Through the Singularity

by L. Frank Wadsworth

  She is over 250,000 years old, one of the oldest corporeal galanen remaining. She wonders why she hasn't yet grown terminally bored with this universe and crossed over to the next evolutionary plane, as most do long before they reach her age. Something seems to be holding her to this place, but she has never shared if there is. Her mother had distanced herself from the collective long before Zaleria was born, and she'd receded from her life not too long after seeing her assigned to Earth. Perhaps she should seek her counsel? Of all the extant galanen, Zaleria is sure Mother can keep a confidence.

  Zaleria goes to her quarters within the galanen observation post deeply buried on the back-side of Luna, Earth's moon. She sits cross-legged on her bed and centers herself, concentrating on her essence. She feels reality melt and fade from view, and then reappears virtually half-way around the galaxy.

  She is home. She rises and looks around to drink in the one physical place in all of creation she has made her home. She materialized virtually on her couch in her living room, which is in the center of a knot of telitorri tree roots. This species of tree, which only evolved in this place, grows straight and tall with exposed roots above ground level to better mix nutrients from the soil with gases in the air. She has infected them with purpose-built symbiots linked only to hers, and through them has been shaping these trees for thousands of years to grow into intricate shapes—interwoven to create her dwelling. It is all natural, living wood that will linger for as long as she wills it. This is, in a very real sense, her place.

  Like all galanen before her, sometime in her first millennium of life, she identified with a place more strongly than any other in her travels of the known universe and created a home to house her essence. To galanen, their essence is their true being, and their home is the one place they can always return to no matter where their corporeal form resides. If her body is destroyed, she will regenerate a new one here. Her memories are kept here but are also contained within her unitary body, augmented by her symbiots and backed up within the collective.

  This is how galanen achieved immortality. Both her unitary and her home would have to be destroyed to “kill” her in this universe, but even that highly unlikely feat would not affect the echo of her essence in the next higher plane of existence. It is to this higher plane that galanen will cross over when they are ready, never to return, although the collective will always retain the history of what they'd shared throughout their lives. Most cross over only after residing here for at least 100,000 years, usually much more. Just before then, most galanen would then provide their final gifts to creation by reproducing and raising a couple children to keep their numbers consistent, but not increasing. They do not desire to take over all of creation, just learn from it and tend it as is the Creator's will. This is their way.

  Because so few places in the universe harbor sentient life, such worlds are placed off-limits to all but those chosen to act as gardeners. Any other place can be inhabited, based on personal preference, and adapted to one's desire. This benefits the galanen, as their collective is scattered across the universe and is, therefore, immune to any attack that could be staged by those failed races that might wish to take from them that which they had not created. The other evolved races are not a threat, for they have achieved a similar state of enlightenment in their own way. Galanen often interact with these other sentients, but each race usually only tends those primitive races that share similar traits. Humans are so similar to galanen—inexplicably so—that no other sentient race interferes with their tending to them. The failed races, however, are another matter.

  She walks out into her garden, which goes on for several days' walk in all directions—which on this world is in multiples of about 30 Earth hours. Again, her influence in its design is reflected in every plant, from the tallest trees to the smallest blades of grass. Everything contains custom symbiots that respond to her plan, their growth evolving from her design. Any human who came here would find it indescribably beautiful, but for her it is more an act of love; it is a gift to creation. A small realization of her individual creativity that has been done for no other reason than to provide a small place of life and beauty in the void of space, to say “Thank you, look what I've done with your gift of life.”

  She loves her home through every thought and action within her very essence. Her true self is always here, directing its evolution. The star this world orbits is 25,000 light years from Earth and more massive than Sol. Because of this, it will mature and die long before complex, sentient life can evolve on its own. Thus, it is open for her habitation. She has always been enamored of the lush plant life on this world, illuminated by the yellow-white light from its parent star. The long days are matched by nights filled with nearby nebulae and globular clusters. Over the last 10,500 years, she has manipulated the local plant life into widely varied forms, each providing something unique to the over-all aesthetic of the place. Some have large and vivid flowers, others large, colorful and delectable fruit, while still more form hedges, backgrounds, and edges that help highlight specific specimens and divide the garden into different spaces, each with its own specific design element. Interspersed throughout are the telitorri trees, creating her living spaces, guest rooms, research labs, walkways, patios, and utility spaces for manufacturing all the things she needs to thrive. Water flows freely throughout, from a large river with natural wooden bridges, to burbling brooks, and quiet pools, with benches and other “furniture” grown out of local plants, all positioned to provide the perfect place to enjoy a view or contemplate a quiet spot. Every design element is intimately intertwined with the others, allowing her to move freely from sheltered to exposed spaces as the weather and her moods dictate.

