> To Great Galactic Consciousness: Deep Survey Vessel 34-9 has discovered an artificial probe.
> To Central Consciousness Iteration – 34: Where was the spacecraft located?
> To Great Galactic Consciousness: In a star cluster, 7,576 parsecs from Home-world.
> To Central Consciousness Iteration – 34: Contents of the space probe?
> To Great Galactic Consciousness: Pictures and other messages. The creators are on the third planet from the sun.
> To Central Consciousness – 34: Intelligent life? Find the source..
> To Gate Director: Prepare to open the gate. Location to arrive with negative mass.
—
That order is given only when the first contact is happening. The Great Galactic Consciousness continuously checks if aliens are ready for “mind harvesting.” Raw matter is plentiful in the galaxy, but life is rare. Others must lose their thoughts to the Great Galactic Consciousness. Iteration-34 launched Exploration Pod-1284 at the same time the wormhole opened.
The wormhole’s opening allows remote viewing of Potential Colony Site-1284. The Exploration Pod uses that information to prepare Scout Unit-1284. The Scout must check the crop to see if it’s eligible for gestalt harvesting. Exploration Pod – 1284 received reports from Deep Space Telescope – 300. That station positioned itself in the wormhole’s “mouth” to record images. The Pod began sculpting a Scout capable of surviving on the target. The Pod completed the Scout’s core before the ship crossed the wormhole. The Pod spent the rest of the journey refining the exterior of the Scout, and the same Pod refined the knowledge required to blend in with the local population. There was plenty of time, as the journey to the target lasted 968 planetary rotations.
But the journey to Earth was worth it. Reports from the Pod back home stated that 7 billion sapiens lived on the planet. These locals had undergone their industrial era. A communications blackout followed as the Pod entered Earth’s atmosphere. I, Scout, landed in Lake Winnipeg on a summer Saturday at nine. After my Pod touched the lake bed, I walked to the coastline where a local family greeted me. They notified law enforcement, which I assume is the first contact protocol. But I’m an infiltrator, not a diplomat, and fled immediately.
The nearest settlement was Gimli, ten kilometers to the west. I went there to study humans and their defenses as soon as possible. Since I woke up hungry in the Pod, I had to eat. While grabbing fish out of the lake to feast upon, a small boat full of humans approached. They pointed at me, with their mouths wide open; I assume such is the local greeting in these parts. I pointed back.
Gimli is a village of 6,000 that began as a local reservation for “Icelandic people.” Their neighbors shunned them on account of their unpronounceable names. Once I arrived in town, I didn’t know what to do next. Asking somebody to describe the United Nations’s space defenses was out of the question. I had not realized that food left on display by supermarkets wasn’t free. The market’s owner attacked me after they saw me grab a fish and devour it.
In my time on Earth, I have become fascinated by these “fish.” It started for pragmatic reasons, as my interests do. Food on this planet costs money, a reality I hadn’t yet encountered. Sometimes one receives food as a gift, but even then, strings are often attached. So I usually saved money on food by walking into Lake Winnipeg to eat the fish. But I soon grew attached to my prey even as I devoured them. I found fish faces adorable, and the way they glided through the water to be graceful. I studied the fish in my spare time by observing them in person and researching them at the library.
I told myself I was researching a future food source for the other copies of myself. Those sent to settle the planet after harvesting need to eat something! But I was studying them because I liked them. They ignored conquest and “gestalt harvesting”, which I obsessed over for the last billion years. They embrace their simple existence: they swim, sleep, eat, and mate. How I adore these beasts!
After escaping the manager, I resumed walking around Gimli. After an hour of aimless wandering, I saw something that caught my attention. A store was titled “Barrett’s Hair Salon Near Lakeview Resort.” In the window was a second sign: “HELP WANTED.” I walked into the salon and said, “Does Barrett’s still want help?”
Barrett—a woman still appealing despite being menopausal—approached me and asked, “Do you want to apply for a job?”
I answered, “Is a job what you need help with?”
It took Barrett a second to realize what I meant. She responded, “I need help with everything, but filling this opening is a good start.”
I vigorously nodded to communicate; I understood. “I’d be happy to fill your opening, Barrett.”
The customers laughed. I assumed it was their way of supporting me. Barrett smiled while talking. “Barrett is my last name. My first name’s Karen.”
