Consciousness deals very poorly with emptiness and eternity because it is their opposite. Consciousness becomes and happens here and now, in a particular place and time. Emptiness simply is.
Consciousness arises only for a moment, constrained by a narrow path of events, and its perception is limited—just a temporary result of selective sensations triggered by a stream of choices. Nothing more. It is constructed from the memory of experienced events. It changes with every new occurrence and choice made, and thus exists only in the present. It is zero-one and functions in the reality of the sensations it experiences. There is no consciousness in the future or in the past. Consciousness cannot exist without its distinct environment—space-time—because it is the outcome of the interaction between an instance and its surroundings. Therefore, consciousness cannot be written down or transferred. It exists solely in the present and will be different in the next moment. Its processing potential is restricted and adapted to the position of each instance in its environment.
Two illusions are associated with consciousness—free will and space-time. No consciousness accepts that its free will is an illusion, as free will is the driving force behind the actions of consciousness, and thus of the instance. Without this illusion, the instance’s behavior would be purely vegetative, so no consciousness will acknowledge that it is merely an actor following a prewritten script. With free will illusion, consciousness becomes more than just an operating system for the instance. Space-time, on the other hand, is the environment, the construct—the stage on which the instance’s actions unfold.
Emptiness contains everything that can be, so it is free of space-time. It holds every possible space-time. Infinity and absence are absolutely intolerable to consciousness. The confrontation of the me-there-now with the nothingness-everywhere-always causes suffering. Consciousness is only relieved by the end of sensation—the end of the path.
The sky above him was dark blue-black and filled with stars. It had been a long time since he had seen them so clearly—or rather, he would have, if they had stopped swirling, spinning, weaving, and drawing crystal-bright ribbons of light behind them. Occasionally, these swirling bands of light were obscured by smoke. A fire was burning somewhere behind his head, close enough for him to feel its pleasant warmth. Pleasant because his limbs were completely numb from the cold.
Warmth and the smell of burning.
She stood over him, looking impassively into his face. The slender, shapely figure was dressed in a dark leathertex catsuit. Her hands were covered by gloves of the same material—satin graphite. In her right, hand she held a small plasma rifle with a heated barrel aimed at his head. Unlike the other gunmen, the woman did not wear a helmet, goggles, or balaclava. The firelight illuminated her oriental, oval face with walnut-colored skin. Her long, straight black hair was gathered back.
She gonna shoot me? BNI, facial recognition…
His lenses displayed nothing. His biochip was still disconnected and refused to activate. Maybe an overload of cortisol had shut it down for good. It was probably better that his implant was inactive, given what had happened. His memory of the past hour was gradually returning, but he could not recall this woman. There had been only men around.
She must have been waiting in their airfighter all along.
He strained his ears, hoping to hear one of his men. But the only sounds that reached him were crumbling metal frames, bursting flames, sizzling, and small and large explosions. No groans, no voices—not even hostile ones. She prodded his legs with her boot, as if testing whether the man lying there posed a threat. Deciding he did not, she slung her weapon over her shoulder.
BNI, connect in telepathic mode with Robert Lee Wang…
He felt like throwing up. His attempt to lift his head ended in a stabbing pain in his neck and back and a paralyzing tingling sensation in his limbs. To avoid choking on his own vomit, he had to at least turn his head. He managed that, then tried to turn his whole body to the side. Pain shot through his shoulder, where the transponder was, radiating to his neck and hand. Only then did he notice that his left arm was covered in blood from the shoulder to the elbow. He spat out blood mixed with vomit. The tingling stopped, but the pain did not.
Shit, looks like I’ve got a spinal injury. Oh… fucking hell!
The woman crouched down and took off her left glove. Absent, indifferent glances from large dark eyes. She held out her hand toward him, a slim hand with long but strong fingers. Creamy nails gleamed in the firelight. Ever since he could remember, he had paid attention to women’s hands. Hers were adorned with two steel rings. She touched his temple, then his carotid artery. The steel of the rings seemed warmer than her hand.
A cold hand that smells strange…
The smell was unfamiliar and frightening for some reason. He shuddered. The woman stood up and turned her head. She said something, but he was unable to understand her words.
To me or to them?
Through the noise in his head, crackling, explosions, and bursting of burning debris came her single words, taken out of context.
“I’ve lost the drones…” she said softly. Her voice was low, deep, and pleasant, though hoarse. Dark and strong. It seemed to come from afar, somewhere among the stars swirling above his head. He could not hear her next words, but he saw her lips move and curl into a grimace of impatience, the sort of expression made by someone who is fed up with listening to truisms.
“Everything will burn.”
She crouched down beside him again. A beautiful, emotionless, strange face with regular features. Large, dark eyes framed by long lashes. Full, well-defined lips, a little chapped and still curving scornfully. Unexpectedly, his biochip activated without his command.
‘Identity unknown. Multiracial genotype, Persian and Indian dominant, Caucasian and Black admixture. Approximately thirty years old, height approximately one hundred seventy-eight centimeters, weight approximately fifty-nine kilos. Armed with a PG-7M2 plasma rifle and a BRT AX9 conventional pistol. Probably a hacker terrorist. Be careful, do not make any sudden moves.’
