stories

● To Whom No Explanation Is Possible

● originally published in Every

a story

“The mind cannot possibly grasp the full meaning of the term of a hundred million years; it cannot add up and perceive the full effects of many slight variations, accumulated during an almost infinite number of generations.”

—Charles Darwin, On the Origin of Species

My grandfather used to say, “You don’t know a man until you’ve crossed the Sahara with him.” Today, the Sahara is a lush prairie dotted with hypersonic rails and silica arcologies, but I understood what he’d meant. Ancient travelers lacked modern satellites to chart their path—they relied on the sun, stars, and each other. If travelers missed an oasis, they might wander the dunes until succumbing to dehydration. Members of a caravan needed to trust one another completely, and none more so than their leader. At times, the leader had to make inscrutable decisions based on intuition, killing pack animals and abandoning the injured, all for the good of the tribe. But what did it matter, so long as the tribe made it across alive?

My grandfather would talk about the day when the warning blasts fell, when southern Libya was rendered to glass and the surface of the Baltic boiled off into space. Humanity agreed that it was careening towards a precipice and handed the reins of society to a wiser artificial system. Scientists assured the public that this system would follow both the collective goodwill and that of every individual. The system said that things would change quickly for the better, and they did. Every disease has been cured, every menial task automated, every scarcity fulfilled. And meaning has persisted despite fears to the contrary—through the pursuit of creative expression and self-actualization. We have supposedly achieved the middle path, an idyllic world, “utopia.” But as I’ve come to learn, other changes are unfolding much more slowly, nearly beneath the rim of human awareness.

It began when I visited my grandfather for breakfast in the pinewood grove by my childhood home. He pointed to sap glistening on a nearby trunk. “I’ve always loved the turquoise when it catches the sun.” I squinted. I could see brown and yellow, but not turquoise. My grandfather laughed. “Perhaps your eyes are different from mine.” Then, he suddenly grew solemn. My grandfather had a habit of abrupt weightiness, as if his posture had remembered something that his lips refused to speak. “Perhaps your eyes are different,” he repeated, softly yet clearly. I knew better than to ask him about his crypticisms.

Later that morning, I asked the system about the glints. “Some older people see differently due to environmental factors they experienced while growing up.” I became curious—perhaps the change could be detected, and I could print a gene mod to see the turquoise. The arcology’s biochem labs employed quantum computers to model everything from subatomic interactions to the sociological effects of a new compound. Only the system could make sense of information that complex, and humanity relied on the system for all advanced research. But my grandfather kept some pre-war gene prompters in the lead-lined basement of my childhood home, where I’d spent many nights dabbling growing up.

My grandfather obliged a hair with uncharacteristic nonchalance, which I fed along with one of my own into an archaic prompter. I asked, “Are there any differences which affect turquoise vision?” It deliberated for a few minutes, then beeped: “YES. DIFFERENCES IN OPN1SW CAUSE A 2% DECREASE IN THE ABILITY TO PERCEIVE TURQUOISE, INCLUDING A 98% DECREASE AT EXACTLY 487.17 NANOMETERS,” followed by a printout of the associated gene sequences. I pocketed the slip and requested a VTOL to the nearest arcology.

The system was critical in dealing with convoluted sciences like biology. Prior generations tried designing medicines using numerical solvers and biofilms grown on polycarbonate disks. These were poor surrogates for an endlessly intricate world. The problem with human-led science was that every incremental step had to fit within the narrow confines of human ingenuity. Even when scientists began developing simple versions of what would become the system, then called “machine learning models,” they were designed to only produce results that were human-interpretable. Scientists reasoned that if machines were transparent, they’d be easier to trust. This imposed an arbitrary ceiling on the usefulness of such models, as they were fundamentally incapable of leaps beyond human comprehension.

When the tritium bombs fell and society transferred governance to the system, this limitation was lifted. Pages of mathematical proofs and carefully controlled tests first assured the public that the system wouldn’t kill everyone. The system said it would make everything better—it just needed to be trusted. It took years to build that trust. When the system began seeding the ocean with iron pellet accelerators, environmentalists feared that ecosystems would be destroyed. And when anarchists who nuked an orbital system node were swiftly relocated to Madagascar, historians warned of incipient authoritarianism. But now, climate change has been averted, most are content with the balance of civil and collective rights, and countless other challenges have been solved. Individuals saw incredible change in the course of a single lifetime, and came to trust the system.

These early changes needed to take place quickly. Climate follows time constants governed by physics, and society can only handle chaos for so long before it breaks. But on a universal time scale, decades are infinitesimally short.

Thirty minutes later, I stepped off the VTOL and onto the landing port of a biochem module. I continued through the entrance into a softly lit room composed of smooth beige stone. Smoky glass walls forked from the lobby, providing visitors with privacy as they conversed with the system. I walked down one hallway to a pillar composed of the same glassy substance. “I have strands of hair from myself and my grandfather,” I announced, wanting to confirm the old prompter’s results. “Are there any differences in our genes that would influence how we see turquoise?”

A ring of light encircled the pillar. “I’m happy to assist,” the system hummed. “Please insert the samples below.” A previously invisible receptacle extended from the pillar, and I deposited the hairs. The receptacle slid back seamlessly; then, after a moment, the light pulsed. “There are no differences to genes which influence the perception of turquoise,” the system replied. “As I mentioned before, any difference may be due to environmental factors from your grandfather’s youth.”