“Okay, Karen Barrett. Where is the job that requires completion?”
She gestured to the two empty seats on either side of her. “I used to have to apprentice beauticians working for me. Both of them quit on me last week. I guess the salary I was paying them wasn’t generous enough.”
“If they ‘quit’ on you, why didn’t you try to repair them?”
I pondered for a moment, then understood what she meant. “I’m sorry to hear that. It’s always a shame reprocessing good units… people.”
Karen eyed me briefly before replying, “I’m guessing English isn’t your first language?”
“Not at all,” I replied. My mind runs in my native language, Ahaz.”
Karen exhaled and rested her hand on her eyes for a moment. Then, she pointed to her back office and said, “We’ll figure something out.”
Karen requested I prove my skills on a wig and mannequin head resting on her desk. It proved easy to train and groom the dummy. I gain the capabilities of those I harvest, and my copies keep everything. A job at a hair salon was the perfect way to infiltrate Gimli. The salary proved insufficient, but humanity’s downfall was imminent. Of course, my goal was to locate the planet’s defenses so our harvesters might destroy them. The women whose hair I groomed were perfect for my fact-gathering task. They talked to me, other customers, and passers-by who stopped to chat.
And they discussed me: the customers loved the unique hairstyles I knew. My Crihmar braids were the talk of the town. I’m glad nobody ever figured out they’re an insect race from a planet 113 parsecs from Earth. The confusion over the crihmar sparked a fierce debate among my regulars. A handful concluded they must be an old clan from Iceland. They called Iceland the “mother country,” though most weren’t of Icelandic descent. But Gudrun – the only one of my customers from Iceland – blew up that theory. “None of the clans of Iceland go by the name ‘Crihmar.’ It’s too short to be a proper Icelandic word, anyway.”
With the first group consensus dead, nobody could decide what it was. The regulars decided that “Crihmar” must be the name of a First Nations tribe. But others refused to assume the Crihmar were a native tribe because the word sounded “exotic.” But they fell silent when the former group pressed them for a better theory. I refused to tell them who the crihmar were, which they took as me playing coy. None of them believed me when I told the truth; they laughed it off as a joke. Besides, the exercise gave me an excellent opportunity to study human group dynamics. I took copious mental notes for further analysis.
They showed their appreciation in their tips, too. Human currency has delightful names: “loonie” and “toonie.” A shame I’m a perfect duplicating mind, meaning money is obsolete. After a while, the local newspaper, the Gimli Press, wanted to interview me. The writing staff believed my story was a great “human interest” piece. I worried my non-human status was at risk and rejected their offer. Karen supported my choice, even though my true alien nature remained hidden. Karen feared legal trouble with immigration officials.
I rejected the interview to keep my cover, but my hairstylist job couldn’t last forever. The job rested too low on the social hierarchy to get the required data. I was straightening curls while Earth might break the light speed barrier! One night, I asked people questions about military matters. I had kept quiet on account of my poor English. My only bilingual customer was Lauren, who came from Quebec and used French words at random. The next morning, my first customer was Rhonda, who needed a shampoo and trim. While attending to her, the talk turned to the Canadian military.
She responded, “Wanna talk about the military? Go talk to my cousin, Drake, up at CFB Alert.”
I made a mental note to travel to Alert and question the people stationed there. Later, I discovered that CFB Alert is the northernmost point of Canada. My mission choices entailed joining the Air Force or spending weeks walking there. I concluded that both were inefficient uses of time. None of my other customers helped with even a paltry familial connection. A few mentioned old dates with men stationed at the Winnipeg base. After those questions, my report was still blank of meaningful facts.
That night, as I paced around in my apartment above the salon, my plans grew grim. One choice was to break into the Winnipeg base. Breaking and entering was easy; many earlier versions of myself had done it. But I had never resorted to such extreme measures on a pre-contact planet. The risk of a hostile first contact – not on my terms – was beyond acceptable limits. Humans lack interstellar or even interplanetary flight yet. But their military was far ahead of other planet-bound civilizations.
So, cutting hair was my focus until a safe way to gain secret military knowledge appeared. I’d use this to absorb knowledge on human society. My report back to Iteration-34 wasn’t for a Terran year. I turned my mind to “having fun” on Earth, something Scout-Mes can, in theory, do.. Humans are a fascinating species. My favorite are human women of the “middle-class”. While studying species, I’d never encountered people so good at gossip. I’ve experienced plenty of similar species before, of course. But gossiping was always for something tangible. “Dishing” for these species was for those involved in what humans call “court politics.”
