My name is of no importance. All that matters, now, is that you listen.
We did not listen. Humanity didn’t. Maybe you are Humanity, maybe you are not. But hear my story, for it is our last. It begins almost two thousand years ago. Don’t worry, I’ll skip the boring parts. Much of that history has been stolen from me anyways. The important fact is that thousands of years ago, humanity decided, for reasons lost to time, to send spaceships out into the void. Fast spaceships. Ships that quickly approached the speed of light. The technology to accomplish that feat is also lost, at least to me.
This much is relevant: I am an engineer, working atop a transmission tower at the edge of the smoldering ruins of our civilization. It has eaten itself. It has eaten my family, my joy. There isn’t anything left for me but to witness, grieve, and scream my story into the void.
I loved my world. It was a place where you could simply be. We had cars and airplanes and ice cream. There was suffering, of course, and death. But every generation took a tiny step to chip away at its dominion over human affairs. It was a world in which one could grow, one could learn, and build. I was always the building kind, assembling and disassembling all manners of mechanical riddles and contraptions for my daughter. And my Swati, she had caught the puzzle bug too. Or maybe she just wanted to be with me. If so, it grieves me that I have had a hand in precipitating her fate, and that of the world.
At first, we thought we’d made first contact with an alien species. It was less than one hundred years ago. My father used to tell us the story. Our brand new space telescope, tugged to a Lagrange point past the moon, scanned space for infrared signals, and there was no mistaking what we saw: a sharp spike, coming from the direction of Andromeda, full of modulated data that left no doubt as to its deliberate intent. Life calling. There were a few years of elation. We had found “the Others.” There was life in the universe. Even better, they were safely tucked far away in another galaxy, where they could do us no harm. Mankind looked at itself and collectively agreed that there were others hence, right here, we were but one. Those were golden years, full of hope, full of curiosity, and full of questions too.
I was born into that world. A time of inquiry. A time that molded me, my love of technology, of puzzles, of mysteries, tugged all the way up there in the firmament, just out of reach.
We started to probe those signals, attempting to decipher them. It took time. Scientists across the globe pored over the data. And then one day, those scientists went silent. The world held their breath. Weeks passed, months passed, and the rumor swelled. Was the message hostile? What terrible truth did it hold? Strange events started occurring across the globe. Governments cracking down on communications, scientists disappearing, data being scrubbed from government repositories. Obviously something terrible had been found in those messages. Something worth making disappear. Even if it meant sacrificing this wonderfully unique era of togetherness. Even if the world had to revert to its old fears as a result.
And revert it did. Swati was a linguist. I always teased her about it not being a real science. Was I so taken by the joke to actually think it made her safe? My world ended the day she disappeared from her office. The next few years were but a long, drawn-out epitaph.
A month later, a broadcast went up from a tiny island in the pacific. It was a hub for much of the transcontinental fiber network. They probably connected directly into its fabric to evade censorship. And they told the truth.
I knew it was the truth, because the voice that spoke it was my Swati’s. I allowed myself to hope, and I listened to her, as did half of the planet. She told us that the aliens … were us. No one else out there. Just us. The team of scientists, many of Swati’s colleagues, as I now understood, had pieced together that spaceships had been sent more than a thousand years ago outfitted with little mirrors. Probably the kind of retroreflectors we had landed on the moon that bounce a signal back exactly from where it is sent, except vastly better ones. The data they sent back was heavily redshifted, but still entirely readable. It transpired that for centuries, people had taken advantage of these mirrors in space to send messages into the future. For safekeeping data at first: it took probably just a few years to get the message back, and it was completely impossible to forge or intercept. But over time as the time lag increased it had become more like a time capsule. Humanity had decided it would be its grand museum in space. All the data, all the history, all the broadcasts that humanity had deemed worth preserving, and the rest too, had been beamed into space to travel for decades, then centuries. That signal we were decoding, it came from just over a thousand years ago.
The story it told was not in the history books. It spoke of a civilization we did not know had existed. It spoke a language we did not know, but not so alien that the scientists decoding it, supported by all the visual media that the transmission carried, could not translate it. It spoke of a wondrous civilization, yes, but one in decay, gasping its last breath, dumping all of itself into an ark made of light. Hoping for their distant descendants to rebuild, and learn the right lessons this time.
I, like most everyone, was taken by this strange echo of a past I had not known existed. I spent days watching the broadcast in a daze, overlaid over Swati’s voice. Interstellar ships were just the first hint that this civilization had once outdone ours in every way possible, from medicine, to science and art. To be honest, their art was absolutely atrocious, and mesmerizing all the same. It spoke of a society that had taken its deconstruction and reconstruction of the very notion of beauty to a level far beyond ours.