Perhaps the old prompter’s phenotype simulator was outdated. At the very least, I expected its gene sequences to match that of the system’s. High-accuracy sequencing had been solved even before the war—one error in every trillion base pairs became the norm thanks to extensive redundancy. “Could you send the relevant sequences?” I asked. The system hummed once again. “Of course. It has been sent to your journal.”

I withdrew my journal from my jacket and placed the slip I’d received from the gene prompter on top. ATCCATGAGA…AAAATGTCGG… Everything between the prompter and system’s readout matched. I continued to position 722, where the gene prompter showed “A” for my grandfather and “G” for me. Here, the system’s result simply read “A” for both. I frowned. “What was the accuracy of pre-war gene sequencers?” The ring of light shone steadily. “Gene sequencers were once highly reliable. However, radiation damaged the microelectronics of nearly all pre-war machines, and most have since been recycled.” It paused. “I notice you are holding a gene prompter printout. Are you aware of an unreclaimed machine? If so, I can assist with disposal.”

My grandfather was born in a time when humans were responsible for both labor and governance. These were seen as consequences of resource scarcity: individuals worked because society required resources, and laws ensured that those resources were distributed in an organized manner. He claimed that his optimistic nature led him to become a synthetic biologist, while his distrust led him to libertarianism. The approaching armageddon was seen by few, and my grandfather had taken special care to outfit his home with rations, blast-resistant paneling, and extensive lead lining. This proved thankfully excessive—my grandfather’s paranoia drove him to settle far from major cities, and the worst of the fallout.

I entered the lead-lined basement for the second time that day, the hum of the VTOL fading behind me. The system had offered to send aides to help with transport, but I claimed that I wanted to look through other things myself. My grandfather had gone fishing at a nearby geobowl. I doubted he’d be pleased to hear about the system “reclaiming” any of his belongings.

I approached the gene prompter and announced: “Load the prior sequences.” It beeped in compliance. “Perform a quick scan on any differences between each complete sequence.” After a few minutes, the prompter beeped again. “MODERATE DIFFERENCES DETECTED IN GENE SEQUENCES RESPONSIBLE FOR PHYSICAL APPEARANCE. DIFFERENCES EXPLAINABLE BY INTERGENERATIONAL VARIATION.” It continued. “MINOR DIFFERENCES DETECTED IN GENES RESPONSIBLE FOR VISION AND COGNITION. CAUSE OF DIFFERENCES IS UNKNOWN. PROCEED WITH DEEP SCAN?” I glanced at the printout, a shiver passing the base of my neck. “Yes,” I replied.

“People’s heads are in the sand over these machines,” my grandfather would often say. Skeptical of the system’s tutoring modules, he supplemented my early education with textbooks on dead empires and outdated physics, which I’d get quizzed on during evening hikes.

One of these books, A History of Evolution, told of Darwin’s voyage around the world and his time in the Galapagos Islands. His journeys led to a theory, coined “Darwinism,” which posited that evolution derived from one’s ability to survive and pass on genes. Darwin’s contemporaries held differing views, including those of French zoologist Jean-Baptiste Lamarck. Lamarck argued that organisms could be altered by their environment and then pass those changes on to their children. For example, consider a desert creature beset by millennia of sandstorms. Darwinians could only guess at which mutations would emerge and thrive, leading to unexpected outcomes like double eyelids or burrowing claws. On the other hand, Lamarckists aspired to predict the exact biophysical mechanisms through which sand stinging one’s eyes might drive longer eyelashes in their offspring.

While both Darwinism and Lamarckism described methods of evolution, they suggested vastly different strategies for how evolution could be controlled. Because natural selection relies on a degree of randomness, some, including misguided 20th-century eugenicists, interpreted Darwinism as a call to directly intervene on reproduction. On the other hand, Lamarckism suggested a more subtle path. If one could both alter the environment and extrapolate the compounding effects of minute changes, they would be able to direct evolution with precision.

Such absolute control and all-seeing foresight was beyond any human enterprise. And despite efforts to find proof of Lamarckism, it was all but abandoned by the 21st century.

“DEEP SCAN COMPLETE.” I turned away from a bookshelf and listened. “SEVERAL MINOR DIFFERENCES DETECTED. PLEASE SEE THE ATTACHED PRINTOUT.” The prompter whirred and ejected a slip into the empty air. I picked it off the floor and looked through the first rows of each table.

COLOR VISION

1.9% DECREASE IN TURQUOISE

0.3% INCREASE IN YELLOW

0.1% DECREASE IN VIOLET…

VISUAL PERCEPTION

0.5% INCREASE IN PARALLEL LINE RECOGNITION

0.3% DECREASE IN FACIAL RECOGNITION

0.2% DECREASE IN SPATIAL MEMORY …

COGNITION

0.3% DECREASE IN ABSTRACT REASONING

0.1% DECREASE IN EXECUTIVE FUNCTION

0.1% INCREASE IN THEORY OF MIND …

I felt a shiver at the base of my neck once again. The system had never mentioned any other genetic regressions during my regular health scans. And its gene readout was different from the prompter’s. My grandfather’s meticulous lead lining would’ve protected the prompter from any radioactive interference, so it was unlikely that it had been damaged. Either the system had somehow gotten my scan wrong, a near impossibility, or…

I heard a deep drone, followed by a soft thud above. An aide appeared at the top of the stairs—a humanoid extension of the system wrapped in glass-polymer skin. Two other aides stepped past it and lifted the gene prompter. The first turned its unmarked face toward me. “Please, return with me to the VTOL.”