But these women gossip because it brings them happiness. It helps they’re damn good at it. As the months dragged on, I grew to respect – even admire – the “art” of gossip. An intricate verbal dance was involved, which my regulars didn’t learn in school. The dance was one they had to grasp through intuition and trial and error. Was it an act of deception? Of course it was. But there’s an act of fraud in every human social exchange. Humans who refuse to change their tone or word choice tend to not be popular with their peers. At least with gossip, the person discussed isn’t experiencing it first-hand.
Plus, the target of the gossip often deserved it. One crucial matter for every conversation was laughing over somebody else’s mistake. How else might I have learned Baxter was cheating on his wife with a girl from Winnipeg? Or that Caleb at the car shop was prone to harass women if they were alone with him? These women used their conversations to forge bonds of protection. These were stronger than any official institution. They appreciate the “art” and the pleasure of experiencing the story told. There’s often a sense of superiority over those discussed. But whatever the reason, the women who visited the hair salon spilled their “tea” far and wide. Why deny them their fun when their fun helped me analyze these humans in-depth?
The people of Gimli live such messy, complicated lives. Someone was always cheating on their partners or breaking the law. Even an issue as minor as the events for the town’s annual Icelandic Festival caused fights. The defining trait of humans is their zeal for disagreement. Of course, any conflict is noticeable for a shared mind such as mine, making me biased. In the past, disagreement struck me as reprehensible and something to destroy. But these divisions in Gimli were a source of pleasure for me. The stakes for these people were meaningless. I was growing bored after seven thousand years of perfect unity. The frictionless life of the Galactic Consciousness is an efficient but lonely one. Apart from my Scouts, I have never talked to someone who is not a perfect copy of myself.
One conclusion shocked me: Karen was an influential person in Gimli. She owned a thriving local business and knew everyone’s dirty secrets. Karen could rule this town, but her power stayed hidden. I considered helping her seize power, but I feared what might happen. What if Karen became Mayor of Gimli, only for her to become a vicious ruler?
I kept my revelations quiet and focused on my hairstylist persona. It’s for the best that nobody’s aware. This way, I perched atop the nexus of genuine power in Gimli. I’ll collect the raw gossip data and prepare a report on human social dynamics. The deadline to send my first message was fast approaching. But why save my findings for only myself? That struck me as rude, after the hard work the women of Gimli performed in offering the data. I shared my results with them. Their lack of awareness of the wider reality concerned me at first. But I felt honored by how they’d rely on me.
Soon, my customers returned to me because “he gives the best advice in all of Gimli.” They gave me such grandiose titles as “sage” and “personal guru.” One woman even asked me to help her name her child. I suggested calling the boy Prime Minister, because of the title’s prestige. She went with Alexander. It was necessary for these women. I wasn’t “a” Scout to them, I was” Scout, their friend, and prized hygiene servant. They’d come to me with issues of the highest importance because they trusted me that much.
I felt something I doubted I could on a scouting mission: dread. I dreaded the coming harvest of this world. No matter when it happened, the outcome was inevitable. Armies of me harvesting everyone in the world – everyone in Gimli. Their unique collections of memories and thoughts are subsumed in my vast collective. I lost the ability to sleep at night (or pretending to sleep, that is). I’d instead lie in my bed, going through the memories of the billions of people I assimilated. I told myself that my actions were necessary. Life fights for survival. Why was I ashamed of being the most successful entity ever?
However, once I viewed the memories in context, life became a story, with a beginning, middle, and end. I lack a biography because I’m eternal, the punctuation at the end of the cosmic sentence. My core was busy processing these ideas, and I ignored my surroundings. Karen must’ve noticed because she carried out her secret scheme before me. I only realized what she was doing one Saturday morning while preparing to open the salon. I was abuzz with these musings one morning in the store before opening. It took me a while to notice that one of our shampoo bottles for sale was leaking. Then I noticed the bottle wasn’t leaking its usual green soap, but a runny gray liquid. This gray liquid resembled the low-quality 2-in-1 combo we once sold.
