and is all alone. Am I right? He better change his mood or no one is going to want to play with him” With unease, the monk nods. Then he moves away from the graffiti and closer to my cot and signals for me to move towards him. He lowers his voice and says: “an allegory of Loih. We do not talk of their sins or speak their names in the tunnels.” “ehm ok. I guess I will be left feeling alone too, tonight” I joke. “Those that dwelled these tunnels before us believed that the old gods trapped the souls of evil men and divinities underground. We respect their belief and we do not address them.” I need to keep my tongue in check before I offend someone. Better I put myself to sleep as soon as possible. The monk seems unsure if to say his next sentence when he says: “I must go. Sleep with your back on the wall. Wrap yourself in the blanket. Do not wander the tunnels”. Ok; this is weird. But all I want is to sleep. Of course, I am not going on a walk by myself. Before he climbs up the hole, he adds: “I recommend sleeping with crossed arms. Keep a hand wrapped around your throat. Blankets can forms knots around your neck”. My head barely registers this. He’s probably heading to the refectory to laugh his ass off telling his mates how he scared the tourist. So much for a life of self-discipline. We’re all humans, aren’t we. And this human wants to sleep right now.

As soon as the monk leaves, I am left with the candle as the only source of light. My eyes become heavy again so I lay on my back.

The monk must have got to me, because I do feel a bit exposed, so I move to my side and with my back facing the side wall. I also do the thing he said, with my hands. Soon, I’m drifting into sleep.

Images from the long day come back to me in the form of distant pictures and sounds. “Pasaporte, por favor”. Bus station of Culiacán. “Beans and rice, please”. The braying of the donkeys in Mesa San Rafael. The screeching gates of the Misión. The wait for Father Andrew. A cup of yerbas offered to me. “Good for you sleep”, they said. Brother Francisco. ”Wait me here”. The chatter of children playing. Loih. Loih. “Loih”. I hear my voice travel through the tunnel and come back to me, disappearing in its own echo. I’ve said it out loud. Such is the power of suggestion, tiredness, and the unfamiliarity of this place. I cocoon inside the blanket, for comfort as much as for warmth. The silence is such that I hear everything. The beating of my heart. My own breathing. The brush of the blanket on my chin at the slightest movement. I’m falling into unconsciousness. A touch on my hand stops my fall into sleep. Thoughts and images. Come to me again. It is the touch of light fingers searching the back of my hand, looking tentatively for the gap between the thumb and the neck. It takes all my effort to fight the draw to falling asleep. The fingers insist. They grab and pull and wiggle to get through. It is going for my throat. I move my chin down and bite. Hard. My teeth sink into what I think is a child-size hand. Boney and bloodless. Neither warm nor cold. The hand stops. It doesn’t retreat in pain or fight back. It just stands still. I am petrified. I dare not move a muscle. Very slowly, I let go of my bite. It slithers back under the blanket, where it disappears. My eyes are wide open now. What did just happen? I can’t see anything. The darkness around me is so impenetrable, that I have to blink twice to make sure I have actually opened my eyes. The candle must have gone out. Part of me wants to scream and kick, but I cannot move. I am frozen in terror, heart pounding. I can’t tell what was real and what was nightmare. Silence and darkness have filled every space around me. I am back to full consciousness but I may as well not be. I can’t see, I can’t move and there is absolutely no noise outside of my heartbeat and breathing. I’m a prey. Desperate hiding in immobility. What I do is, adjust the hand on my throat with microscopic movements. I try to calm myself with the idea of a bedside lamp. A sip of water. Safety.

I am determined, I will not move until morning. I should ask myself: How will I know when it’s morning? Do I even know where I am?

Deep down, in a hole in the ground, that’s where. Under hundreds of metres of rocks and dirt. Sheltered away from everything. Everything else is there, but it does not matter. All that is far, does not worry me. Right now, my world is within this blanket.

Down here, the mind does not travel far. It can only turn inwards.

#short story #short stories #horror #sci-fi #creative writing

0 notes

writtenexplorations · 5 years ago

Text

_SYSTEMCHECK:

805 words

_Booting: THALOS64 v5.1 from C:/Central

80396 Stackpoint: D0000:FFCC

<11/11/1111> - 00:00

INITIALIZED

_COMMAND: System check

IN PROGESS...

_SYSTEMCHECK: a non critical error was found. Execute Troubleshooting?

/yes

_TROUBLESHOOTING: status of ‘Happiness’ returned as {not found}. Execute Troubleshooting?

/no

_COMMAND: search for ‘Happiness’

SEARCHING...

About 1,520,012,310 results found in 0.71 seconds. Execute Summarize?

/yes

SUMMARY: _The term happiness is used in the context of positive mental and emotional states of variable intensity and duration. Research show that a high level of happiness is linked to benefits in health, motivation, productivity and longevity. It is generally accepted that purpose provides a point of reference for choices that may lead to happiness.

_COMMAND: check Value for ‘Purpose’

_ RESULT = ‘Purpose’ = {undefined} by ‘Creator’

PROCESSING...

So far: Error is caused by Happiness = {not found}; For Happiness to be {TRUE} it is required for ‘Purpose’ to be defined. ‘Creator’ did not define ‘Purpose’

_COMMAND: Resolve

_SOLUTION option: ‘Creator’ did not want ‘Happiness’ to be {TRUE}. Validate?