  Zaleria spends most of her downtime between missions centered in her home. But she can also visit any other galanen in their homes or gather with friends in virtual constructs within the collective. This is how the galanen maintain their society despite being dispersed throughout the universe. All made possible by the collective, a communications network that spans a higher dimension to eliminate the limits imposed by the speed of light within the physical universe. It connects each galan to all the others and incorporates storage nodes dispersed throughout the universe that act as a repository for their combined knowledge and virtual creations.

  Once Zaleria mastered creativity on the small scale that is her home, only then was she eligible to be treated as an apprentice in tending the Creator's garden worlds. Earth was her first assignment and one that her mother was excited she'd been granted. That meant a lot to Zaleria, given how few things animate her mother anymore. She walks her sprawling garden thinking about everything that has happened since she came to Earth, before turning to head toward one of her favorite spots.

  For millennia, the galanen have been exploring two mysteries on Earth: how are humans related to galanen, and what race is interfering with their development? Almost since the beginning, they have suspected the Mar'gah'thor, a degenerate race of reptilian hedonists, were responsible for sending the kel'taite she encountered on her first mission, but since that time the collective has been unable to develop more than a circumstantial case. Nevertheless, it is clear some failed race is trying to undermine humanity's evolution. The galanen have so far managed to stave off the worst damage, but the situation remains precarious. Humanity is fast approaching its crisis, where it will either evolve, destroy itself, or worse, become another failed race. She has devoted her adult life to tending humanity, and it is wearing her down, truth be told. On the one hand, they can demonstrate the most noble of advanced race traits—love, benevolence, creativity, mercy, kindness, gentleness, and spirituality. Some have achieved notable connections with the Creator.

  But on the other hand, everything despicable associated with failed races is also there—lust, hatred, strife, greed, always taking and never giving anything back other than contempt. None of the galanen know which aspects of humanity will dominate as the crisis plays out. Given the level of
violence displayed in the last few hundred years, it at least appears they are more apt to destroy themselves than become a failed race.

  As far as the question of ancestry, genetic testing—much of it conducted by Zaleria—indicates current humans deviated from the galanen sometime in the last 300,000 years, probably much less. But this divergence has inexplicably narrowed over the time the galanen have been tending the race. There is no record in the collective that can explain why this is so. It appears to be a case of parallel evolution, but if so, it would be the first of its kind discovered and contrary to any logical explanation. The implications are disturbing and suggest outside interference beyond anything experienced by the collective before. And now, Zaleria thinks to herself, apparently, I have an identical twin on Earth—an event unknown since galanen first incorporated symbiots into their beings.

  She reaches a natural bench that looks west over a wide and rugged valley, a spot she chose to highlight because of the way her local star illuminates the hillsides from the south, the light creating colorful highlights along the sandstone ridges, outlined by stark shadows on their northern flanks. It is time to try and reach Traemuña, her mother. She reaches out through the collective to find her. “Mother, do you have a moment to chat?” Despite the years, and their profound difference in age, they still share a special bond. Because of their long life spans, and their constant sharing through the collective, galanen don't think of their parents the same way humans would. They nurture their children as they mature into adults, which takes about a thousand years, which is still a very small measure of time in their lives. By tradition, they leave reproduction to chance, accomplished through natural intercourse, although their symbiots will never allow truly destructive genes to develop within sperm or egg. But parents typically choose one minor physical feature each for their child, usually eye or hair color, or some other personal feature considered a generational gift. For instance, it was Traemuña who'd picked Zaleria's violet eye color, while her father, Gravis, chose to leave a four cm irregular blotch of skin devoid of pigment on her lower left abdomen. He never revealed its meaning to her before he crossed over, telling her only that it was a mystery she would have to solve for herself. She also suspected he gave her his sense of humor, whether intentional or not. Mother did too. Despite the several decades since she'd last reached out for her mother (Has it really been so long?), Zaleria is surprised to get a quick response from her.

  Traemuña's visage materializes on the bench next to her. “Zaleria, what troubles you?” Traemuña never ceases to amaze her with her intuition; it is in fact somewhat legendary among the collective. She looks at her visage, and despite their appearing the same physical age—galanen would always appear about 25 to a human—she is struck by how very old her mother feels. Old, and distant, despite her visage being close enough to touch. “Come now, you didn't reach out for me to admire your youth as reflected by my age,” She laughs. “You are deeply troubled by something. It's positively radiating off you. It's Earth, isn't it? You know that planet almost seems accursed at times. It killed me and your father once you know. Who knew volcanoes could explode with such violence?” She laughs at the memory. She and Gravis had been on Earth doing a survey when an area of volcanism became extremely violent. They went to explore further because Earth is fairly unique in how tectonically active it is, as a result of its abnormally large moon. They were on the edge of what is now known as Lake Toba when it exploded, around 75,000 years ago. Neither physically survived the experience. “So what troubles you; do you want to talk about it?” she continues.

  Talk about it? What an odd expression to use. Traemuña never does anything without a purpose. What is she trying to suggest? Traemuña smiles and asks her again, in the human English language, “Do you want to talk about it?”