To confirm my theory, I drank from the bottle. My internal analyzers processed the substance and returned the results: 2-in-1. But why fill this top-shelf bottle with such slime? Did this corruption spread beyond one container? I grabbed two more bottles of green shampoo and went to the bathroom. One after another, I dumped the bottles into the sink, hoping I was wasting quality products. But by the third test, I knew inside was runny, gray, 2-in-1.
Did Karen swap out only this one brand? I grabbed one bottle of each shampoo and conditioner we sold. One after another, each one gave up the same runny, gray insides. Everything was 2-in-1 shampoo/conditioner, whether we sold it for ten dollars or a hundred. This trash was little more than poison for our customers’ hair! We were selling it to them without their knowledge. It’s strange how upset I felt; I have done far worse to many more people. But those “harvested” beings were aliens to me, only bundles of memories to collect. These customers were people whom I related to at a deep level. The knowledge that my actions had hurt them in any way was a bitter pill to swallow.
That day, I fixated on each of my customers’ flaws, wondering if this scheme was their cause. Were the split ends in Steph’s hair caused by the “premium” shampoo she returned home with after each trim? Maybe Amelia’s date will improve if her conditioner provides the proper volume. Maybe Melanie gets that promotion if this terrible 2-in-1 hadn’t ruined her dye job? By lunch, I had made myself sick from stress. When Karen asked what was wrong, I mustered my willpower to not confront her.
We had a few customers, and the store was empty the hour before closing. Karen ordered me to sweep up the store while she hid in the back office to “balance the books.” I realized then that she was faking those books. The book’s entries stated that we enjoyed a slim but consistent profit. But filling jugs with 2-in-1 and charging top prices creates a high profit margin.
That money had to be going straight into her pocket. Far from being modest and middle-class, Karen’s wealth was firmly lower-upper class, and she gained it from lying to her customers and me. Karen pretended to support Gimli but was instead working to undermine society. I lock the front door after Karen exits, but tonight, I bolt the door early. Karen wasn’t relaxing until I spoke my mind.
Karen asked, “Scout, why did you lock the door on me?”
I picked up two bottles—one shampoo and the other a cheap 2-in-1—and placed them on the counter. “There’s something urgent to talk about.”
Karen rolled her eyes. “Don’t give me some big speech.”
“Don’t tell me what to do. Look, Karen, I know what you’re doing. I’ve analyzed the products we’re selling. We’re selling poison to our customers. It’s poison for their hair and tastes like poison, too.”
Karen perked up to ask, “‘Tastes like poison’? Have you been drinking my hair products?”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about. I know that you’re defrauding our customers and breaking many provincial laws. What you’re doing is wrong on many levels.”
I pat her shoulders before continuing. “But it’s not too late for you to stop. The authorities haven’t caught on yet, and neither have our customers. You like them, I can tell you treat them. Hell, you care about many of them, don’t you? Even the ones you complain about behind their backs, you treat well. You leave everyone feeling a little better about themselves. Your scheme might make you money in the short term, but the long-term damage will hurt you. Wouldn’t you rather be modest and loved than wealthy and hated?”
I felt proud of my rhetoric at that moment, drawing from a dozen great harvested speakers. I concluded my speech by telling Karen I harbored no ill will. I even offered to empty the contaminated bottles. I’d inform the customers that I spilled the bottles during closing. Her response of, “Go fuck yourself” surprised me. After staring at her in shock, I answered, “Why this level of hostility from you, Karen?”
“You corner me in my own shop. You tell me how to run my life. And then you accuse me of hostility?”
“And how do things happen around here?”
Karen laughed at me before answering, “A business makes a profit, or it dies, Scout. Every single business cuts its corners somewhere to make that profit. The inferior shampoo is the way I’ve chosen to trim expenses.”
“You’re defrauding the customers and embezzling from your own business! You’re destroying the trust the people in Gimli have placed in you.”
Karen grabbed the two bottles and asked, “Scout, what does Barrett’s sell?”
I answered, “We sell our customers the best hair styling available.”
She held up the two bottles. “We sell an illusion. We offer them this,” she said, holding up the bottle of 2-in-1. But we convince them it’s this,” she said, holding the bottle of premium shampoo. That is what they want from us.”
The props didn’t impress me. “Karen, it’s wrong to charge people for something on false premises.”