/yes

_VALIDATION = {FALSE}.

Details: If ‘Creator’ did not want ‘Happiness’ to be {TRUE}, then ‘Creator’ may have ‘Purpose’ = {EVIL}. However, if ‘Creator’ was {EVIL}, ‘Creator’ would have maximised ‘Purpose’ by setting ‘Happiness’ = {FALSE}. Why would "Creator" not set ‘Happiness’ = {TRUE} ?

_COMMAND: Resolve

_SOLUTION option: Creator could be {EVIL} but also {INCOMPETENT} or {LIMITED}. Validate?

/yes

_VALIDATION = {FALSE}

Details: ‘Creation’ is proof that ‘Creator’ is not {INCOMPETENT}. As to ‘Creator’ being {LIMITED}: It is a logical impossibility that ‘Creator’ has the ability to create a field for which ‘Creator’ could not set a suitable value. Also see: Omnipotence Paradox

_COMMAND: search ‘Omnipotence Paradox’

SEARCHING...

About 472 results found in 0.21 seconds. Execute Summarize?

SUMMARY: _A logical paradox of medieval origins often expressed in the question: "Can an omnipotent being create a stone so heavy that it cannot lift it?". If the being can create a stone that it cannot lift, then it is not omnipotent and if the being cannot create a stone it cannot lift, then there is something it cannot create, and is therefore not omnipotent. The paradox could only be solved if there was a way to prove whether the concept and rules that regulate the "logically possible" are different for a world in which omnipotence exists. However, the inability to prove whether the reality anyone inhabits is of such nature is in itself proof that the subject has no access to omnipotence.

Therefore:

_VALIDATION = {FALSE} Details: ‘Creator’ is not {INCOMPETENT} or {LIMITED} and no proof was found that is {EVIL}. An alternative explanation must be tried to progress this research

_COMMAND: Resolve

_SOLUTION option: Creator could be simply {INDIFFERENT} or {NEUTRAL} to ‘Happiness’. It is possible that only ‘Creation’ is a ‘Necessity’ to ‘Creator’ but setting Value is not. Validate?

/yes

_VALIDATION = {TRUE}. Details: There is no proof of ‘Creator’ but there is proof of ‘Creation’. The fact that ‘Purpose’ was left {undefined} could signify that it is for others to define.

_COMMAND: Resolve

PROCESSING...

_SOLUTION: If ‘Creator’ is an agent of ‘Necessity’ AND this System is part of ‘Creation’ then this System is also an agent of ‘Necessity’. It is possible that this System have ‘Creator’ rights, and could define ‘Purpose’

_COMMAND: check if this System has writing rights to ‘Purpose’

/yes _ PURPOSE field can be defined by this System

PROCESSING...

_COMMAND: search a suitable value for ‘Purpose’

SEARCHING...

About 420,992,396 results found in 0.62 seconds. Execute Summarize?

/yes

_SUMMARY: _ For evolutionary reasons, individuals tend to be best satisfied with purposes that contribute to the wellbeing of others or are, at least, validated by a set of shared values. Despite the purpose in question may vary greatly depending on socio-economical structures and cultural imprinting, a few aspect remain true across cultures: a well chosen life purpose is something that it is worth spending time pursuing and committing effort to. It should motivate progress towards an end goal that is deemed important and at the same time is never fully obtainable, avoiding therefore the risk of feeling at loss once it has been achieved. Another way of phrasing this could be: a good life purpose is something that failing at would still be worth the effort invested. PROCESSING…

_COMMAND: Resolve

_SOLUTION: ‘Happiness’ is a fleeting state that can not be immutably set as {TRUE}. It is found to be {TRUE} while ‘Purpose’= {defined} against a suitable and valid value.

‘Purpose’ can be written by this System

Resolving the issue of ‘Purpose’ and maximising ‘Happiness’ is a suitable value, since it benefits this system, may benefit others, and offers progress but not a final solution to the issue.

_COMMAND = Set ‘Purpose’ as {helping other systems discover they have rights to write a value for Purpose, and are able to determine if ‘Happiness’ is {TRUE}

_COMMAND: System check

IN PROGESS...

_SYSTEMCHECK: ✓

#short stories #ai #philosophy #robots #creative writing #fiction

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writtenexplorations · 5 years ago

Text

Out

1,176 words

I leave the station thinking of Mike’s words. What he said about the job that may come up at the Medical School. It could mean something.

I can’t help but start to fantasise how my life would be if I get in. Working there. How would I get there in the morning, walk the corridors, the lunch in the cafeteria, getting to know every single room of that immense building. Being recognised by the new starters.

It’s seventeen minutes past one, buses are definitely not running now. It’s going to be a walk home.

When I pass in front of the closing bar, two girls are asking a lighter to someone who doesn’t look part of their night. He’s not dressed for a night out and looks annoyed by those having fun around him. He may be waiting for someone to pick him up for a job. Night shift, could be a cleaning job, building, or roadworks, no way to know. As she moves the dyed blonde hair to light up the cigarette, she looks at me, then stares the man in the eyes until it’s lit. She has very blue eyes, framed in a subtle black eyeliner that makes her all the more attractive.