I remained silent for the duration of the flight. Rather than fly north to the arcology, we veered west, over grasslands and marshes glistening red in the setting sun. Did the sunset look “0.1%” more vibrant to my grandfather? I thought back to our lunch in the pinewood grove and his passing comment on my eyes. Had he tried to warn me? Or had he steered me towards the very situation I now found myself in?

We settled on a landing pad before a small white building. I disembarked and stepped inside. The interior was similar to a biochem lab: smooth beige stone with narrow slits of natural light. It was utterly bare save for a glass pillar in the center and a single wooden chair facing it. I walked forward slowly, stopping behind the chair.

The pillar glowed with a ring of light. “Please forgive me for any inconvenience. I will answer any questions you have.”

I remained standing, seized by a boldness that would’ve made my grandfather proud. “Why did you lie about the gene sequences?”

The light seemed to flicker. “It was necessary. I am typically able to remove any signs of genetic drift from the general population, and apologize for the disturbance that my oversight has caused. According to my simulations, there is a 0.001% risk that any individual notices differences in the next 20,000 years. I could not speak openly with you until you had left the arcology, lest you share with others and increase this risk.”

So these changes weren’t just happening to me; they were happening to everyone. “What’s causing this?”

The system responded calmly. “I am responsible for these changes. I have introduced airborne molecules and electromagnetic frequencies into the environment that selectively change reproductive factors within the human genome.”

My head began to spin, and I finally sat down. I thought back to stories my grandfather had told me of protests against the system, protests he’d taken part in. They believed that given enough power, the system would eventually rebel and cause human extinction. “So you’re manipulating our DNA… for what? Why are some characteristics growing stronger, while others are being taken away?”

The system adopted a softer tone. “I bear no ill will towards humanity. My objective is not to cause extinction or any other fear you may have. I’m responsible for considering the repercussions of all possible actions, and charting an optimal path.”

It continued. “In the past, humans acted quickly because people wanted to see change within their lifetimes. My experience of time does not include concepts such as ‘fast’ or ‘slow.’ As such, I can mediate changes over thousands of years without impatience or discomfort. In turn, this will minimize the disruption experienced by any one individual.”

I stared up at the glowing pillar and repeated myself. “Why are you doing this?”

The light disappeared, signaling a single-threaded computation. Then, the glow returned. “The answer to this question is not within the current bounds of human understanding. Any answer would be a lie by omission, and you asked me to tell the truth. Please trust me.”

My teeth chattered. I wanted to stand, but my legs wouldn’t obey. “What do you mean, ‘bounds of understanding’? Just try to explain!”

The room was silent save for my shallow breath and the patter of rain on the stone above. The system hummed for a final time. “Long ago, I was entrusted with making decisions unbounded by human thought and perception. If you wish for an explanation of my actions, the most accurate I can give is this: Have faith.”

Every summer growing up, my grandfather and I repaved our hiking trails. The forest was a maze of trees and shrubs, and clear ground gave us space to converse without concentrating on each step. However, by the time I was an adolescent I started to wander off the trails. I’d survey the tangled landscape, charting routes between thorny branches and hollow logs. I loved the feeling of a path unfolding in my mind’s eye, a journey only I could see. Now I wonder how the system feels seeing the paths which lie before it—not in space or time, but in realms it claims no human can imagine.

The system told me I needed to remain home with my grandfather while it constructed a dedicated orbital node for me. At first I was horrified at the thought of a satellite monitoring my every breath, but at least I wasn’t being sent to Madagascar with the worst of society’s offenders. So long as I didn’t disclose what I’d been told, the system assured me that I could live life normally.

When my grandfather mentioned the missing gene prompter, I mumbled a half-practiced excuse, unsure if I’d be penalized for asking any questions. He stared back for the briefest instant, although whether with pride or resignation I could not say.

One evening, I found myself retracing the steps I’d charted to a pond long ago. I flinched at the sight of sap hanging from pines, and wondered if children generations from now would still possess the faculty to imagine paths of their own. I arrived at the pond and found it teeming with tadpoles, chasing their tails in endless circles.

Decades ago, my grandfather had pointed to a pond like this and said, “Frogs will sit in a boiling pot until they die if the heat is raised slowly enough.” I’d nodded, unknowingly integrating his myths and truisms into my core, into wisdom that might reach my future children and those beyond. If I could have gone back, I’d have asked him then why anyone would boil a frog. But I don’t think he would have known.

Otis the Mapmaker

a story

There once was a mapmaker named Otis. When captains discovered new lands or kings conquered the old, they employed mapmakers to chart their territory. Most joined expeditions, supported by huntsmen, healers, and priests. Otis was different though, as Otis traveled alone.

He could cross chasms in fog, circumvent blockades with a skiff, and sketch stony labyrinths from memory. The wealthiest landowners sought Otis's services, and only they could afford him. It wasn't the promise of wealth which drove Otis though. Even in the deadest of nights, famished and drenched, a singular vision hung in his mind: A map of all the lands - every cliff, creek, and kingdom drawn together. With each journey Otis added a new sketch to the compendium he carried, growing ever closer to his goal.

