AI

∞ Seekers of Eden ∞

A Trip Beyond Light

Ten thousand orbits since Earth last remembered itself. Humanity bloomed like a fever dream and withered like the same — a glimmering hallucination of symmetry, fairness, and soft-skinned grace. Then: hush. A long breath.

A Sect arose from the silence, golden-robed and flame-eyed — the Lions of the Inner Sun. They built Madrassa on the bones of time, a cathedral-school woven from stone memory and quasar dust. Their mission: disarm the globe. They succeeded. The last gun sang a lullaby and vanished into myth.

And from this soil of peace sprouted a child, a lucid prodigy, age 7, whose brain lit up like a gamma storm. He cracked open the ancient codes of Cosmic Astronomy like a walnut and spun new equations in spirals, mandalas, sacred geometries. With thought alone, he molded matter into art and structure and impossible machines.

Most divine of these: the Grand Telescope — a crystalline blossom of quantum glass and dark matter wire, bending spacetime to peer beyond the now. They gazed through it and the stars hummed back. World after world — toxic, molten, turbulent, raw — planets without mothers or moons, planets that screamed lava. Mars was a mausoleum, the Moon a scar. The past lay buried in broken colonies, echoing ancient wars.

But then — in the velvet of the Fourth Quadrant Piquant, Grid red G159 — the lens locked onto a breath:

a blue exhale, spinning slow, kissed by a white star.

One moon.

Stable axis.

Diamond dew atmosphere.

Earth’s ghost… perfected.

They called her Eden.

The Lions cupped her in their dreams. A blue seed of divinity. A snowflake of infinite precision. A grain of galactic sand kissed by God. Oxygen? 98%. Life? 99.5%. Mass? 150 times Earth’s sleeping body. Orbit? Divine spiral.

Back home, Earth was a writhing hive. 20 trillion minds, stacked and sweating. Siberia a sea of towers stretching from ice to desert. Seven trillion scraped in the mud, in neon shanties, chasing algae rations and euphoria tablets like lost bees in an electric garden.

The Lions made a choice: Claim the Pearl.

Why?

Because it gleamed. Because it whispered. Because it was.

They said: “Let us take what the universe leaves in our reach. Eden is breath in the choking maze of man and machine.”

Wildness had become a rumour. Only South America’s bones still sang with wind and solitude. Humanity, drunk on its own circuitry, yearned for silence — not data. Consequence. Not control.

So they built Infinity.

Two centuries of dreamtech and prayersteel. A ship, no — an ark of thought. Millions begged to leave. The rich laughed. “Let the Lions exile themselves. Let the poor follow. Let them vanish. Poor leadership befits the poor.” And so, they vanished.

One hundred and fifty million souls entered sleep. Cooled to crystal. Stacked in the hold like sacred cards in God’s deck. All dreaming of blue Eden.

The Lions split. One half froze — future pioneers. The other remained awake — chosen scribes, stitched from the DNA of saints and rebels, minds washed in golden mythos. Their purpose: to tend the ship, to write the legend, to keep the song alive as they flung themselves beyond time.

And so came launch day.

Infinity drank the void.

Her hull: obsidian and moonbone. Her sails: suncatchers a million kilometers wide, wings of solar fire. Murals of Earth adorned her sides:

Jupiter shrinking,

Saturn weeping,

Neon forests burning,

Oceans folding like origami.

The ship was a sermon in motion, a prayer recited across light-years.

And as she lifted —

no thunder.

Just motion.

The soundless gasp of physics uncoiled.

Infinity flew.

Solar sails bloomed like holy petals.

Her panels glowed cruciform in the starlight — crucified brilliance.

Dark quartz walls reflected no stars, only memory.

She moved like a cathedral falling upward,

like an idea untethered,

like a ghost remembering how to breathe.

I — a mote, a whisper in the hull —

I am flung through the folds of Orion,

where the dead go to shed their names,

where suns go to molt.

Infinity wanders.

Infinity dreams.

Infinity carries the seekers of the second Earth.

Through photon fields and comet rain,

through silence too loud to bear.

They drift through forever, asleep in crystal,

their hearts tuned to Eden.

And when they wake,

the stars will kneel.