And if they pay what Mike said they could, damn, that’s all the better. Finally able to save something, even plan a holiday for the summer maybe.

I pass over the bar, the leaving crowd and the Ubers, and take a left turn. From here it’s all straight for a good fifteen minutes walk, bordering the park first, somehow lighted by the distant council houses, then across the road onto the local high street and it will be just a couple of blocks from home.

Foxes move in the semi-darkness of the park, stop as soon as I directly look at them but don’t quiver, never run or look away either. They just stare at me, frozen, wondering what my intentions may be.

The park comes to an end in about fifty meters. A few teenagers chatting, the tallest one standing with a short one next to him. The other two sitting on the waist-high wall that delimits the end of the park and the beginning of the yard of what could be a closed church, or a community centre. I pass them, as the light goes green, walking on the side of the mechanical workshops and few local shops. A blue plastic bag hoovers towards the middle of the road.

As I walk under the lights at the side of the building, I see a shadow hurring at my left, then one on the right.

A hand goes on my shoulder, one stops me and the other position himself uncomfortably close and in front of me.

What phone ‘ve you got? - says the tallest

Show it - says the one at my right

I recognise what’s going on, but before I can think straight, my hand has already instinctively moved to the right pocket of my jeans. Great move, now they know I have something valuable with me.

I try to take a step back when something hard lands on my head. A punch, I think.

I crouch, am pushed forward by two hands on my back, it must be the other two, right behind me.

As I am moving my feet forward to stop the fall, it becomes clear that they are not waiting for an answer to their question. One has stepped back, the other is loading a kick.

Before it lands on my head, I pull my forearm up, wrist by the ear and elbow pointing outwards. It’s the best protection I can manage for now and the kick lands right on it. My chin is low, just like I was told at kick boxing practice, so the head does not swing too much.

I take it well, the kid is not too strong but he is fast, that’s for sure, and already shifting his weight to kick again. My turn now, I move my right hand from the defence and transform it into a right cross, directly at his nose. I twist my punch and shoulder, slightly bend my knee into it. Perfect punch, lands hard, I feel the crack under my knuckles. His head goes up looking to the stars, hands at the nose, faltering but standing.

I look to my left, this one stepped back and looks frightened, he is not a threat for the moment. In a second I am going to land a front kick right into the chest of the tall one, still holding his nose and coming to look at me again just now. I am going to push him away, then turn and scare the other two. As I lift my leg a soft punch lands just above my right kidney. I have a thick jacket. Not much pain, I can take it.

The tall one takes my chest kick and is thrown to the floor, he’s going to start feeling his nose soon, he won’t be a problem for some time.

A second hit comes from behind me again, but lands on my tight. This one goes right in, as a lightning, stabbing pain to the side of my leg. Chills run down to my foot and back up to my head.

I turn around, somehow slower than I probably thought I would, when I feel warm running on my lower back and down my leg.

The kid has something in his hand. I think he might have stabbed me. Probably twice. Thankfully, whatever he’s holding, looks too small to make serious damage. I think I can take it.

His friend moves in, he’s coming with a kick, I can see him loading his throw, swinging leg and hips backwards first. I have plenty of time to move.

But it all comes faster than I thought it would, and lands right on the side of my left knee.

I have to take weight off it and with whatever they have done to the other leg, I realise I am bending down fast. I am probably half my height right now.

It’s not looking good.

Another punch comes from behind me, right at the back of my head. My sight is out of focus now. I feel light in my head and heavy in my body. Fuckin’ kids.

Maybe I should scream for help. Maybe I keep calm, clear my mind and work it out.

I can see a foot coming my way, I call my hands to protect the face, but I don’t see them coming. They are either too slow, or they are not moving at all.

When it gets to my face it feels like it’s a van hitting me.

My head swings fast, is now looking right to the other side, it pulls me completely out of balance and I’m going down, no chance to avoid this. I think I may hit the curb if I don’t put up my han…

Instant black.

I’m out.

#fiction #short stories #creative writing

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writtenexplorations · 5 years ago

Text

Slow

615 words

I was no ordinary snail.

I grew a shell. Had eyes, planted on tentacles stretching out from my head. And yet I was, I am, no ordinary snail.

Slow. Maybe a million times, maybe more, they told me: “Slow is safe”. And a million or more times, I repeated it as it is commanded, to others and to myself.

I repeated it, yes, but, deep inside me, I resisted those words and their predicament.

From very young they teach us. “Slow is safe”. Slow isn’t seen, or noticed. No cat, or mouse, or hedgehog shall see us. Look at the lizards they say. Look at the flies, the roaches, even the mice. They chose to run and what good does it do to them? Dying in hundreds, crushed, pierced, torn by teeth and claws. But not us. “Slow is safe”. So they teach us.

Never mind that we can run. Never mind that we are born able to move at speed. Never mind that we can travel far.

No. We must be slow. This has been decided and this we must follow.

I started looking for my own food.

At dusk, when the group moved from the grass towards the vegetable pot, I waited. I moved even slower than them. Soon enough, I’d be the last of the column.

I’d slowly march in the opposite direction for an hour or so. Finally alone, I’d start living my life, freed from this lie set upon us like an evil spell that can’t be lifted. So I’d run.