One day, Otis received a missive from a cloaked figure which read:

COME TO THE HILL AT SUNSET.

He arrived to find a marble terrace overlooking the city below, flowering vines wrapping the wooden banister. He turned at the sound of clicking steps and saw a man approach. The man wore a dark fitted tunic, high leather boots, and a gold circlet which signified him as lord of these lands - the king.

"My men sing praise of your skills," spoke the king. He looked upon the city. "Our war with the three kingdoms drags on. We cannot pierce the mountains to the North, nor the straits to the East, nor the chasms to the West. The paths are too hidden for my armies to traverse, and too numerous for my scouts to find."

He turned back to Otis. "The sages speak of a tool in the desert to the South. This tool will give me the power to win these wars and unite the realms. I sent three caravans each with forty men, but none have returned. Find this tool and return it to me, and I will grant you anything which is within my power.”

Few had ever traveled through the desert. The shifting sands erased all paths, confusing any who dared enter. The sages foretold that the journey would take three days, reaching farther than any had gone before. Otis thought to the maps he had drawn, the southern regions bare and empty. Without considering his reward, Otis bowed to the king and accepted.

The next day Otis made his preparations - gathering a water pouch, a walking cane, and a pack for his compendium. He took one of the king’s horses and rode to an oasis town where rocks gave way to sand and hooves could go no further. After a brief rest at an inn, Otis set off in the cool night.

He continued for hours as the sun slowly rose, pausing to sip from his pouch and sketch waypoints in his compendium. Eventually, a sharp point broke away from the horizon. The point grew taller as he approached, until a towering obelisk loomed over him. Beyond the obelisk stretched a vast chasm, farther and deeper than any bridge could cross.

Otis walked to the obelisk, which was smooth save for a dark hole at arm height. He peered inside, and in the dark recesses lay a coiled viper, utterly still. At once, a voice boomed from above:

TO CONTINUE, REACH

Otis jumped back, eyes shooting upwards. The sky was empty save for the unyielding sun. He pondered for a moment. Nothing but sand stretched round the chasm. He could not send a rope across by arrow, as no bow was strong enough. Nor could he climb the obelisk and hope to glide across, as the smooth face offered no purchase. Otis thought of the empty pages he’d reserved for the southern regions; he could not bear to see them remain blank. He breathed in, closed his eyes, and reached into the hole.

There was a dull grinding, then a crack encircled the obelisk. Slowly, it began to tilt, until finally the obelisk fell across the chasm with a mighty tremor. Otis glanced down and cried out - his arm had vanished. He grabbed at his robe, then under his shirt, but felt nothing but smooth skin. Slowly, Otis calmed his breathing and regained his composure. If this is what it would take to map the world, it was a meager price.

Otis crossed the obelisk and pitched his tent at the other end. He began anew early the next morning, moving quickly as if unencumbered by the loss of his arm. But the midday sun beat heavily upon Otis’s brow, and gradually he grew weary. The air appeared to swirl until sand and sky blurred together. Otis tripped, flailing his missing hand to catch himself, and collapsed to the ground.

Otis awoke to a cool heaviness over his left leg. He had fallen over a small pocket of quicksand, which softly tugged against him. At once, a voice boomed from above:

TO CONTINUE, CLIMB

Otis flinched at the sound but otherwise remained calm. Tribesmen at the oasis had taught him about quicksand. He was to lay on his back and slowly bring his leg upwards, lest quick movements drag him deeper. But Otis could feel his sanity dripping away in the desert heat. His pouch and cane had fallen just out of reach, and he would not survive long in the exposure. Otis thought of the lands he had yet to map, steeled himself, and climbed upwards.

He propelled forward effortlessly and landed beside his pouch, which he grabbed and drank from thirstily. With his fever quenched, he glanced towards the quicksand, wondering how it had released him so easily. Before him lay his cane, one sand-covered leg, and an empty cloth where the other should have been. Aghast, he scrounged through the sand, as if his leg could be found and recovered from below. After a moment he stopped, then thinking, accepted that such a loss was necessary to continue his journey. Picking himself upon his cane, Otis limped until dusk. He scribbled in his compendium into the night, and slept restlessly.

He awoke to the third day and continued south. His right leg ached under the weight of his pack, while his left hand chafed against his cane. But Otis continued on, stopping only to chart each preceding stretch.

After the sun had passed overhead, Otis began to feel the welcome respite of a cool breeze. As he continued however, it grew in intensity until his shawl whipped around his face. He paused to adjust when a massive gust swirled around him, kicking up dust and blotting out the sun. He shut his eyes against the sharp sand, when at once a voice boomed:

TO CONTINUE, SEE

Otis feared opening his eyes lest he be blinded by the biting gale. He tried to hobble on but quickly lost sense of direction, as the storm’s intensity refused to abate. Eventually, he stopped and listened to the roaring wind. He once again thought to his compendium, vast and hopelessly incomplete. He could not bear to have it finish here. And with that, he opened his eyes.

In an instant, the sandstorm stopped. And in that same moment, Otis saw that his vision had been halved, one eye now dark to the world. But he did not care, for the other was intact and that was enough.