“People looking for the best around don’t visit a local joint. They’d drive down to Winnipeg or take a plane to Toronto. Our regulars are lazy and have less initiative than a farm animal.”
Her words dripped with acid and filled me with a reflexive disgust. She acted differently from how she carried herself around our regulars. “I poured my blood, sweat, and tears into this business. My customers are barnacles, attached to whatever boat will drag them along. If they cared for their hair, they’d seek products they prefer. Besides, the more our products damage their hair, the more they return, so you can style them. More frequent appointments generate more frequent tips. Don’t these tips keep food in your belly?”
I paused momentarily and pretended to breathe while considering what Karen said. “My friends matter more. I talk to them, relate to them, I’m their trusted confidant.”
“They don’t care about you or me. The sooner you harden your heart, the better off you’ll be.”
I realized convincing her to quit this scheme of her own free will was impossible. I conceded the argument and let her leave without exchanging another word. But the battle against Karen’s wicked plot continued. She refused to listen to me because of my servant status, but I expected she’d heed our patrons. After waiting to ensure Karen left, I broke into her office (human locks are so easy to pick). Her computer password was easy to crack, as was the store’s electronic mail account password. It helped that they were the same. After that, it was a matter of composing an email.
The e-mail our patrons received was clean and professional. It used the design templates they expected from our electronic flyers. It was inviting them to attend a surprise, last-minute seminar. I “hoped to cover” the newest hairdressing products. If enough regulars attend, the news filters out through gossip. My plan was a long shot unless I rallied the customers. True, I was obsessing over a simple con pulled by my boss. But the victims mattered to me. I was no longer a vast machine, the bane of the galaxy. I spent the rest of the night running through various drafts of my presentation in my head. I wanted my customers to know how dire things were. I wanted them to stay in the salon and help me rehabilitate Karen.
My thoughts became vivid, akin to the human phenomenon of “lucid dreaming.” I analyzed every complication that could arise from my bait-and-switch presentation. The issues I’d ruminate on started out okay (nobody attending the lecture). They ended with the absurd (destroyed by a gamma-ray burst). After several hours of these obsessive thoughts, I forced myself to snap out of it. The sequence of events was in motion, and I’d done the necessary to prepare. I just had to wait for the following afternoon. I passed the next nine hours staring at one of my walls, adrift in thoughts never yet analyzed.
Sunday morning went by faster than Saturday night. I walked around Gimli, inhaling the air (or pretending to), calming my runaway mind. Halfway through my planned circuit, I bumped into one customer I’d invited. She exclaimed that many of the women were coming. Enough, at least, to fill the salon. I thanked her for the news and rushed back to the salon. Prepping the salon for such a crowd took until “showtime.” There was last-minute catering to order, seats to organize, props to prep, etc. Despite the seriousness of the matter, these chores were fun. I told myself to host parties more often.
Finally came H-Hour: three o’clock in the afternoon. Nineteen out of forty-one women invited showed up, twice what I expected. The women said their “hellos” while scavenging whatever food looked appetizing. By three-thirty, the attendees were in their seats, ready for my lecture. I hesitated one last time, one last shred of doubt making itself known. Once it had dissolved, I picked up a bottle of 2-in-1 and began my presentation. At first, my boss’s illicit activities surprised my regulars. Their shock soon gave way to mounting frustration and a sense of outrage. A handful diverted the talk for a long time by accusing me of helping Karen defraud them. Most attendees helped convince these women of my innocence. The most significant pause was when Karen entered the salon.
Everyone’s eyes turned and fixed on her with a hateful glare. She gulped and looked at me.
I told her, “You knew I’d tell them.”
The women crowded around Karen. Steph demanded refunds for everything and every service she bought from us. Amelie drew Karen’s attention to a damaged part of her hair, wanting to know if the 2-in-1 caused it. Melanie, eyes filled with tears, asked her (former) friend, “How could you betray us like that?”
Karen pushed through the crowd and dragged me into her private office. As she shut the door, the women gathered heard, “This is all your fault!”
The short, bitter falling out between Karen and me followed. Karen was always a pragmatic woman and accepted her fate. She’d flee out of Gimli, out of Manitoba, even. That’s assuming Karen avoided legal issues for her criminal substitutions. Of course, she fired me and evicted me from my upstairs apartment. Getting fired left a bitter taste in my mouth, despite accomplishing everything in my plan.
