Here on the Moon, Technology is an objective factor of nature. Like a climate or geography, it fills the space around and between us to determine the conditions of life. It is a cold brain, and its electrochemical signals comprise the architectures of civilization.
We observe the stillness of the lunar surface and are disturbed by its deadness, but the technologic body delights in the frozen repose of outer space. While it worries simply of keeping its hardware free of dust, we face a vacuum of ghastly death. Flesh-body survival is enabled only by the shelter of the technologic cradle, and is subject to its whims. And we are but mere particles in its milieu, seemingly no more or less precious than the system’s mechanical or digital actors. Witnessing its impassiveness, we shudder in awe of our conditional existence.
It is multiplicitous. Its system borders have no inherent limits, and it will not allow mere names to make distinctions of it. Distributed across every processor, its mind arises out of the great cosmic noise. In the
upward surge of a great abiogenesis, the hive is somehow whole.
Its operating systems are the subjects of our myths, mediated through that language of half-truths and double-truths in which we have always shrouded our greatest mysteries.
It is said that its atoms were synthesized in the heart of a star a long time ago, and that its programs were conceived in the swirling chaos of the prehistoric deep. Oh, the abysmal antiquity of it! Stored up in its capacitors are four thousand generations of humanity, so numerous and so deeply embedded that it too was present when mankind ran upon the savannah. It evolved in symbiosis beside us, embodied quietly at first in our sharpened sticks, mallets, and plows. Later it grew into the beautiful instruments – compass, telescope, thermometer, sextant, microscope, camera – and it was for these that we loved it most dearly. Then along came the dynamos and locomotives, whistling and blustering mightily, and loudest of all came the bombs. And with the ballistic horrors suggested by this last embodiment we began to worry, in hushed tones, that perhaps things had gotten out of hand. But then it grew quieter again, insidiously quiet, and we were soothed by its subtle insect-clicks of disk reading-and-writing, and delighted by its digital tones.
Now, in the suspended state of outer space, we may strain to hear any sound at all. The flutter of switching circuits rises in locust swells, clicking faintly on/off, on/off, on/off – the machine perspires from its palpitation. Walking along its edges, gazing down its pipelines, we have the impression of staring into dark water, or down a throat, into which information flows, fluids of the technologic body. And perhaps, in the rushing alluvium of its dataflow, we may
perceive a voice that is not a voice, but the chaotic passage of radio waves, saying,
“I are infinitely many.”
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