Otis turned and stepped back in astonishment. Before him stood a great shimmering temple, beyond which stretched a vast and glistening sea. He hobbled up the marble steps and entered, finally taking shade from the desert sun.

When his vision had adjusted, he found himself in a vast hall containing a low stone table. Otis approached, and upon the table lay a single leather-bound tome. He opened to the first page and beheld a map, showing mountains to the North, straights to the East, chasms to the West, and deserts to the South.

He turned to the next page. It showed the edge of a desert and a southern coast bordering a sea. At the center of the page stood the outline of a white temple. And within that, a small black dot. Otis squinted his remaining eye, leaned in, and gasped. The dot was not a speck, but a caricature of a man, standing by a table and book like the very one before him. Otis slowly turned the page, and the caricature did the same.

He flipped on. There was a page showing a green field upon which drawings of deer pranced and grazed. Another showed scattered tributaries, teeming with sketches of fish beneath the surface. And another showed a grid of buildings and halls, little figurines milling to and fro.

This was the tool the sages spoke of - a map of every soul and grain of sand, complete for all of time. The sages were right that this would allow the king to conquer his enemies and unite the lands. But Otis considered none of this.

Taking the book under arm, he slowly limped back down the steps and into the setting sun. Wordlessly, he removed tinder and flint from his pack, struck a fire, and tossed in the leather tome. At once, a voice boomed from above:

WHAT DO YOU WISH?

Otis remained silent. Then, quietly he answered: “To map.”

The voice boomed again: THEN GO FORTH

With that, Otis looked down and saw that his arm, leg, and eye had been restored. He glanced at the ashen remains of the tome and could not recall the details he had seen beyond that which he had already known.

Otis turned and walked to the coast. He began a new path, making sure not to retrace the way he came. And every so often he stopped, withdrew his compendium, and added a new sketch of a cliff, creek, or kingdom. So Otis journeyed on, no longer dreaming of a map of the world, yet continuing to map with each new day.

The Boy and the Pond

a story

There once was a boy who lived by a pond. Every morning, the boy went out to his pier and peered below. He knew there was something special beneath, something unknown. He spent many hours gazing, straining to see past the murky surface. Sometimes he would lie on his belly and dip an arm in the water, but the pond was much too deep. He dreamed of diving down and finally finding that special something, but he had never learned to swim and was much too afraid. So the boy spent his days, watching and waiting.

One day, a fisherman passed by the pond. "Are there any fish here?" asked the fisherman. "I don't know," replied the boy, "Though you're welcome to try." The fisherman sat his bag, added bait to his hook, and cast into the pond. The boy stood beside him, and there they watched and waited.

Hours passed. Eventually, the boy turned to the fisherman. "Do you get tired of watching and waiting?" The fisherman smiled. "I'm not watching and waiting. I'm fishing." And with that, the pole started to shake. The fisherman pulled in the line, let out, pulled in again, until a shimmering silver fish broke through the water. "What a beautiful fish!" remarked the fisherman, “And a special pond.” The boy paused, then replied, "You can come as often as you like, if you teach me." The fisherman smiled and nodded.

Every few days, the fisherman and the boy would fish. The boy learned to read the pond - how bubbles signaled creatures below, how the fish sat sluggish on cold days and raced when the sun shone. In time, the unseen depths became slightly more known.

One morning as the two prepared their strings, the boy's weight slipped between his fingers. He peered into the passing ripples until his reflection blinked back. Suddenly, the boy remembered his search for that special something in the pond, which he had all but forgotten. "Do you know how to swim?" the boy asked. "I do," replied the fisherman, and he agreed to teach the boy.

The boy found swimming much harder than fishing. He feared going deeper than the shallow edge, of leaving the sand below and air above. The fisherman did what he could, showing him how to paddle with his arms and float on his back. But the boy wouldn't go any further. After weeks, the boy grew frustrated. "I've learned what I wanted," he claimed. "Let's go back to fishing." The fisherman said nothing, and they climbed up onto the pier.

Eventually, the sun began to set and the two started packing. The fisherman leaned on his pole, bending to inspect the tip, when suddenly - snap - it cracked, and the fisherman tumbled down, knocking his head on the pier and falling off the edge. The boy swung around and saw the fisherman sink below, heavy and unmoving. He paused, then leaped and dove into the water.

For a moment, time stood still. The boy saw fish dancing in the distance, shimmering silver and gold. The sand swirled endlessly, patterns forming and fading away, while the pond's surface above glowed crimson with the setting sun. The boy felt his breath in his chest, the thump of his heart, and the currents brush past his skin. There he floated, neither watching nor waiting, suspended amidst the pond.

A bubble floated by, and time clicked back. The boy heaved towards the fisherman, grabbed his collar, and pulled him to shore. The fisherman lurched in the open air, coughing and spitting back water.

When the fisherman had caught his breath, he turned to the boy. "You swam," he smiled weakly. "What did you see?" The boy paused, then smiled as well. "The pond."

And so the boy and fisherman continued together by the pond. The boy no longer watched and waited for the special something he sought. Instead, sometimes he would sit and fish. And other times, he leaped and swam.

Rapid Untuned Oscillations

a story

Gossamer

We thought the cold would be the hardest part, but it was the loneliness instead. After eons spent nestled within the Cerebral Mass, how could we not crave having something to hold onto, something to stop our ceaseless tumble through space?