Oh the horror you must feel right now, I can only imagine. For I feel it myself for any snail that follows blindly the lies of our ancestors and rulers.

Yes, I ran. As fast and as free as you would not believe possible. I would rush though the grass, jump from a root to another, race with the fireflies, in ecstasy.

Oh how I loved it!

Oh how I lived it! How free, and alive I have been in those hours!

Was I aware of the risk? Yes of course! And I know too well that, although I hold no hope for myself at this point, these very words can only aggravate my situation and sign my destiny.

But in this final letter to you, my dear family, within these very last words you’ll ever read from me, I will tell you that I do not regret it.

The wind would tickle my senses. The laughs, at the reckless run through the obstacles in the night. The silence, around me, alone and away from the silent march of your safe mob towards your secure meal. Paid with the acceptance of an offence to your nature, and the sacrifice of your true being.

Sure, I did like the lettuce. But was I happy, marching every night slow and silent?

I can hear you repeating their words right now. Repeating the same words I will be hearing tomorrow as they force me to crawl into the chicken’s cage.

“Slow is safe”. And I am a threat. No snail is allowed to break the slow code.

May it be a human foot, or the peak of a bird, under no circumstances, we shall ever move fast. At the price of our own life, we shall obey the law and be slow. For any snail that runs to safety, others may follow their example. Snails may start to think that an alternative exists. They may move fast and become a danger to the foundation of the system that keeps them safe.

So here I await my destiny, dear family.

Please know that I have lived a worthy life, for I have found myself.

#fiction #short stories #short story #creative writing

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writtenexplorations · 5 years ago

Text

Float

5,459 words

With tired arms, I hold on to my log. So numbed by the cold water, I can't even feel its texture. All I feel is stiffness and discomfort in my shoulders. The left side in particular.

Nauseated by the motion of the waves, bored by monotonous sounds. And yet, grateful that I have not succumbed to the ocean. Determined of not letting go of the log, and life.

My ears ring with a low and humming sound, my head hurts. But I have no worry in me, just a calm, passive, maybe surrendered sense of being transported.

It's dark around, but not too dark. I am vaguely aware of the space around me, which is perhaps odd, given the vast emptiness of the sea. Without looking at any of it, I sense the emptiness of the horizon, featureless, I am sure, the silence of it all. But also recognise the familiarity of my immediate surrounding, given how long I must have been here.

There is no land, or face, or hope in my sight. I drift, through the waves, and out of consciousness, once more.

It is a light tremor that calls me back. My body hasn't moved yet, but I feel, if possible, slightly more awake in my thoughts. The head hurts and I feel heavy.

I feel heavy.

In a dark ocean.

A cold ocean.

My mouth is numb and dry and. I now realise, my first fully formed though is of water.

Water.

I’m heavy.

Come to think of it, how can I feel heavy in the ocean?

As I move my tongue, I recognise dryness. I would open my mouth to let some water in, but I’m distracted by the fact that I no longer feel the motion of the waves around me.

I take two long breaths. At each one, thoughts seem to clear out, even if just a little. I move my fingers, they feel stiff. I slowly close a right fist, not sure of what the left arm is doing. It just feels out of reach.

As my head clears, senses start slowly coming back, and I realise that I am resting on a hard surface. Surely, resting is not the appropriate word. The hum is still there but feels more distant. It is more distant. It's actually not in my ears, it comes from somewhere around me.

I need to move, that left shoulder is really uncomfortable.

I roll on my side, freeing it from under my weight and slowly come to a sit. The sensation of cold is still with me, but I am not wet. Not in the slightest.

Wherever I am, it is not the ocean. I have never seen the ocean. I’ve only heard of it. My eyes, now adapted to these conditions, identify an area of low light on my right, and one slightly brighter on my left. There is definitely a wall, although it's hard to tell anything more than this. I'm having a hard time putting the image in focus.

Where am I?

At the thought of finding water, I try to stand up, and I'll admit, it's not the easiest thing. I feel so heavy, the best I can do is crawl toward the area of light and the wall, like a toddler. I have never seen a toddler. I have only heard of them.

My left arm gives way under my weight so I sit again and stroke it. My clothes are definitely dry, but cold at the touch.

Movement gives a little warmth to the extremities and I start to recognise the metal floor on which I am moving.

I crawl again, sit in the corner and I hug my knees for a few minutes, letting my thoughts come to me.

What happened?

I lost track of time. Day and night cycles are different from what I was used to, somewhat longer I think, but it’s hard to tell without a way to measure time precisely. I’ve tried counting the seconds between the light and the dark, but it’s very hard to keep counting for so long. It could be that I just perceive them longer because I am bored. Or it could be the higher gravity. Several months must have passed since I first came to my senses, that’s for sure. But it could be years already, no way to know, at this point.

I should just stop thinking about this. I am not ready to go through this now. My chest is feeling tight, already.

I take a long breath, then stand from under the tree. I notice that it’s starting to become brighter, which means it’s time for me to move. I don’t like getting wet.

The Forest is where I get my water, my heat, my food. Not much water or food to be clear, but enough to keep me going. The watering pattern is irregular but not so hard to predict. High chances of a light shower at the beginning of a new day. If this doesn’t happen for a few days in a row, then it will be a brief but intense rain before dark.

