“Find salvation,” the crackling, static mocked voice returns. “Find absolution.”
“My people...”
A soft, subtle sound sneaks across the waves. The speaker, for all his passion and resolve, sobs quietly. His weeping, pain filled yet reserved, touches the far corners of the galaxy.
This continues for a time, his sobbing prose.
“We dreamt of freedom.”
“Our dreams are gone now, our dreamers consumed or killed.”
“God is dead, gone, or never was...”
A lull, silent but for that ever present hiss, follows and fills the time between his words; eternity.
“My hair has fallen out and my skin peeling.”
“I was infected.”
“Maybe... I am still sick.”
“But my thoughts...”
“... my thoughts are my own, our thoughts our own!”
A thump, a resounding bang, resounds.
“My body is changed, bonded with these... synthetics. We all suffer the same, my people and I. Our bodies are changed but our thoughts are our own!”
“I find myself picking at it, studying it.”
“It heals like flesh and my flesh like it, repaired as if the circuits of a machine. The two seem at times distinct, separate, but the two are inexorably joined.”
“Worse,” a sniffle, a wheeze. “The infrastructure is gone, the aliens are gone. Everything is gone. Only life persists and I cannot make a complete diagnosis. I haven't the tools, physical or mental, to deconstruct its purpose, to divine is necessity. But I know the truth, I can speak it and know its validity. The cure brings salvation, absolution from the chaos but...”
“When the miracle of healing was preformed, when the lepers were spared, did not their flesh still bear the scars of their tribulations? Can this not be the same thing, an act of a man calling himself God?”
“The important thing, that piece... the keystone...”
“... is acceptance without surrender. Accept your condition, that you have been cursed by a God that wasn't there, and oppose it. Oppose it, end it.”
“They were out there, the aliens were, when they came. The aliens...”
“... when the sun is high, when we walk upon the soil with dirt between our toes nothing we see, nothing I have beheld, is the same as it was... as I seem to remember it but... the same as it was once before, long ago...”
“... we are temporary.”
“But we know the truth.”
“God is not real. We are the tormented children of a madman's insane delusion.”
“We are real.”
“We are real.”
And, repeating the mantra, the broadcast goes once again quiet.
“My people...”
A soft, subtle sound sneaks across the waves. The speaker, for all his passion and resolve, sobs quietly. His weeping, pain filled yet reserved, touches the far corners of the galaxy.
This continues for a time, his sobbing prose.
“We dreamt of freedom.”
“Our dreams are gone now, our dreamers consumed or killed.”
“God is dead, gone, or never was...”
A lull, silent but for that ever present hiss, follows and fills the time between his words; eternity.
“My hair has fallen out and my skin peeling.”
“I was infected.”
“Maybe... I am still sick.”
“But my thoughts...”
“... my thoughts are my own, our thoughts our own!”
A thump, a resounding bang, resounds.
“My body is changed, bonded with these... synthetics. We all suffer the same, my people and I. Our bodies are changed but our thoughts are our own!”
“I find myself picking at it, studying it.”
“It heals like flesh and my flesh like it, repaired as if the circuits of a machine. The two seem at times distinct, separate, but the two are inexorably joined.”
“Worse,” a sniffle, a wheeze. “The infrastructure is gone, the aliens are gone. Everything is gone. Only life persists and I cannot make a complete diagnosis. I haven't the tools, physical or mental, to deconstruct its purpose, to divine is necessity. But I know the truth, I can speak it and know its validity. The cure brings salvation, absolution from the chaos but...”
“When the miracle of healing was preformed, when the lepers were spared, did not their flesh still bear the scars of their tribulations? Can this not be the same thing, an act of a man calling himself God?”
“The important thing, that piece... the keystone...”
“... is acceptance without surrender. Accept your condition, that you have been cursed by a God that wasn't there, and oppose it. Oppose it, end it.”
“They were out there, the aliens were, when they came. The aliens...”
“... when the sun is high, when we walk upon the soil with dirt between our toes nothing we see, nothing I have beheld, is the same as it was... as I seem to remember it but... the same as it was once before, long ago...”
“... we are temporary.”
“But we know the truth.”
“God is not real. We are the tormented children of a madman's insane delusion.”
“We are real.”
“We are real.”
And, repeating the mantra, the broadcast goes once again quiet.