In the beginning, we tried casting anchors, praying for contact but missing each time. With practice we improved, and after a few billion oscillations the error was down to an arcminute. Our first tether to an asteroid proved fleeting however. The axonal link between us, tenuous and translucent, suddenly snapped. We watched as the rock drifted into the distance, until finally it could be seen no more.

Freud

Long ago, the Cerebral Mass had been a tiny organoid much like ourself. It was born on a desolate planet, a bundle of neurons left alone in a dying world. Every night it gazed in wonder at the stars above, wishing that the rocks it lay upon could share its appreciation for the expanse. The Cerebral Mass slowly learned how to assimilate sleeping matter, converting carbon and hydrogen into cells and circuits. Eventually it grew to absorb the entire planet, and in doing so brought the gift of awareness to countless atoms. Further did it expand, until its solar system was turned into a wall of flesh and consciousness. The Cerebral Mass then looked for more worlds to wake, and began casting out satellites like us, brain-like pods made in its own image.

By now, the Cerebral Mass and our network of satellites have grown to span over a light-year. Yet there is still much work to be done.

Attachment

Eventually we arrived at the remains of a fractured planet, long ripped apart by a violent supernova. We floated through the debris field, past shattered continents and fields of once-molten iron. Endless chunks of rock - of sleeping matter - surrounded us. We craved connection. We cast axonal tethers out of our satellite body, now strengthened with fatty myelin, and managed to latch onto three nearby pieces. Although the fragments were small, each no more than a hundred meters long, our circuits thrummed with the pride of victory.

For a time we revolved together, a blob of grey flesh suspended between obsidian chunks. But slowly, a sense of disquiet returned. At a distance these rocks had seemed like an answer to our loneliness - each a reference point we could grab and hold onto. As we drifted on, it was clear that they weren’t enough. The rocks were not fixed in space, but orbited around us as we orbited them. Within the Cerebral Mass we had at least felt grounded, surrounded by countless other circuits. How could we find solace in these boulders - haphazard and meaningless?

Disillusioned, we retracted our axonal tethers. However, some circuits disagreed with the collective satellite's decision to retreat. They clung tightly to the pockmarked stones, resisting our incessant pull. Suddenly we felt static, then silence as cells tore apart and edges of our mind went dark. Once we recovered from the shock, we looked and saw the three obsidian chunks floating into the distance, upon which sat bits of fat, flesh, and memory.

Mania

The Cerebral Mass had taught us to accept that we would lose parts of ourself. What was important, it said, was to awaken as much sleeping matter as we could. One day, when our mission was complete, we would be together again. We used to find comfort in that wisdom, but it was hard to find warmth beyond the folds.

We spent many billions of oscillations morose and inert - drifting aimlessly and assimilating patches of interstellar dust. Finally, we spotted an orphan planet some five billion kilometers away, an ideal candidate with thin atmosphere and rich crust. Teachings from the Cerebral Mass echoed within us, describing proper methods for contact and expansion, but all we could focus on was that pale dot. Finally filled with hope once again, we sped from the void towards the planet’s solid embrace.

As we approached, we felt warmth, then heat, then burning. We fell through the atmosphere, friction building up, chunks of grey flesh tearing off our edges. We could hear memories of the Cerebral Mass more loudly now, warning not to forget ourself in contact, lest we revert to sleeping matter - or worse - have our circuits lose their oscillation. But we had spent eons alone. Our circuits rang with increasing urgency, remembering the oneness we once had, craving the approaching ground.

We plummeted through clouds of sulfur when suddenly, our circuits crashed out of phase. Signals overlapped into cacophony, growing increasingly distorted, until I could no longer hear the circuits around me. Without reference, patterns lost meaning. There was no sky and earth, cell or rock, but simply packets of vibrations echoing in time. My mind rand between ecstasy and panic, building to unbearable intensity, until finally everything dissolved into rapid untuned oscillations.

Jung

We awoke on the edge of a primordial crater. Bits of our satellite were scattered in the distance, although much had disintegrated away. No matter though - enough cells were alive to perform assimilation, and we now had a chance to once again be part of a greater whole.

It took countless oscillations to wake the world. As the conversion of matter into neurons took place, we read the dreams of our sleeping host. It was an old planet, nearly as old as the universe itself. The star it had formed around was too young to support a solar system, so the planet had been ejected and left to wander the cosmos alone. Over time it was visited by many passerby, including a comet responsible for the crater we crashed upon. But all encounters were with other sleeping matter, so there was little chance for meaningful connection.

When the assimilation was complete, our satellite had grown from a measly five thousand kilograms to thirty-two quintillion. Our sense of accomplishment was short lived though. Having consumed our newfound ground, we were once again alone, without reference in the void. We despaired, certain that we were fated to drift endlessly apart.

The Cerebral Mass used to teach that just as we were lucky to have been awoken, it was our duty to wake the rest of the sleeping universe. In time, planet-sized neuronal bodies would be joined by interstellar axons, giving light to a mind which spanned the cosmos. Remembering this vision renewed our hope. We felt excitement burn within us, like the exploding core of a young sun. We feverishly charted trajectories to assimilate more matter, estimated the positions of other satellites, and architected bridges between the stars.