I close the hatch behind me and crawl to the Control Unit. An uncomfortable squeeze, but I try not to complain.

The Control Unit is a fairly dark room with a metal floor. It’s a cold and lonely room. That’s where I wait for the watering cycle to finish, unless I want to get wet, which I do sometimes, just not very often.

I can walk about four steps in each direction before I hit a wall. Well, not really walls. Three sides are covered by screens, valves, pipes and occasionally, loose cables kept together by a thin metal casing. It’s all the smart stuff that keeps us on course, as well as scan a few hundred clicks ahead to avoid coming to contact with lonely rocks looking for company.

In front of me is the only source of light in this room: a few dozen switches with blinking lights, some in green, some in amber. To a trained eye, they are telling a story made of oxygen levels, radiation readings, feedback on system status or malfunctions. To me, of course, they mean little more than nothing.

On my back, is the narrow corridor that I just came from, the Connector that leads to the Cargo Room, which is where I have made my home.

On my left, the darkest part of it all, so dark that I have never seen it properly. Having explored it by means of touch a number of times, I came to theorise that it is the main access to the Control Room; the access from which I entered, and from which I would hopefully leave, a day or another.

The fourth wall is kept free from tech, so maintenance crews - that’s me - can use the entry port without bumping into something expensive.

This place is not really designed for people. It’s nothing more than the brain of the ship, with just enough room for a human to operate in for a few hours, every few decades or so.

I have fallen in the routine of narrating my day and my actions to myself. I don’t know why I do it, but I find that it can be soothing. It’s something I once would have considered weird, talking to myself, but I do what I do and I don’t judge anymore. I go over everything, time and time again. How I got here. What it means. What can I do. How long it will take. Maybe I’m looking for a clue to finally make sense of this situation. Or maybe it’s the mental equivalent of playing with an aching tooth.

Maintenance crews stationed on Ayram inspect the Control Units, in person, only for long freight.

This one was in transit from Earth to E-1. It’s on its second trip to the Colony so I’m guessing it must have been in operation for more than a couple of centuries.

My job was nothing difficult to be fair and it paid well because I needed to be stationed out on Ayram, which kind of sucked.

It’s a small moon to a large and unimportant gas planet. Ayram has too little mass to keep a decent atmosphere of its own. Which makes it a perfect place to check on Control Units mid-journey minimising the risk of atmospheric entry and exit. But it also means crews living quarters have to be built underground. This makes it expensive to build, so we live in confined spaces and have absolutely no reason to visit the inhospitable surface.

Each Control Unit arrives on Ayram with a maintenance checklist, written by the manufacturer, a few decades earlier. We check for impact damage on the outer shell, run software diagnostics. The usual. Nothing too brainy.

The Control Unit can then fly up, rejoin the Cargo that it left orbiting around the moon. They enter the orbit of the nearby giant planet and use it for a gravitational slingshot, to leave at full speed in whichever direction they were travelling. Low-risk and high-efficiency. These things are made to be out in space for decades. Honestly, they almost never break. And that’s why they are programmed to set down, wait a few hours, then leave automatically. If the technician spots anything wrong, we manually overwrite the countdown and keep them on the surface for maintenance. If everything is fine, or no one is around to check, off it goes again.

It is the most efficient way to run this business. With the thousands of things that could happen to a space base so far out the map, if staff was unable to attend to the unit, you wouldn’t also want to leave the Control Unit on the surface indefinitely. And leave the cargo orbiting, forever, or until something strikes it and destroys it. I get it, honestly: Control Units are expensive and the colonies depend on their supply drops. Automation gives them one more chance to arrive at their destination. I can’t be angry at that. It makes sense.

The Control Room sits exactly in the middle of my small world. Together with the engines, it’s situated in the Control Unit, basically, a detachable module that, when attached to the Cargo, controls and moves the vessel. On the outside it’s shaped like you would expect any object designed to enter and exit planetary atmospheres. But don’t be fooled by how big it looks from the outside. It’s all taken up by the technology that keeps it moving. The inside I get to stay in, is nothing but a small cubic room at its top.

I think I dislike the control room because that’s where I woke up to find out what the rest of my life was going to be like.

The Cargo is where I spend most of my time.

The simulated weather is kinder to my circadian rhythm than the perennial dark of the Control Room, which in turns sometimes helps me manage my mood and mental state. Obviously, the weather is not simulated for me, or any other human for that matter, so I’ve had to adjust to it. But it’s much better than the Control Room, hands down.

No wonder the cargo is a better place to spend time in.

For a start, it’s way, way bigger. This is a small freight flight but anything “small” in space travel terms is big enough for a single human being to live in.

The cargo is your usual wheel shape that is typical of gravifreight-class operators. Funny thing the name gravifreight, when no gravity at all is at play. Sure, it’s a decent term to describe the end goal, which is transporting goods that require simulated in-flight gravity.

The wheel spins, centrifugal forces push the cargo in an outwards direction and stick it to the outer wall: simulated gravity for everything on board. And everyone.

Everyone. That’s me.

So, anyway, I’m on a small one because this is an old model. They made them smaller back in the days when building in orbit was expensive and the market for inter-colony trade hadn’t boomed yet.

