GuNNhead

The Network was invented as an autonomous self-proliferating technopedia. Then a simple data gathering tool for a single galaxy. A combined effort born from the curiosity of multiple cultures to catalog the expanse, aided by those who sought to define borders and bring about order to the chaos of war. An end to the unknown, the death of blind exploration. The beginning of understanding.

They each defined their territory in full, planet to planet, solar system to solar system, cosmic trajectories. All elements and anomalies became accounted for in one contiguous database. Accessible in real-time, and shared. Historic data beyond geologics was added manually by habitants of said communicating planet. Entire cultures were stored if they so chose. If one wanted to watch an obscure hundred year old narrative from a planet 100 light years away, it was as simple as accessing The Network and searching for it, granted it had been uploaded by one of that planet’s beings.

There were, of course those who did not wish to join The Network of Communicating Planets. They were granted disavowal. These zones were simply left as Celestial cartography, earmarked for avoidance. Pre-tech civilizations were not contacted for communication, but one could read of their observable biologics. However, unlike disavowed zones, their solar systems were gifted a Network satellite to monitor progress.

Often the disavowed zones decreased in size, and eventually joined, drawn in over generations by the allure of knowledge. Insularity is no way to grow. So, with a fully known galaxy, all resources accounted for, they set their sights much higher. The invention of the Trans-Galactic Canon granted this science experiment tremendous reach. They sent out Network satellite spores filled with all of their data to neighboring galaxies, to find more planets to communicate and cooperate with. Then once more, should enough of that galaxy’s people work together, a Trans-Galactic Canon would be built at the edge of the galaxy, and another set of Network Satellite Spores would be sent to neighboring galaxies.

Our Trans-Galactic Canon was largely built by utilizing materials from necessary resources on planets owned by one man: Kænus. I am loathe to use what is now dubbed “The Kænus Memorial Trans-Galactic Canon”, but it seems I have little other choice if I want to make it to another galaxy.

Plotting a course is no simple task, I have never left this galaxy before, and so my first blockade comes in the form of requiring others. My craft, under it’s original specs, is not rated for The Network’s Trans-Galactic Cannons. It’s far too small, so those wouldn’t even be able to account for galactic drift, they’re made for massive exploration vessels. I have no clue if my powers would help offset this or even be able to help. They have certainly augmented the Russell-Fletner Drive beyond most ships, but interplanetary travel is comparatively trivial to the expanse between galaxies.

Ignoring all that, there are only a few billion Cannons, and most of them are placed outside the older galaxies. The Network’s focus on historical data rather than exploring things younger than it’s own galaxy is to thank for that. Even though in the grand scheme of a hundred billion galaxies, I’m practically half way to the center, I wouldn’t make it anywhere near the centerpiece of the universe before I ran out of cannons, however. Then I’d just be stuck in some fresh non-networked galaxy until the collapse, no better off until everything starts colliding.

As the decades slip by, civilization continues to grow, taming more of the wilds and reclaiming more wilds from scorched earth. The beasts that once roamed freely over the land recede away from developing areas, leaving much wilderness safe for the average Loamerian. Despite regular battle and murder, over time I feel my thoughts atrophy. I sense that before I became the Gravity Surge, I used to have wants and desires. A belief that one day there would be a life of satisfaction, built with connections and fondness. When one could sit back and be warmed by the company of others, warming them in turn. One would think that this is it, upon my planet, surrounded by the brave, the valiant, the idealistic. This warmth does not occur. Within me there only exists a cosmically vast emptiness, where only death can be felt. I am faintly reminded of why I had originally left this planet a lifetime ago. I don’t feel connections with the people on it. Existence was hollow and empty. Even now, after fighting side by side with these heroes, I know only solitude, isolation. An endless drive to the death of all life, and all that exists. Everything else falls by the wayside.

I witness these connections being made, see uncontrollable smiles appear when those connected see each other, sense their heartbeats flutter. These are not experiences that are available to me anymore, a few times I have felt them in dreams when asleep, ancient synapses firing in a dead mind possessed by a force of nature. They fade as I awake, but it is good to know that I am still who I was in some way. I do not envy the living for their love, connections. They all end; in misery; in death. The Golden Gravity Surge appreciates this, and retains the shared love in her memory. This is not something that I can do, I see only delusion, chemical reactions of meat, as without meaning as all astrological events. Stars die, planets explode, black holes collapse. It is the significance imposed by the mind that exists beyond my grasp; the emotions that cannot be controlled. I feel only death, the drive towards the inevitable end, the need not for the life and love of others, but the need to end life and existence.

I was never very attached to life.

1000 years killing demons and 1000 years amongst the living are two very different things.

I do not know if my growing drive towards death is noticed. I am killing less discriminately. I am staying in my craft for longer and longer periods of time, and leaving across the galaxy to find beings to slaughter, The Network’s files make it simple. No matter how much abundance there is, there are still those who want more, who want to spread their evil on the galactic stage. They thrive in disavowed zones, non-communicating planets, expansive nebula without planets. Countless hunting grounds for me to pursue them to their death. However, continually I feel the pull of the center of the universe. It makes me restless here, remaining in place. Eventually, I decide that I must make it to the centre, I must make my final departure from Loameria, from this galaxy.

Long ago, all life on my planet was razed in mere moments. No traces or fossils exist of the life I lived save some indirect geological evidence. I don’t even remember my own name, or the names of those I knew. I am now over a thousand years removed from what was to be my lifespan. Even those who, like me, were offworld at the time all life upon Loameria’s surface was extinguished, have long since perished. I have no grief, I am entirely incapable of bereavement over what I have lost. I have no joy, I am entirely incapable of contentment of what I have gained.

Now, encouraged by new allies, in this new age of peace, I have time. The Network’s DataBase has extensive historical data stored. Nothing that could reveal my past to me, but enough that I can recapture a loose cultural connection. On this planet and many others, the beings create narratives, expressions of their lives. Those of my Loameria have become quite popular here with it’s new populous, though their authors and original audiences are long dead. It’s theorized that I once consumed this media, and in its viewing I can find pieces of my long-dead living self. That which formed the synaptic constructs the Gravity Surge now utilizes.

Nostalgia occurs in the deep recesses of my mind time and time again as I follow the narratives made during my original lifetime, and those leading up to it. I trace influences and seek the inspirations, indulging this loose tingle of who I once was. There are days it consumes my thoughts, allows me reprieve from the cosmos as I focus on these imagined plots. I should perhaps thank Celrdrrun, for when he renders barren a planet, he erases everything it was from the Network, leaving himself the sole possessor of its knowledge. He did not do this for Loameria.

During this time, I do not ignore the new Loameria, but attempt to integrate. I can hold conversations, socialize, engage in casual atmospheres. Eventually, however, it all falls apart once more. Living beings cannot hold my interest the same as constructed narratives can. It appears that the connections they form between each other are predicated on an inherent interest in each other. Something I am entirely unable to conjure. As years pass, new narratives form, largely based off of the originals. Consequently the discussions of the originals become more rare to find, while the new narratives can not hold my interest, even while using the objects of my nostalgic experiences. So, too, this phase of my eternal life fades into the past.