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