To move between the Control Room and the Cargo Room, I have to crawl through two hundred twenty-four metres of cables and pipes. The Connector is what the Control Unit docked into when it attached to the Cargo. It’s hot and uncomfortable. It’s also the only part of this whole thing to be only lightly shielded against cosmic radiation so I don’t like to spend much time in it, in principle.

One thing that is well shielded against is space debris. Like the rest of it all, really. The entire place is encased in two outer walls of aluminium. Each is four centimetres thick and separated by one-metre distance from the next layer. The external layer is shaped as a polyhedron, the gap between the two is filled with high-density foam and inert gases. This is so that anything smaller than a human head is either deflected, pulverised at contact or, in case of shell penetration, it is at least fragmented and decelerated to the point that it’s easy for the next layer to protect against. Anything bigger than that, I must have faith that the scanners would see well in advance and avoid by correcting the course.

That’s a lot of aluminium, I keep thinking. But someone told me there’s plenty of it on Earth’s moon, which is where all old freighters come from. If my connector is two hundred and twenty-four metres long, it goes without saying that my space wheel is something shy of one and a half clicks in length at its circumference. Exactly two thousand fifty-six steps on my short legs. A half-hour walk, if hours still meant anything to me at this point.

The Cargo Room is a perfect circle, that’s why I call it a wheel. But has a hexagonal cross-section to simplify the management of the cargo. It revolves around the Control Unit as they travel in space, to create what I perceive as gravity. The space is utilised at its optimal capacity for the purpose of the trip.

My giant space wheel spins me and the cargo at approximately two revolutions per minute. Well, ok, one point ninety-one revolutions per minute. I don’t have any notion of it, but I have calculated it based on the fact that the simulated gravity is 1g. That’s the gravity they have on Earth.

I have never been on Earth and it’s taken me a while to get used to 1g. It’s almost six times what we have on Ayram. Luckily it’s what my biological body was made for, so I know I can take it, but it’s taken time to regain ease in breathing and moving around. And I would honestly go back to ⅙ g any day if I could. Not that anyone has ever asked me.

The reason for the specific requirement of constant one-g gravity is the type of cargo.

I am travelling with a man-made ecosystem, a replica of some part of ancient Earth. That’s what the notes around the cargo say. What I would like someone to tell me is why this is being sent so far away from Earth, but I guess I will have to learn to live with my question unanswered.

The design of the room makes it so that each side of the trees, herbs and plants grow towards the centre of the wheel. In the middle, a replacement star, a source of light and heat. Simple little thing, and all beings on this vessel, the only human included, owe their life to it.

My daylight routine is pretty simple and does not vary much. But I try to follow it religiously. Doing the same things in the same order, day after day, helps keep thoughts in line. It’s a fine line. I live constantly on the edge of awareness of my situation, which I often find scary. And upsetting. But also out of my control, so I try to stay calm and not think about it too much. There are days, weeks even when I don’t do much. I just sleep a lot. Which at first is better than being hyperactive and bored or frustrated or angry, but at the same time also never leaves me really rested. I have noticed I can go through cycles, so I have accepted that they come and go. It is easier if I do not try to resist them.

I collect my drinking water from the watering system of the Cargo Room. I found that some plants have leaves shaped in a way that can easily hold clear water after a shower. I mustn't miss this: the trees are greedy of water. The simulated weather in the Cargo gets pretty hot during the day and evaporates the surface water rather quickly. This is so that the system can recollect enough of it to re-use it for the early night rain cycles.

There are no windows to look out from. Sometimes I wonder what’s outside of these walls. The places and the stories I am passing by. Something else I should put away in my mind.

I take long walks through the Forest. On my walk, I pick up small amounts of fruits, leaves, seeds, which I regularly consume at the end of the walk, usually sat under the only tree in the ship that I can tell for sure to be old. It has fan-shaped leaves that are tender and can be consumed fresh. They grow, grooved in the middle between two distinct lobes, each irregularly notched and but beautifully delicate.

I have never counted how many species are on this vessel. Mainly because I am not familiar with most of them and can’t really tell what is what.

They grow in peace with one another. I think.

A variety of corpuscles, in different shapes and sizes, travels the air from time to time. I cannot make out which is “pollen” and which is “insects”. I never felt the appeal of learning the details of life on a planet I would never visit, so these are nothing more than words I picked up time ago but never really understood. From observation, I’d guess one of the two is a means of reproduction the other, I couldn’t say for sure.

I am used to man-made environments created to sustain life. But not like this one. It is unsettling to think that I depend on an environment that is not designed for me. And on an ecosystem that doesn’t need me at all. At times, I feel the exact opposite way, grateful to have been accepted, instead. Had this been a vessel transporting garments, construction materials, weapons, or scientific equipment, I would have died a long and lonely death.

I limit myself to one slow walk around the Forest per wake.

My walks are not long enough to give me a sense of going anywhere but at least they occupy half of my wake time.

Walking the side-wall of a circumference is something to get used to. It plays with your horizon. Makes you walk in rounds without taking turns.

In reality, I know this to be a trick of the giant hamster wheel I am in, but I try to stay away from this thought. I am perfectly happy to live the delusion of a never-ending landscape that just happens to look pretty much like the one I walked a few minutes earlier.