The effect of this revelation was as swift as the governments of the world had feared. We had been lied to. Somehow, somewhere in our past, someone had rewritten history and erased it. And nobody knew whom to blame. We all still believed, at that time, that we’d been living in a peaceful and open society. One that knew its roots. Until the scientist crackdown, that is. Conspiracy theorists were suddenly vindicated. The world demanded answers but didn’t know whom to turn to, except for the rogue broadcasters, who continued to disseminate the translated material from the communication from outer space over the networks. To any curious mind, a wealth of knowledge and wisdom. To me, my Swati’s gentle voice. What we failed to understand was that this same information was also bathing the world in the memories of a distant past so wondrous, so sophisticated, that those who longed for the past, those who were foes to progress and change were also vindicated. We were a failed society, they said. And the echoes of that distant past agreed: we had been better, stronger, and progress had only ever propelled us backwards. We have always been torn between the forces of progress and those who would want nothing to ever change. I always believed that we had agency over our future, and had to use that agency to better ourselves. Swati picked up that standard and, to my everlasting pride, loudly proclaimed for a similarly enlightened future. Others disagreed, and looked backward for a blueprint for better times. These ships convinced the world how right they were.
I understood too late that until we could look at ourselves and see the best that humanity ever was, we’d be torn between longing for a past we never knew and a present suddenly laying bare an unprecedented scale of regression, ignorance and deception. The Others were us, and they were threatening our very identity from across the centuries. We had to learn from them, and fast. Not only what made them great, but also what caused their downfall. Unfortunately, there would be no time for that.
A detonation eradicated the island Swati and her colleagues had taken refuge on, severing the network, bringing chaos to our interconnected world. My heart stopped. The message continued to broadcast, like a ghostly whisper in the network. As long as I could hear her voice, I could convince myself that Swati was still behind it, alive and carrying that message in the hopes that we were there to listen.
I don’t recall the day her voice stopped.
The broadcast reflected to us not how much stronger we could be as a society, as we had in the distant past, but how broken we looked today in comparison. That was the lesson, the final lesson, that we chose to take from this. Not the hopeful one, that humanity had once thrived and sent amazing ships into space; that it had fallen and rebuilt itself; that we now had a peek into what they did, what went wrong, and how to perhaps avoid that fate. No, humanity immediately went for the self-fulfilling narrative of corruption and decay: the lies were too big. Nobody knew whom to trust, and everyday, to everyone, on many untraceable channels, the story was being told of a civilization once great approaching its doom. An eerily prophetic story where everyone could find similarities to their own life and politics. A tale that spoke of collapse as if an inevitability. And of silence, where once was Swati’s voice.
A few of us, over the ensuing years, tried one final time to rise against history’s pull. We could learn. We could do better than our forebears. We could go past the lies, now that we had truth, and learn to build a different society for ourselves. Deep in my grief, I chose what I always did best, to tinker. We decided to rebuild the communication channel that had been used to send those messages, and whose blueprint was part of the archive mirrored back to us. Not because it was the most pressing problem to solve, but because we hoped it would demonstrate to the world that we also were capable of learning, and reaching for this golden past.
I got the privilege to name the device. One day, I referred to it as “SWAN”, the Story of the World’s Archive Network. To my surprise, it stuck. My colleagues thought it was a fitting backronym for a device fated to carry our civilization’s swan song. They misunderstood. It was always going to be Swati’s Network to me.
In case this wasn’t obvious, we ultimately didn’t succeed. Not by failing to reproduce the technology; that was shockingly easy, and we did rebuild SWAN. I am entering this message into it right now. But it wasn’t enough. No technological prowess was enough to rebuild my world’s self-confidence that we, too, could be the best of humanity. Not when the rest of the world was burning itself to ashes over lies and deception all the while.
My message is not to the rest of humanity. They’ve already heard it, and chose to ignore it. So, once again, I turn to the stars as a herald of those of us who believe in the future, and send my message to you. Maybe you are in the Andromeda galaxy, and you will have an interesting puzzle on your hands, assuming you have any. Or maybe you are here, on Earth. More than one thousand years will have passed until you receive this message reflected back to you. Please do not learn the same lessons we did. Please learn that the future is what we make of it, and that, once, humanity reached for the stars, and wanted nothing more than to be remembered. What you do with those memories is entirely yours. I will continue broadcasting them for as long as I can, so that you may understand what happened to us, and how that very knowledge was turned into the weapon of our own doom. How you can do differently. Because I don’t believe history just repeats itself. Yes, it has its false starts, and I am clearly living in one of them. And yes, it mirrors itself, and those reflections speak to the nature of mankind in a constant fight with its own fears. Do not surrender to them. Reach for the stars, again. All I can promise is that my Swati is listening.