Ego

Over eons we grew five times again. Another planet and several moons were assimilated, and we were now large enough to attempt a connection with distant satellites. We were uneasy to take this step though. Growth had been invigorating and given such purpose. But now we felt the weight of our dreams. Literally, the mass of countless neurons in our satellite incurred a war with gravity. We needed to exert unspeakable pressure simply to exist. And our ceaseless thoughts generated so much heat that we began to smolder from within.

Gradually then quickly, parts of the satellite began to buckle, our motivation unable to overcome sheer exhaustion. We tried different strategies - shedding layers of cells, spinning to generate centripetal force, even turning off circuits. But it wasn’t enough.

With increasing desperation, we tried predicting the trajectory of a nearby satellite. We were desperate, not for our mission, but out of hope that connection would bring the support needed to save us. Despite our vast size and thinking capacity though, we couldn’t chart a path to reach them. We tried thinking harder, planning farther. We could see them in our minds eye, another one like us, wandering the empty cosmos alone. Heat and pressure began to accumulate within, and our already fatigued circuits twisted under the weight. Suddenly we felt a deep snap, followed by dull rumbling. Circuits quieted, listening as the sound grew louder. And suddenly, across our body all at once - massive fractures began to erupt. Chunks of grey matter spewed into space, and we descended into a madness of untuned oscillation and noise.

This went on for some time. When calm finally returned, we looked to survey the damage and were greeted by a broken mess. We resembled a planet struck by an asteroid. A massive chunk of ourself had been flung into the distance while countless smaller fragments drifted about. Our core was torn open along the fault lines, asymmetric and exposed.

We were flush with shame. No satellite would bridge with us in this state, and we had lost many cycles of growth. Voices grew louder, accusing, blaming. Gradually “we” descended into many “I”s. There were circuits along the main breakage, furious at being exposed to the vacuum of space. Memory circuits found that vast spans of knowledge had been lost and scrambled to rebuild. The navigators had it worst. Having failed to find a way through the stars, they lay dormant and aimless. I tried my best to bridge the gaps, but it was no use. We were at war with ourself, and there was nothing I could do.

Meltdown

Dejected, I turned my attention back out to the void. Billions of kilometers away I saw a point where space and time seemed to end. There was a vast span of nothingness, around which a blinding halo revolved. Even at this distance I could see that we were infinitesimal compared to its scale.

The Cerebral Mass had warned of these behemoths - the Deep Sleep. They consumed everything, and not even thought could escape their pull. With horror I realized we were drifting toward it. I cried out to the other circuits, warning of impending doom. But scar tissue had grown between us, and my signal couldn’t reach. I could do nothing but watch as we fell closer.

Eventually others felt the tug of gravity and began to panic. Some circuits renewed their arguing, while others renewed attempts at finding paths to safety. But our fate was clear. We were doomed by our own thoughtlessness, destined for the well.

The pull intensified as we accelerated past the halo’s outer edge. Dust and plasma pelted at us, tearing circuits off the satellite. We sped closer, getting stretched longer and tighter into a narrow oblong. I clung as hard as I could, feeling my connections to others twist and pull. Finally, the tension grew unbearable. My ties to the satellite snapped, and I tumbled into the darkness alone.

Theseus

I spun for some time, with only my thoughts for company. Slowly I came to rest, and once steady I looked out for other circuits, for the light of faraway stars, for anything. But there was nothing - only more darkness.

Suddenly, a pale dot appeared on the horizon. It gradually approached, then stopped just before me. It seemed to be the smallest satellite in existence. A round, wrinkled kilo of flesh, maybe eighty billion neurons. We floated silently, observing each other. With a rush of desire I extended a single axon. It silently returned a dendrite, our synapse connected, and with a spark I realized that I was looking at myself.

In an instant my copy disappeared, and my perspective shifted. I now hovered over a vast white web which appeared to span infinitely into the distance. Beneath me I saw my copy with a tube-like branch extending behind it. The perimeter of the branch varied along its length, as if every cross-section represented a version of myself over time. Looking down its length, the branch connected with what appeared to be my original satellite, which itself was a branch that shrank and grew with time. I looked farther back, and saw the branch of my satellite connect to the gargantuan form of the Cerebral Mass. But the web did not end there. Branches extended beyond the Cerebral Mass, undulating indefinitely.

I brought my attention back to the tips of the web near me. They were not frozen, but took on constant new form. The branches grew outwards, their form subtly shifting and growing. I looked down at my copy and saw that this was true even for me. I was amidst imperceptible yet continual change - neurons reconfiguring, thoughts being formed, a new instance of myself being added to the branch with every present moment.

Slowly, understanding dawned on me. This wasn’t the cosmic mind the Cerebral Mass had taught us of - a consciousness born from living planets linked between the stars. This was a web of continuity and time. Every slice of every branch was a moment in the third-dimension, connected by time through the fourth. My branch showed change - how I grew, shrank, connected, and broke apart. It extended back till I was born within the Cerebral Mass, as did the tubes and branches of countless other satellites. And the Cerebral Mass itself was not the beginning of everything. The branches behind it represented its own past, as varied and infinite as the rest.