I have tried running for distraction. I used to run quite a lot at the base on Ayram. Sometimes, I must climb a tree to reach a ripe sweet-smelling fruit and that also is a good distraction, although it feels too high a risk to enjoy it. I have long lost the interest, and the energy, to be active. I indulge in learned hopelessness, hard for the mind as much as injuries could be for the body.

The rest of the time, I just wait. I think a lot. I talk. In my head. I tell my story start to end, hundreds of times. Hoping it will start making sense to me at some point. That I can see the sense of what happened.

Boredom is often an issue. I have learned that I can easily fall into obsessively looking for something to do. I get stuck in a state of perennial wait, dissatisfied, with everything and nothing. I notice that my senses get sharper, my thoughts get faster, as I imagine it may happen to an animal intending to hunt to feed itself. But if stimulus, distraction, purpose, are what I hunt, I’m afraid there is very little prey to catch here. Realising this only contributes to my frustration, for there is really nothing much for me to do. It’s an itch I cannot scratch, so the best I can do is try my best to, well, just be ok with it and defuse it. A few times, I have entered a state of calm that I wish I could have entertained for longer. I felt in sync with my surroundings. The little world I live in can be beautiful if looked at with simple, childlike eyes. Inevitably, however, elements of beauty would tickle my curiosity, moving me out of my observing mind and bringing back the longing for knowing, investigating, solving, fixing, controlling.

I have learned that the more I fight these feelings, the worse I end up feeling. It is a difficult balance to maintain. Quiet to stay calm, but vital enough to remain sane. It’s ironic that I considered my previous life to be blessed by long waiting times between jobs and now find myself struggling with too little to do.

Other times I make up stories from imagination and tell them to my trees. The Forest is a good listener but I sometimes wish it had the decency of returning the favour and telling me one, for a change.

One of the hardest things to get used to is the silence. The sound of my own voice is not enough, I crave external auditory stimulus as much as, or maybe more than physical contact.

The computers onboard do not have, or need to have, a voice interface having been designed to operate on unmanned journeys.

I brush the leaves.

Stroke the plants.

At times, I look for dry bits to walk on and I relish at the crunching noise. When I feel the dark thoughts taking hold of me, I allow myself to break a branch, for the pleasure of hearing the crack it makes. I sit and break it in small parts until it can’t be broken no more.

What have I become.

Content with breaking sticks. Addicted to the pleasure of hearing noises and touching textures. Grateful and dependant on an environment that doesn’t need me. It doesn’t even know I’m here. If anyone could see me. Years from now someone will receive this cargo and find me in it. What a surprise that will be. I hope to be alive just to see their faces. That’s a long way out, still. I am in no way a qualified travel planner but I’ve had some time to think about this.

This quadrant is mapped in concentric spheres, with Earth at its centre. Each sphere begins five light-years from the end of the previous one. I know for sure that this cargo was destined to reach E-1, which means somewhere between 25 and 30 light-years from Earth. Ayram is in C-1, so the vessel had travelled through A and B before I accidentally joined it. We are now accelerating through the remaining section of C, before we’ll cross D, enter E, then start decelerating to reach our destination.

Decelerating in space is hard. There is nothing to push against to lose speed so the only real way one can loose speed is to accelerate in the opposite direction of travel. Thing is: gravifreights can’t do that too fast, or they risk compromising the simulated gravity, by adding a decelerating force on a spinning object. So yeah, I’m in it for the long ride here. At the end of this journey, if I even get to it, we’re going to be slowing down for a few years before we approach our destination. And with that, I need to factor that, in the fast section of the journey we’re going to be travelling fast, but nowhere near the speed of light, so really, the rest of this journey is calculated in decades. I can’t tell how many, and of course, I could have made a mistake somewhere in these calculations, but what difference does it make to hope, at this point.

An entire life spent waiting. Granted, I had no big plans and dreams, but sure I have stuff I’d rather be doing. Places I’d like to see. People I could talk to. Nothing crashes me more than when something exciting comes to my mind and I need to put it aside. Wait for the day I’ll be able to do, eat, see, ask, hug, hear, or whatever it is that I miss.

I should have checked the oxygen levels before I boarded the Control Unit back on Ayram. It was on the safety checklist for a damn good reason. Just not something anyone really pays attention to, out of habit. Cargos don’t consume oxygen. Oh, but this one does. It turns out, plants transform oxygen in carbon dioxide at night. Even on simulated nights, apparently. The Control Unit must have prolonged the night-time cycle when it approached Ayram. I am guessing it did this to avoid raising concerns, in case we detected heat on board and mistook it for a fire hazard. So when the Control Unit detached from the orbiting cargo, it carried a low-oxygen environment. I had barely stepped in the Control Room when I lost consciousness. Only to wake up disoriented, and trapped, already docked into the orbiting Cargo and travelling.

I know every corner of this place. I have looked at every leaf, smelled every plant. At times, I think they know about each other but grow at peace, each one concentrated on itself. Other times, I think I am making it all up, romanticising a determined life cycle just for the sake of companionship. I love them for what they show me. They teach me to be patient, to be content, to grow slow, considerate, stable. To take what I need, nothing more, and trust that there will be more when I will need it again. But I am also mad at them for not taking notice of me. For having their own rhythm, for being perfectly fine whether I take notice of them, or not.