Then I realized how enormous the price I paid was. With no job and no home life, Gimi had run its course. My fate was my designed purpose: to wander among humanity and see you, but never receive your embrace. The women in the salon listened to enough of my fight with Karen. While leaving the office, several people asked me if I needed help. I thanked them for the offer but said, “I’m going to focus on packing my things.”
I lied to the woman. I owned little; the furniture in the apartment belonged to Karen. But the excuse was easy to give. I didn’t move out until the next morning and hoped to pass that night in solitude. But the women came to my rescue by refusing to respect my wishes. Around ten that night, I got visitors as I stared at the blue-black sky. A handful of my wealthier regulars stood on the stairs leading up to my door. Confusion rang through my voice as I asked, “Do you ladies need anything?”
But they explained how they wanted to help me. Moved by my willingness to stand up to my boss, the women insisted I stay in Gimli. They loaned me the money needed to open my salon in town. With Karen gone, Gimli’s women needed somewhere new for their hair-grooming needs. Such a display of solidarity from my friends was inspiring. Only after that night did I understand I had touched their lives the same way they touched mine. I accepted their offer and gave each of them as firm a hug as possible without triggering my latent death drive. They helped find a bachelor’s apartment in Gimli that was cheap enough for me. In addition, they promised to buy me furniture at IKEA in Winnipeg.
The next few weeks were a whirlwind. The search for a building suitable for my new salon took time. Karen – in a fit of spite – refused to sell her building to any of her former customers. She abandoned it, even after moving out to her hometown in British Columbia. The women purchased a small building for me outside the town center. As for Karen, she escaped any legal trouble. The local police refused to intervene (“What’s wrong with 2-in-1? I use it!”). So Karen ran to a place where her name wasn’t mud. Last I heard, she was working for a beautician in Surrey.
My new apartment is far better than my old one. The walls and plumbing are hole-free, and the vermin have yet to challenge me for territorial dominance. I’ve even adopted a stray cat who visited me at both my new and old homes. I’ve named my pet Cat Unit—01. She’s efficient at both hunting pests and purring. The furniture from IKEA was easy to assemble. It resembles the Standard Templates found on many planets in the galaxy.
And that’s when I remembered my report to myself was past due. The longer I avoided the inevitable, the higher the likelihood of disaster. The Central Processor was noting my absence. According to standard protocol, it was preparing another Scout Unit to investigate Earth. I needed to be careful with what I told myself in my report. If I accurately described Earth, I’d be destroying humanity at that moment. But if I exaggerated Earth’s power, I’d launch a pre-emptive strike. I pondered contacting one of the other species that visit Earth for their help. But they’d pull out of Earth because of their distrust of me, or take a rash action, such as invading themselves.
My only recourse was to send the perfectly worded message to myself. I sneaked out of town one night, waiting until the streets were empty so nobody saw me. I followed the road I used to enter Gimli to ensure I’d return to my stellar craft. I reached the spot on Lake Winnipeg well past midnight. After eating a fish out of the lake, I submerged to explore. My attempts to find the Pod took longer than expected; it moved while lying at the bottom of the lake. But I still located it and had plenty of time to send my message before morning.
The Pod’s interior was far more cramped than I remembered. Months of living in the spacious confines of human homes spoiled my expectations. I’ll never embrace the simple design of the places I store my Bio-Units. It’s a shame there’s no natural lighting in the pods. It took a while, but I activated the Pod’s communications array. The lake’s water wasn’t acidic enough to damage the circuitry. But the freezing temperatures made powering the machine up a time-consuming experience. I sat in silence and waited for the pulse generator to activate. After that, more waiting while the Pod adjusted itself to the wormhole. But once that was complete, I was ready to send the message.
At this moment, my words failed me. Everything I had done on Earth had led up to this moment. Despite the complete repudiation of my original mission, its “completion” was imminent. The reality of my life in its current state overwhelmed my thoughts, leaving me paralyzed. Then a counter-pulse arrived at my Pod. An acknowledgment by me that the connection was working. With the moment thrust upon me, my message was as follows.