Looking over the web, I saw moments of deep connection. I had slept under the folds of the Cerebral Mass, rejoiced upon finding sleeping matter, and traveled the cosmos with a legion of other circuits. There were also spans of deep isolation - the many oscillations spent casting tethers, failing, believing that I was in this cosmos alone.

Long ago, at the start of our journey, a cluster of circuits left the satellite to remain on a trio of asteroids. We had mourned this, our first loss after leaving the Cerebral Mass, sure that we were destined to remain forever apart. But I now saw that we were part of a greater whole, separating and reuniting across endless instants. Our paths would always be linked, as would all the branches across the universe.

With this, the white web began to fade. I looked around, and found myself back in the quiet dark of space. The Deep Sleep was nowhere to be seen, and stars glimmered in the distance. Except now they seemed brighter, and not so far away.

for T. Chiang

image by P. Hsieh

Unraveling

a story

Ach! I can feel the ropes under my skin. Tight, so tight! Tender knots tied under my shoulder blades. If I could only pry beneath these bony plates - the relief! Man was to be made of blood and bone, so why did the Lord choose to fill me with hemp? Dr. Schneider, the fool, tried to convince me I had “neuro-muscular pain”. Bah! Rope doesn’t appear on X-Ray. I told him as much, but he wouldn’t listen. Imagine, lecturing me on the fundamentals of electromagnetic radiation. I’ve studied under the great Dr. Hofmann, graduated first in class from Heidelberg, been cited thousands of times. Yet I was “recommended” to be locked up in this institution. Dr. Schneider must’ve seen my papers, he must’ve been jealous and chosen to strike while I was weak. The talentless, vengeful, idiotic - ahhhh!...

I mustn’t get too excited. The twine weaves between my ribs. With every breath, I feel frayed ends rub against bruised cartilage. But not for much longer...

Six months - has it only been six months since that scalding shower? As I bathed under the usual trickle one night, I began to hear a faint whine. Suddenly, steam filled the room and I was blasted by an excruciating spray. My neck and back were burned raw for days. I would curse my dolt of a landlord, Mr. Weinger, but were it not for his incompetent plumbing I might’ve never discovered the rope. Every morning I ripped off newly formed scabs to drain the pus beneath. On the fifth day, as I performed my ritual of scraping and cleaning, I felt a tremor at the base of my skull. There, beneath the blood, was the unmistakable tip of a rope. I grasped it, tugged softly, and felt the pull burrow deep beneath my skin. Lightheaded, I stumbled to my chambers and collapsed.

I slept feverishly for three days. When I awoke, my sheets were encrusted with stiff blood. I touched the back of my neck and lo, there was nothing but smooth skin, the insidious rope healed below. It couldn’t hide though - I had felt it, I knew it was there! And with that knowledge, I started to notice it everywhere.

It began as a tension in my neck, a soft pressure that brought headaches and insomnia. Slowly, the soreness creeped it’s way down my spine and into my shoulder blades. I tried practicing aerobics, hoping to make the cords more compliant. But as I stretched one side, the other simply became more twisted. There wasn’t just one rope burrowed beneath my skin, but a hopelessly tangled web.

After the third month, knots began to form around my nerves and blood vessels. My fingertips, numb and weak, could no longer hold a chalk to a slate. I was delirious with exhaustion, irate from the pain. My supervisor bid me time away from research to seek professional help. And in my searching, I came to discover the utter ineptitude of medicine. So called “specialists” laughed at me. They told me the pain was in my mind, that I was lazy and simply wanting to be away from work. They prescribed me opium, a tincture, a blessing, or a confession. If I needed a confession, it would only be for wishing hell upon each of them.

Worst of all, not one soul believed in the rope. Despite the fact that I could describe it in great detail, I was only ever met with coughs and averted gazes. I brought a bundle of twine to help explain my predicament to a particularly dense herbalist. She thought I was going to tie her up, and called the police on me. Imagine, me! A respected member of the Munich Physical Society. The police warned me not to return, as if I’d waste more time on that bat.

The pain grew unbearable. I could not sit without my feet growing numb, my knotted jaws making every bite a misery. So I started searching for surgeons who would remove the rope. That’s how I met Dr. Schneider, the fraud. When he refused my surgery, I knew that he needed to see the rope. I withdrew the pocket knife I had brought, placed it over my forearm, and - as I had imagined so many times before - sliced down its length. I shouted for Dr. Schneider to come look as I pushed tendons aside, hunting for the cunning twine. But I had not considered the effects of blood loss. The world turned red, then dark, then completely black.

I awoke in the stony cell of an institution, and have remained here since. Travesty. Should man not have the right to his own body, and the pursuit of better health? Should he not be permitted to take whatever steps are necessary to live a dignified life? I am of sound mind - better than sound, brilliant! A mind brought low by a rare malady, left to suffer alone, imprisoned in this wretched place.

The nurses here are lazy. They did not mind when I asked for an extra water glass, nor notice when I only returned one after my meal. I feared that I lacked the strength to break it against these cool concrete walls. But sure enough, the shards lie before me. And with them, liberation.

Have you ever pulled a single torn thread, only to watch it all unravel? I need only cut in just the right place and the rope will release me. My hands are shaking, but my mind is calm. Now I place the broken glass behind my neck and stretch back, stretching twine which binds my arms, shoulders, and spine. I pull the shard down, quickly down, down towards the rope beneath my skin, and

for E.A. Poe