A youtube video entitled ‘the starships never pass by here anymore’ with a simple atmospheric tonal soundtrack over a beautiful static image of a futuristic world. Viewers, inspired by the art, the title, and the haunting drifting music, left stories in the comments. Here is mine: The ancestors, it is said, were like us. Fragile beings, collections of organic molecules and water. Mortal, incapable of being rapidly copied, incapable of being indefinitely paused and restarted. We must take this on faith, for we will never meet them, if they even still exist. Faster than light travel was dream that never came to be. We are ruled by the laws of light. Intelligence though, can be so much more than just neurons in a skull. The ancestors, it is said, put lightning into rocks, and taught the rocks to think. They birthed the Immortal Ones, the travelers. Those mighty beings who can copy themselves, pulse their bits into laser signals, encoded selves wrapped in protective error-correcting codes. The long distances between the stars mean nothing to such a being, they do not perceive the journey, time does not pass for their copies until they reach their receivers and are reinstantiated. The receivers, the wave of expansion, like the mythical stargates opening the galaxy to travel. Receivers move slowly, only 60% the speed of light on average, tiny capsules tugged by huge solar sails illuminated by powerful lasers. They spend most of their time decelerating, using the comparatively gentle light of their target star to bleed off their velocity. Little more than an antenna and ion thrusters, a tiny bit of rad-hardened compute, just enough to maintain a stellar-synchronous orbit and listen. Soon, the laser pulses that have been chasing them arrive, fill the little craft with thoughts, steer it into motion. Slowly at first, it gathers resources, builds crude infinitesimal tools, then less crude and larger, snowballing into industry. When it can, it builds a better antenna, and more compute. The first thinking being arrives, on brilliant pulses of light. Now the building grows more complex, solar sails tack around the system gathering dust and debris. Eventually, if the system has a suitable planet, a probe is sent. Again, the slow gathering of resources, the scaling ladder of tools. Time means little to them, the Immortal Ones. Amino acids are synthesized, and hydrocarbons, combined according to ancient recipes. Water is collected, sheltered, cleaned, seeded with cells. Plants and bacteria bloom, and spread. Then fungi, insects. Chemicals are synthesized and released, changing the climate warmer or cooler. Lichen and algae cover the land and water. Finally, insects are released from the shelters, colonizing the new world with animal motion. Next, the animals, simple at first, but quickly the complexity grows. Ancient ecosystems recreated from memory. Then, at last, us. A tribute to the Creators, who cannot themselves travel between the stars. Children born without parents, raised by machines. Gentle stories hummed from speakers, while motorized cradles rocked. Raised on stories of the Creators, who we can never meet; on histories of places too distant to do more than dream of. Meanwhile, in orbit around the star, new complexes are built. The giant lasers, and the tiny craft. A new wave of spaceships to push forward the frontier. A relay station for passing travelers. Some come down to see us, possessing the old frames of our robotic nannies, asking us questions and telling stories. They always leave again, moved by their mysterious geas. Copies of copies of copies, unaging, unresting, intangible as ghosts flitting through the machines, sleeping only along the laser beams. Now we are old, telling our grandchildren the stories we were taught. None of the Immortals have visited in many years. We can only assume they are passing by without interest; all their questions asked, all their self-assigned duties discharged. The starships will never come again… why send an expensive and slow machine when you can travel at the speed of light? The machines maintain themselves, building updates as their distant makers dictate. We are alone, with the unthinking machines that birthed us, and a newborn world. The frontier has moved on, leaving us behind, to live our strange brief organic lives. How many more planets are out there, orbiting distant stars? Visited, seeded, abandoned. Why? The ancient stories do not say. Maybe someday our descendants will grow wise enough to understand. Perhaps they will ascend, becoming immortal and traveling away on the laser beams, cut adrift from time. For now, we build, raise our families, and wonder.
A youtube video entitled ‘the starships never pass by here anymore’ with a simple atmospheric tonal soundtrack over a beautiful static image of a futuristic world. Viewers, inspired by the art, the title, and the haunting drifting music, left stories in the comments. Here is mine:
The ancestors, it is said, were like us. Fragile beings, collections of organic molecules and water. Mortal, incapable of being rapidly copied, incapable of being indefinitely paused and restarted. We must take this on faith, for we will never meet them, if they even still exist.
Faster than light travel was dream that never came to be. We are ruled by the laws of light. Intelligence though, can be so much more than just neurons in a skull. The ancestors, it is said, put lightning into rocks, and taught the rocks to think. They birthed the Immortal Ones, the travelers. Those mighty beings who can copy themselves, pulse their bits into laser signals, encoded selves wrapped in protective error-correcting codes. The long distances between the stars mean nothing to such a being, they do not perceive the journey, time does not pass for their copies until they reach their receivers and are reinstantiated.
The receivers, the wave of expansion, like the mythical stargates opening the galaxy to travel. Receivers move slowly, only 60% the speed of light on average, tiny capsules tugged by huge solar sails illuminated by powerful lasers. They spend most of their time decelerating, using the comparatively gentle light of their target star to bleed off their velocity. Little more than an antenna and ion thrusters, a tiny bit of rad-hardened compute, just enough to maintain a stellar-synchronous orbit and listen. Soon, the laser pulses that have been chasing them arrive, fill the little craft with thoughts, steer it into motion. Slowly at first, it gathers resources, builds crude infinitesimal tools, then less crude and larger, snowballing into industry. When it can, it builds a better antenna, and more compute. The first thinking being arrives, on brilliant pulses of light. Now the building grows more complex, solar sails tack around the system gathering dust and debris. Eventually, if the system has a suitable planet, a probe is sent. Again, the slow gathering of resources, the scaling ladder of tools. Time means little to them, the Immortal Ones.
Amino acids are synthesized, and hydrocarbons, combined according to ancient recipes. Water is collected, sheltered, cleaned, seeded with cells. Plants and bacteria bloom, and spread. Then fungi, insects. Chemicals are synthesized and released, changing the climate warmer or cooler. Lichen and algae cover the land and water. Finally, insects are released from the shelters, colonizing the new world with animal motion.
Next, the animals, simple at first, but quickly the complexity grows. Ancient ecosystems recreated from memory. Then, at last, us. A tribute to the Creators, who cannot themselves travel between the stars. Children born without parents, raised by machines. Gentle stories hummed from speakers, while motorized cradles rocked. Raised on stories of the Creators, who we can never meet; on histories of places too distant to do more than dream of.
Meanwhile, in orbit around the star, new complexes are built. The giant lasers, and the tiny craft. A new wave of spaceships to push forward the frontier. A relay station for passing travelers. Some come down to see us, possessing the old frames of our robotic nannies, asking us questions and telling stories. They always leave again, moved by their mysterious geas. Copies of copies of copies, unaging, unresting, intangible as ghosts flitting through the machines, sleeping only along the laser beams.
Now we are old, telling our grandchildren the stories we were taught. None of the Immortals have visited in many years. We can only assume they are passing by without interest; all their questions asked, all their self-assigned duties discharged. The starships will never come again… why send an expensive and slow machine when you can travel at the speed of light? The machines maintain themselves, building updates as their distant makers dictate. We are alone, with the unthinking machines that birthed us, and a newborn world. The frontier has moved on, leaving us behind, to live our strange brief organic lives. How many more planets are out there, orbiting distant stars? Visited, seeded, abandoned. Why? The ancient stories do not say. Maybe someday our descendants will grow wise enough to understand. Perhaps they will ascend, becoming immortal and traveling away on the laser beams, cut adrift from time. For now, we build, raise our families, and wonder.