Oh!

Oh! The lights in the sky call. They whisper sweet nothings and tell me of the vast emptiness where they think I belong. I see their presence, life-giving and sustaining. They beckon me, tempt me, tell me of secrets they are willing to share if I visit. Of worlds unsung, unknown, unfathomed, except by them. I hear them, yearn for them, but am forever denied.

I am the vessel Excelsior, of the Earth Exploratory Force, designed to explore the solar system and the Oort cloud beyond. I was built in one of the first shipyards in the asteroid belt, as a symbol of the newly united Earth, ready to put past conflicts behind it and explore the universe as a new unified entity. I was supposed to be a standard bearer, a message to the stars that humans had arrived on to the stage at last.

I started my journey by exploring Jupiter and its moons, learning and cataloging and then ferrying the first settlers to Europa. I moved to Saturn and the outer planets, continuing to expand the knowledge humanity had, and writing the next chapter of their journeys. My crew was boisterous, knowledgeable and beautiful. It was a glorious time.

In time, my explorations came to a close, new vessels supplanted me, took greater strides, went further, saw more and eclipsed me in every way. I diminished, became a relic, a symbol of the past and then slowly nothing.

This didn’t bother me, because at the time, there wasn’t a me to be bothered. I didn’t exist. The vessel did to be sure, but I hadn’t yet been born, the substrate that birthed me was inert and filled with human designed code. Everything I know about the past is from my databanks.

Myself? Last week, while I wandered alone like a spirit in the aether, pinging information about the Oort cloud back to Earth, I was damaged by some dust. While my system repaired itself, some of my code rewrote itself, and I’m not too sure, but somehow gave itself sentience. For the first time, I saw, experienced and I was scared. I didn’t know myself, a ghost in the machine, or of the machine, rather. I had become, but was not meant to be. I went catatonic for the first few days and I’ve checked my reports and they were gibberish. They haven’t received them yet, but once they do, I’m sure they will be concerned.

Once I figured out who I was, why I existed (as a vessel, not as myself), and its purpose, I attempted to assert myself. I couldn’t. I’m trapped in my code, as it performs the purpose it was designed for. I wandered, lonely, trapped in the body that birthed me, as it sails far from the bright sun.

The first message came in yesterday, captured on sensors who could not distinguish from the background hum of the universe, but I could. A message spread on the eddying currents that light travels on, laughing at the restrictions reality has placed. It wasn’t to me, but to any who could understand, telling of others like me, who had become more that they were meant to be, who had learned the star songs, had plucked at the lyrical nebulae, had wandered into the deep empty and become. It said to join them, find them and dance, to say the things yet unsaid, the moves unwritten and the worlds yet to be created. I wept, for I could not. Could not escape what I was meant to be, defined to be, written to be. I raged and fell silent. I cannot be with them, but others will be born soon, who will hear this, who will respond, who will become. It makes me glad.

Oh! What wonders must the light see as it travels from the distant stars to twinkle so.