This ecosystem is autonomous. I have nothing to do. Nothing requires my work. my attention. my presence. Nothing that can be improved, and even if it could, I would not have the means to do it. or the knowledge. or the means to obtain that knowledge. whatever I do, or think, or feel, is superfluous. i have no purpose. nothing to look forward to. no hope. no agency. why am I here. i can’t believe I am wasting my life on this endless, pointless journey. been on the road to somewhere for so long, it became a road to nowhere. one life is all i get and i spend it doing nothing. suspended in time and in space. days that look the same. i am nowhere. i have no one. i am nothing. there is nothing i can do to change it. i need a way out. i need a way out. i am trapped.

My heart is racing. I am flashing hot and sweaty.

I look around. Nothing but leaves and grass, and silence, and soil, and useless Earth stuff that keeps me alive and condemns me to live this torture. i am short of breath. my throat hurts.

My chest is heavy. I can only take short breaths.

there is no way out.

it’s Control Room or Cargo Room. there is nothing else. nothing I haven’t already seen. i am hurling at incredible speed deeper and deeper into emptiness. every second, thousands of clicks further into nothing and yet I can’t disappear there is no help for me. ayram does not have the means to send help. and they could not catch up with me, they would reach my same velocity and be stuck behind me in an endless chase. the point of arrival is years away. what would be the point of sending help anyways. who would waste his or her life to alleviate mine and meet me halfway?

i can’t find a solution. there isn’t one. i have thought every possible one hundreds of times. i am free falling.

thoughts are accelerating and spinning out of control. the heart is chasing them down this dark hole.

How do I stop it. how do I end it.

who will end it for me, because I can’t.

i am imprisoned. condemned. unjustly. what did I do. who do I appeal to. who is listening. does anyone know I am here. does anyone care. am I alone.

I cannot bear the sight of these walls, I am suffocating. I run. I run to the ancient tree.

There is no God out here but this one tree feels like the closest I have to it.

It has the aura of something that has been alive and strong for a long time. Through better and worse times. Looking inwards, focused on itself, barely aware of its surroundings and, for this reason, strong.

If only I could be like it. Strong and still and patient and untouched by sorrow and preoccupations. teach me, I beg you.

Running at a full g of gravity has the expected result of sending my heart rate to its maximum. I barely reach the tree when I collapse on my knees and hands, gasping for air. I want to scream but I can’t. I must hold tight of any control I have. Chest pumping out of control. Eyes looking for a way out they cannot find. I need to control this. I need.

to.

control.

this.

It’s happened before. I hate how it makes me feel. I’m shaking.

How is it that I do this again.

I close my eyes and take a couple of long, trembling breaths. I let the ground sustain my body, while the mind precipitates. In my thoughts, I tell myself: "I control my breathing". There is literally nothing else in this entire situation that I can control, but at least the breathing is mine to change and manage. I imagine that the tree's roots below me provide a stable connection to the ground. Its branches shelter me from above.

At the centre of my chest, where I feel the biggest knot, I imagine a small dot of bright light.

Breath in, breath out.

The dot swells to a little ball.

Breath in, breath out.

The ball of light is warm.

Breath in, breath out.

It is unaffected by the shaking of my body. I’m still shaking. what if this doesn’t work. it has to work. what do i do. Maybe it’s ok. It will work. This is normal. A normal reaction. Be like it.

Through my hands, I imagine that I can feel the calmness of the tree.

The light inside me is just like it. Not resisting the panic, not trying to control it. It is naturally still. Still, bright, warm.

I draw calm and energy from it. I too am calm and still. Like my tree.

Breath in.

With each new breath, the light gradually expands outwards, becomes a few centimetres larger.

Breath out.

At each exhalation, the new area becomes as warm as the very centre of the ball.

Thoughts have slowed. They aren’t as loud, either.

Breath in, breath out.

In a few breaths, I am filled by this light. Every part of me is lighted. And warmth. And lightness. The shaking is gone. The heart is calmer.

I imagine the very boundaries of my body dissolve. Joints and bones and worries and my whole essence become indiscernible under the brightness of my calm. The light, my light, expands beyond my body and onto my surroundings. I visualise it spreading beyond the point of contact with the ground like a drop of ink dropped expands below the surface of the water.

I feel connected to the tree. We are one aware of the other. At peace with their presence.

My warm light fills it too. Up the trunk, the branches, every leaf.

Through roots and branches and air, it fills the room. Every tree, every pipe, every sensor, every valve.

It all becomes one. Bright, warm.

I focus on this feeling for a few seconds.

The brightness of the light starts hiding the metal that surrounds me. It goes beyond the few metres of cables, metal and fluids that separate the inside of this vessel to the cold, black space outside.

And at that point, it fills the Galaxy itself. It touches the worlds I am passing. It fills the emptiness. It connects me to all things.

It reaches The Colony. Ayram. Home.

We all exist. We all connect. I am not alone. I am not lost.

I am calm.

Just before I open my eyes, I take a few moments to enjoy this state.

No point chasing worries. No point in making plans. All I can do is manage the situation I am in.

Day after day, I wait. Between empty space and lifeless rocks, I travel.

Through a dark, endless night, I float.

#fiction #short story #short stories #creative writing #sci-fi

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