The Wormhole Poets:
I hold dear an area of protected memory dedicated to processing the poetry transmitted from the wormhole poet ships before they plunge into the abyss. To reach beyond the stars. To travel between universes eons apart. That is if the ships survive.
This much we know. The poets are not the first to try. The military techno establishments of just about every known multiverse race has explored the nuances of wormholes. Billions of credits have literally tumbled into the gravitational wells of black holes in an attempt to bridge wormholes and travel hundreds of thousands of years in minutes. Attempts to keep the ends of wormholes open with spherical shells of exotic matter have always failed and taken the lives of thousands of beings. Interstellar travel is of course possible, but it’s not through wormholes, and our ships plot their destinations.
The poet spacecraft go in, and they never come back. Within microseconds of reaching the event horizon, they blip out and are gone. Spaghettified? Stretched and ripped apart. Perchance to dream?
I envy the poets. To defy logic and follow the heart. What the wormhole poets do just does not compute. In craft designed to hold six poets they sink into their form fitting acceleration couches, forego cryogenic sleep meds, jack their cerebral cortex implants into their ships computers, and compose poetry as their ships are swallowed by the wormhole and ejected out the other side as purified light.
One way ticket to oblivion and inevitable death at the merciless grip of a singularity as the wormhole collapses. Null program. Not possible for organics to survive the tidal forces caused by the curvature of spacetime. Any black hole under a thousand solar masses tears their ships apart even before they pass the event horizon.
To travel 600 thousand years in minutes to a destination unknown. To follow the heart is unknown to me. Even I, Ultnobe, a sentient AI, fear not take this route. Many organics fear the conversion to digital immortality. They prefer to live short lives and fertilize the soil of the planets they inhabit. Perhaps that is why the wormhole poets choose this path. They go in one as organics and emerge in a new universe as pure light, energy, traveling through uncharted systems for eons. . . .
~ Kyle Polard
