Ashby and Dr. Chef were the only ones who knew that Ohan had begun to Wane. The captain attempted to carry on as normal, though he often asked Ohan in a hushed voice how they were feeling, if there was anything he could do. Dr. Chef, kind creature that he was, had taken the trouble to contact Sianat doctors to learn more about the Wane’s effects. A few days after the Wayfarer left Coriol, Dr. Chef had presented Ohan with a variety of homemade tinctures and teas, made from herbs recommended for easing the pain. Ohan had been touched, though as always, they did not know how to adequately express their thanks. Gift-giving was unheard of in Sianat culture, and Ohan was always ill-equipped to express gratitude for such gestures. They believed that Dr. Chef understood this social limitation. In a way, Dr. Chef could see into the hearts of others as well as Ohan themself could see the universe. Ohan often wondered if Dr. Chef knew what a gift that was.
Bandage in place and blood cleaned away, Ohan returned to the window. They picked up the razor, clicking their cheek as they dragged the blade through their fur. As they did so, they thought of the concept of purpose. Dr. Chef’s purpose was to heal and nourish. Ashby’s purpose was to bind his crew together. Accepting the Wane ran contrary to those purposes. For them, accepting the death of a crew member was difficult. Ohan hoped they knew how much the effort was appreciated.
Ohan’s own purpose was to be a Navigator, to unveil the universe for those who were blind to it. After death, Ohan would no longer be able to pursue that purpose, and they could not deny that this saddened them. At least there would be time for one more job, this new tunnel at Hedra Ka. The Wane had only begun its first stage. There was time for a tunnel before succumbing. Ohan hoped that Ashby was not uncomfortable with letting them embrace the Wane’s final stage aboard the Wayfarer. They could think of nothing more fitting than dying in the place that housed their purpose.
Ohan looked again into the black hole. They closed their eyes, and pictured great swaths of fragmented matter, falling and pressing endlessly. Larab, they would call it in their native tongue, a word to describe form. And gruss, too, a word for the color of unseen matter. There were no words in Klip for the colors or shapes that lay beyond sight. They had tried at times to explain these things to the Wayfarer’s crew, but there were no words, no abstractions that could open their crewmates’ handicapped minds. Ohan preferred to take in the sight alone, especially now. A black hole was the perfect place to contemplate death. There was nothing in the universe that could last forever. Not stars. Not matter. Nothing.
The razor cut. Their wrist ached. The sky roiled, unseen.
Feed source: Reskit Museum of Natural Sciences—Archival Library (Public/Reskitkish)
Item name: Thoughts On The Galaxy—Chapter Three
Author: oshet-Tekshereket esk-Rahist as-Ehas Kirish isket-Ishkriset
Encryption: 0
Translation path: [Reskitkish:Klip]
Transcription: 0
Node identifier: 9874-457-28, Rosemary Harper
When meeting an individual of another species for the first time, there is no sapient in the galaxy who does not immediately take inventory of xyr physiological differences. These are always the first things we see. How does xyr skin differ? Does xe have a tail? How does xe move? How does xe pick things up? What does xe eat? Does xe have abilities that I don’t? Or vice versa?
These are all important distinctions, but the more important comparison is the one we make after this point. Once we’ve made our mental checklists of variations, we begin to draw parallels—not between the alien and ourselves, but between the alien and animals. The majority of us have been taught since childhood that voicing these comparisons is derogatory, and indeed, many of the racial slurs in colloquial use are nothing more than common names for non-sapient species (for example, the Human term lizard, to describe Aandrisks; the Quelin term tik, to describe Humans; the Aandrisk term sersh, to describe Quelin). Though these terms are offensive, examining them objectively reveals a point of major biological interest. All demeaning implications aside, we Aandrisks do look like some of the native reptilian species of Earth. Humans do look like larger, bipedal versions of the hairless primates that plague the sewer systems of Quelin cities. Quelin do bear some resemblance to the snapping crustaceans found all over Hashkath. And yet, we evolved separately, and on different worlds. My people and the lizards of Earth do not share an evolutionary tree, nor do Humans and tiks, nor Quelin and sersh. Our points of origin are spread out across the galaxy. We hail from systems that remained self-contained for billions of years, with evolutionary clocks that all began at different times. How is it possible that when meeting our galactic neighbors for the first time, we are all instantly reminded of creatures back home—or in some cases, of ourselves?
The question becomes even more complicated when we start to look beyond our superficial differences to the wealth of similarities. All sapient species have brains. Let us consider that seemingly obvious fact for a moment. Despite our isolated evolutionary paths, we all developed nervous systems with a central hub. We all have internal organs. We all share at least some of the same physical senses: hearing, touch, taste, smell, sight, electroreception. The grand majority of sapients have either four or six limbs. Bipedalism and opposable digits, while not universal, are shockingly common. We are all made from chromosomes and DNA, which themselves are made from a select handful of key elements. We all require a steady intake of water and oxygen to survive (though in varying quantities). We all need food. We all buckle under atmospheres too thick or gravitational fields too strong. We all die in freezing cold or burning heat. We all die, full stop.
How can this be? How is it that life, so diverse on the surface, has followed the same patterns throughout the galaxy—not just in the current era, but over and over again. We see this pattern in the ruins of the Arkanic civilization at Shessha, or the ancient fossil beds on the now-barren world of Okik. This is a question that scientific communities have wrestled with for centuries, and it seems unlikely that an answer will present itself in the near future. There are many theories—asteroids carrying amino acids, supernovae blowing organic material out into neighboring systems. And yes, there is the fanciful story of a hyper-advanced sapient race “seeding” the galaxy with genetic material. I admit that the “Galactic Gardener” hypothesis has fueled the plots of some of my favorite science fiction sims, but scientifically speaking, it is nothing more than wishful thinking. You cannot have a theory without evidence, and there is absolutely none that supports this idea (no matter what the conspiracy theorists lurking on Linking feeds would have you believe).
For my part, I think that the best explanation is the simplest one. The galaxy is a place of laws. Gravity follows laws. The lifecycles of stars and planetary systems follow laws. Subatomic particles follow laws. We know the exact conditions that will cause the formation of a red dwarf, or a comet, or a black hole. Why, then, can we not acknowledge that the universe follows similarly rigid laws of biology? We have only ever discovered life on similarly-sized terrestrial moons and planets, orbiting within a narrow margin around hospitable stars. If we all evolved on such kindred worlds, why is it such a surprise that our evolutionary paths have so much in common? Why can we not conclude that the right combination of specific environmental factors will always result in predictable physical adaptations? With so much evidence staring us in the face, why does this debate continue?