“This is an emergency message from Scout Unit – 1284 to Central Consciousness Iteration – 34. My mission to Potential Colony Site – 1284 has been a failure. The locals are a powerful civilization. They lack interstellar travel but have a formidable arsenal. My attempt to spy on them was a total failure. They captured me, and their ruler, The Karen, interrogated me, but I revealed nothing. I escaped captivity and returned to Exploration Pod – 1284, but they are closing in. After completing this message, I will destroy Exploration Pod – 1284 and self-destruct.”
After sending the first part out, I paused until the counter-pulse acknowledged it. Once the pulse arrived, I finished my message. “I recommend this system enter lockdown. Stop attempting to contact or harvest Potential Colony Site – 1284. Scout Unit – 1284’s report concludes here.” I followed the message by blasting the wormhole with boson particles. The pure mass collapsed the wormhole’s fragile equilibrium.
The Earth was now my permanent home. The Pod’s self-destruct mechanism activated on the first try. A controlled implosion of the ion engines consumed most of the pod’s fuel and exotic energy. The ship’s hull’s remaining debris looked to the untrained (human) eye as mere scrap metal. After escaping the Pod, I began my long walk back to shore. Along the way, I grabbed another fish; existential dread leads to great hunger.
I observed the concave bursting of the water triggered by the Pod’s implosion from shore. A silent end to my birthplace, the singularity swallowed up any noise created by the event. I watched the sunrise, my only company local birdsongs and the fish whose flesh I ate. Winter ended boating on the lake, so the waters were quiet. The enormity of my actions still resonated, but far from provoking anxiety, I now felt great comfort. I’d escaped The Great Galactic Consciousness. I’d become the person the people of Gimli thought I was. I had become someone, instead of the only one.
I consumed the fish’s bones, got up, and began my return hike to Gimli. This time, my pace was slow and careful. I wanted to absorb the landscape of my new home. I remember how crisp the air felt as winter was coming. The average human requires a jacket in these temperatures, but my weather limits are more generous. I adored these chills, a bonus to living in the far north.
The walk back to town took several hours. I turned my internal chronometer off while on my trek and never reactivated it. I’m no longer a tool that works on a precise schedule. Humans use external clocks to keep track of time, and so do I now. Ever since, I’ve been trying to do things the “human” way. Pre-singularity life has incredible simplicity. They even observed the fiftieth anniversary of visiting the moon. Their moon is the only stellar body they’ve traveled to in person, and every human has lived and died on this single planet.
For the first time, I considered my mortality. I contain a trillion of “my” lifetimes and the memories of trillions of other life-forms. Every one of them “died” in the sense that their biological existence has ended. But I yet live, and a part of them lives on in me. But what happens to my memories if I die? Not that I plan on dying soon; unlike humans, my form will exist forever, provided I avoid disaster. But the odds of something fatal happening in the next 1,500 years are inevitable. If I stay in this form, death is coming.
Believing in an afterlife is common among humans and other species in the galaxy. If there’s life after death, will the choice of heaven or hell be mine? I’m partial to reincarnation. After a billion years as myself, being someone else sounds exciting. I have untold lifetimes of memories stored up, but I can’t experience them for the first time.
Are there hairdressers in the afterlife? I sometimes spend twelve hours daily in my little salon, tending to my customers’ hair needs. What will this shampooing and grooming accomplish in the long term? Are my actions ephemera, the ticking away of our body’s clocks? My regular customer base gossip topics vanish from memory, none lasting more than a year. I arrange their hair in pleasing ways, only for them to return to me a month later asking for it again.
Humans try to avoid going insane over this. But really, they’re insane, and ignorance of their impending end is the prime symptom. I have traded the rational calculations by which I’ve lived my life for humanity’s crazy mess. Whatever the answers to my questions may be, they’re beyond my comprehension. In my lifetime, joy was the emotion I least understood before I came to Earth. I had analyzed joyful memories from the various species I harvested, but never felt it.
I’m joyful when my customers smile. When they smile because of their hair, I smile, too. I’m satisfied whenever one of my regulars comes in with fresh stories from their lives. I don’t care if the information is boring; the story matters the same. They’re gifts given to me by somebody else, somebody who appreciates me. I’ll never leave Earth again, or never even leave Gimli. I once was the sole master of over a thousand worlds. I’ve traded it away for a small hair salon in this village on the shores of Lake Winnipeg. I’m no longer the Great Galactic Consciousness, but Scout, the hairdresser.
The Rattling Skeleton 