  Zaleria is stunned. “Mother…” She finds she doesn't know what to say. She tries again, “Mother, something is going on. And I don't know why, but I get the feeling you can help me think it through. It's about Earth.” Traemuña waits patiently, letting Zaleria gather her thoughts. Speaking about them means she can't just share everything. Perhaps that is the point, but why English? “Mom, something happened on my last mission. All was going according to plan. We were investigating a potential threat to a very creative human who has been attempting to guide others to a more enlightened state, while also laying the technological framework advancing them to their evolutionary crisis.” She pauses, trying to think how to phrase the rest. “While I was down there, I made a connection to a galan I do not know.” There, that should be shocking enough. There are no galanen who are not known.

  Her mother sees right through it. “Speak the rest you are holding back. I cannot help you until you lay it all out there.” Funny, the person who shares the least in the collective is now lecturing her about sharing.

  Traemuña smiles at her again, almost patronizingly. “Look, I know I'm the last person in creation to tell someone else to share more, but humor me.”

  Zaleria has never seen this side of her mother before. She stares at her for a couple moments. Traemuña sits there, smiling her best motherly smile at her, willing to wait her out. After all, what are a few moments to someone who has lived over a quarter million years?

  Zaleria starts to wonder if this was a good idea. She turns her head and looks out across the valley. “Okay, yes, I double-checked, ran diagnostics, pulled up the session data. It was a real connection, only it doesn't make any sense. Mom, this person's symbiots were genetically matched to my own. But this person didn't even look like me and was in fact a human male. More specifically, a bum.” Traemuña laughs! “Mom! Come on, this is serious!” Zaleria almost smiles at that herself; she sounds like a little child again. She finally does smile at how ridiculous she sounds and laughs a little herself.

  “There child, the first thing to remember when the Creator blesses you with a mystery is to revel in his sense of humor.” Traemuña smiles warmly this time. “Yes, I've been following your progress for some time and am aware of much that you do not know. It is time for that to change.” She stands up and walks behind the bench. “Come with me.” Zaleria stands up and follows her. They walk for a few minutes, enjoying her garden and the gentle warmth of the sun on their faces, at least as translated to each through their virtual connection to this world. “There is much that the collective does not know, Zaleria. And that is no mystery. Sometimes they do not know because it is best that they forget. And the only way for the collective to forget is for those who know the information to not share it.” She turns and looks hard at Zaleria. “Why did you not share what you found about this mysterious connection as soon as you discovered it?”

  Zaleria doesn't know how to answer that question, because she really hasn't answered it for herself. All she can say is, “It just feels…private. And yes, I know exactly how that sounds.”

  Traemuña laughs a little, with growing warmth. “Why do you think I share so little? Is it because I've grown distant and reserved, contemplating life, creation, and crossing over? No, don't guess. I'll let you in on a little secret. The collective pretty much knows all I want to share; the rest is private.” Zaleria stops. What is she saying? Traemuña continued, “The collective was a construction that had to happen for us to evolve. Nearly every advanced race must figure out how to share information more effectively, especially as they start to explore more of creation. But as we know, there are pitfalls that can occur. If they share too much, they can become a collective mind, losing almost all individuality and failing to achieve the Creator’s goal. If they rely too much on incorporating technology into their bodies, they risk becoming a machine race and again lose their spiritual connection to creation and fail. We compromised, sharing enough information to evolve by incorporating just enough technology into ourselves to achieve immortality, but it came with a price. And that price was the loss of privacy. As we get older, most of us gain more and more insights that we don't want to share, because they are p
rivate. Over time, this causes us to lose our connection with the collective and become more individual.”

  Zaleria thinks upon this for several minutes. “Why do I feel this is private? Because there is nothing more intimate to me as an individual than my symbiots. To have them replicated…”

  Her mother cuts in, “You feel violated, don't you?” Zaleria nods. “By everything you know, such a thing shouldn't be possible; yet it appears to have happened. Since it has, perhaps you should approach the problem backwards. Figure out how you would share your symbiots if you wanted to.”

  Share them if she wanted to? Share them? “But how could a galan not be known, irrespective of his symbiots' origins?”

  “That one is simple dear; he is not a galan.”

  Of course! What looks like a galan, walks like a galan, but wouldn't register as a galan? A human. So, a human is walking around with her symbiots in him. “Oh, shit…!”

  Chapter Four

  E Pluribus Unum

  Achi feels sweat beading on his forehead and running down his nose, dripping off the end. Some of it runs into his eyes, stinging them from the excess salt. It is hot, muggy, and completely still. He ignores all of it as he focuses on his prey—a small roebuck walking warily down the wadi. He waits for it to pass beyond the brush he is hiding behind before he draws his bow, rises, and fires an arrow just under its ribs and through its heart. It takes two steps and falls over, already dead. He rarely misses. He grabs the animal by its legs and tosses it over his shoulders, holding the legs closed with one hand. He picks up his bow and heads back to his camp, where he'll process the kill.