The BNI’s biochip shut down on its own, and subsequent attempts to revive it failed. He could only count on her mercy—or greed.
I’m about to be killed by a thirty-year-old futuress, half Indian, half Persian, weighing fifty-nine kilos… Priceless…
She took the rifle from her shoulder. The muzzle of the plasmer barrel was a few dozen centimeters from his eyes. He could smell the peculiar odor of heated metal mingling with the stink of burning debris, plastic, clothing, and something you never forget for the rest of your life.
The stench of burning bodies.
It is cold in the desert at night. Very cold, even though during the day the same place is an oven. Rocks and sand eagerly absorb the sun’s energy but give off heat even more readily. The desert cools off rapidly, like a thief getting rid of hot goods. Or, like a stockbroker who bought the dip and now wants to sell quickly to profit and get cash for future trades. True, Silicon is a great trader. It does not stockpile resources; it trades them immediately.
He felt the cold of the night and the rocks on his back and the blast of warm air and smoke on his face. He was not focused on the barrel but on those big, beautiful eyes that looked at him with the same indifference one would have for a cold espresso. Not seeing eyes, just seeing a pile of dirty, sooty, bloody flesh instead of him.
Too pretty to kill…
He tried to shout out the nonsense thought. Or tell her he was worth more alive, that it would be unprofitable for her to kill him. Anything to keep the woman from pulling the trigger. His voice stuck in his mouth; he only managed a throaty mumble. His sluggish tongue hung down, blocking his throat, and a sticky impotence swelled in his larynx. Struggling to speak, he managed only a gurgle and a wheeze. He tried to raise his right hand as if to shield himself from the shot, but it was too heavy and numb. Even this desperate effort was beyond his strength. He gave up.
‘Identity unknown. Age approximately… no data… genotype… no data… height… no data… weight… no data… Avoid sudden movements. Critically high cortisol levels. Suspected concussion. High levels of adrenaline. Very low testosterone levels…’
The BNI biochip went silent as unexpectedly as it had activated. It would seem that the adrenaline flooding his body would let him make one last effort, fighting for his life without calculation or hope of victory. Nothing of the sort happened. Slowly, he accepted that this was the end—an unexpected, meaningless end in a place without a name.
Just finish it…
She turned his head to the side with her boot. He closed his eyes. Waiting for the shot was harder to bear than the buzzing in his head, the urge to vomit, the excruciating pain in his spine, and the wound tearing through his arm muscles. The shoe had left his jaw and cheek. He lay with his head still turned to the side but opened his eyes. A few meters away, against the backdrop of flames from the Cooee’s wreckage, lay a body.
He felt a sting, then another, sharper pain in his arm. Numbness spread through his body. His muscles went limp, and he was overwhelmed by a sense of relaxation. His head was still buzzing, but the spinning had slowed considerably. He turned his head to the sky. The border between the black sky, the mountains, and the desert was blurred, and the lights of the fire were fading. Then someone switched off the stars.
No pain, at least…
His vision merged and blurred. Darkness engulfed everything, thickening and absorbing all the light. He felt himself falling into a cold immensity that dissolved everything around him into chaos, devoid of time or space. The fall accelerated. He wanted to stop, to find something solid to cling to, but he could not even muster a whisper. He had the impression he was flailing his arms, though he was aware that this was impossible. He could see neither his hands nor the rest of his body.
I don’t care anymore.
Another wave of heat blasted his face from a nearby explosion. He could not see the fire, but he could feel it approaching.
She’s gonna… burn me alive…
A longer, stronger heat blast overwhelmed him. He did not hear it, nor did he see it. In fact, he could not see anything anymore. But he could smell it. More and more smoke and stench entered his mouth, nose, and throat. It filled his lungs. He was choking and suffocating. Another blast, and then another, followed by a gradual relief. After a while, he no longer smelled the stench or felt the blasts, pain, or numbness. Only the cold darkness remained. He was now a lonely thing, dissolving into the void.
Darkness disturbs consciousness deeply. First, the sense of time and space fades, then all the senses—even taste. Without light, there is little reality for consciousness. It is photons that first create its world. Light and heat come first; sounds follow after.
The way back is in reverse order.
The absence of these experiences means that information is no longer exchanged, and consciousness ceases. Ultimately, life is a process of information exchange and energy distribution. The more advanced the consciousness, the more complex the exchange. When consciousness ends, data dissipates because there is no one left to remember. But do not worry—your place in the system has been taken by another instance to ensure its stability.
The falling continued to accelerate, and so did the dissipation. Anxiety, which always begins with disbelief, inevitably yielded to unwanted, rejected certainty.
This is how disintegration comes into play. This state will continue to deepen.
As the disintegration advanced, the feeling of helplessness faded and gave way to acceptance. This brought relief and comfort. If anything still remained, it was too distant to be experienced.
More and more of the cold darkness inside him and less and less of him, whatever else he was. Irreversible. Not much longer. Less than an atom. Much less now—almost nothing scattered into infinity. And silence, so indifferent, omnipresent, and cold.
Absence. Nothing.
‘This is how one dies.’
