The Dreaming of Stones
“Blood tastes of iron,” he says. “Iron and salt. So maybe life is nothing but the dreamings of cold mineral ore, buried deep in the skin of a god.”
The voice is warm, avuncular, heedless of all besides itself, not talking to the world, but at it. No, that’s not right. Talking with it, like a drowsing older sibling musing aloud in a darkened bedroom, wafting thoughts and musings into the ceiling, filling the space with the comforting substance of their presence.
“And maybe as we dream in our earthen beds, maybe all our dreamings combine. Coalescence into a single mind, skin-borne, its thoughts like the suspiration of amphibian pores.”
There’s a short, tense pause, the hiss of static over the dirty weak connection suddenly loud in the COMCEN.
“Just the storm,” he says, and his voice purrs on.
I’ve been listening to him for weeks now, afloat in this, the last warship, and for all I know the last remnant of my entire civilisation. The last, except perhaps this Diogenes of the airwaves, hunched in the discarded barrel of the world that once was and spreading his truth with a cynic’s airy disregard for the sentiments or even the existence of his audience.
I don’t know who he is, but his accent is vaguely southern. It was the southern provinces that took the brunt. I think that’s why I didn’t immediately dismiss his transmission as a recorded loop or abandoned chatbot. Our last written orders had been to conduct BDA – battle damage assessment – of the southlands. A reduction to quantity of the devastation we had wrought on them, upon ourselves, and on everything else.
“It’s not very well known,” he continues, “but the word ‘apocalypse’ means ‘revelation’. Apocalypse is a sudden revelation of truth. Or of God, I suppose. But I feel this is apt. For through this apocalypse, I have discovered the truth of life – that it is merely the dreaming of insensate rocks.”
I don’t actually know if he’s real, but I’m fairly sure. His telemetry is crystal – we triangulated and fixed him to a 98% certainty. He’s broadcasting from SOMISCOM Ground Station – a Southern Missile Command hub for space launched ICBMs. His noise comes up clean on all our tools, so it’s pretty clear he’s organic and sentient – not a bot or AGI core. And he answers, after a fashion, when addressed. Just a pause, and then a warm, kindly, “Ah. Yes, and thank you,” before he goes on with his monologue.
“All stations, all stations,” he says, his tone suddenly sharp and urgent. I dart forward in my seat, punch the transceiver.
“Receiving, over,” I say.
“All stations. This is SOMISCOM 177. Breach. I repeat: breach.”
Static fills the airwaves.
“They’re here. Tell them…”
The channel goes dead. Not silent - utterly dead. The entire frequency vanished, ripped from reality and void.
I pick up my chinagraph and strike out the frequency number, then turn my dial to the next channel.
