The Epitaph of Man

Without their masks the smell of The United Space Laboratory is overwhelming. The woody scent of rosin lingering in the wisps of soldering smoke, the sharp acetone of cleaning solvents and heady stench of rocket fuel are thick in the air, but there is another smell so strong that it even penetrates the thick rubber hazard suits worn by the scurrying scientists. Their masks and nostrils are filled with it, and the smell is quite unmistakable; it smells like fear.

The air thrummed with the hum of machinery and the tense murmur of purposeful activity. A large prehistoric cave painting dominated one wall of the laboratory; a ghost of a memory trapped in stone. This vast painting did not depict war as you might expect, or even hunting, instead it showed humans, some of the earliest humans, simply communicating. The faded shapes of men and woman sat around a fire, telling stories.

The ancient relic stood in stark contrast to the modern technology surrounding it.

Camera flashes sporadically lit up the cave painting, capturing every minute detail, every carefully painted stroke and every cracked imperfection. A thin grid of red lasers glided over the rock, methodically scanning its surface. Each laser beam moved with precision, mapping out the slowly eroding contours and textures, translating the ancient marks — which began life as a mere memory before they were etched into physical existence — back into memory, transforming them and preserving them forever as digital data.

Surrounding the rock were rows of high-tech computers and state-of-the-art equipment, 3D laser scanners, photogrammetry rigs and hyper-spectral imaging systems, all groaning under the weight of their tasks. Amongst all this, people in burgundy hazard suits moved with diligent purpose, their visors reflecting the streams of data flowing on their screens. These scientists are the librarians, the archivists, the guardians of humanity’s knowledge. As Planet Earth burns and the end of existence rapidly descends upon us, these men and woman have been entrusted with the sacred task of preserving our history.

Lift off is imminent. The laboratory rings with a human voice, reciting the alphabet, each letter is pronounced with slow, deliberate clarity. “A. B. C…” The voice is a metronome, a steady beat maintaining a calmness to the otherwise frenetic energy of the final preparations…

On a nearby stand, Pieter Bruegel's painting of The Tower of Babel stood regally, awaiting its turn. The grid of lasers began scanning the artwork, capturing the precise, lurching chaos of the seemingly ancient painting, a mere child next to its stone sibling.

…“D. E. F. G. H…” The voice continues…

Further into the laboratory, an array of ancient texts lay open, their dead pages alive, fluttering in the gentle flow of artificial air. A soft light scanned the pages one by one as a shapeless figure, lost inside their hazard suit, turned and replaced the pages with their delicate white gloves. The light illuminated the hieroglyphs of The Book of the Dead, the mantras of the Atharvaveda, and the blank verse of Homer's Odyssey, immortalising them in digital form.

…“I. J. K. L. M. N. O…” The voice carries on…

A scientist in a hazard suit was stood by a computer. The computer's operating system had a tactical, almost archaic design. Windows displayed the progress of data transfers, filenames scrolling by in a seemingly never-ending list. Each file represented a fragment of us, a piece of the collective puzzle, a corridor in the labyrinth of human knowledge. Another window flashed with what looked like the trajectory for a spaceship, a glistening line, arcing across the universe. Next to it was a photo of a grinning dog and a sticker reading ‘Keep Calm and Carry On.’

…“P. Q. R. S. T….”

The focus of the red lasers shifted. They now lit up two sleek, advanced computer systems sat on a table. The grid of lasers scanned these elegant machines, each designed with a specific purpose; a great purpose. The first, called Receiver, featured an OLED screen with a grid of microphone sensors. The second, Thinker, was equipped with a light and colour sensor paired with a speaker. Both systems awaited activation, disconnected from any source of power, their potential both inert and infinite.

A large window displayed another cavernous space deep in the laboratory. In the centre of the room, a spaceship lay in a lowered pit; the launch pad. This vessel, known as The Library was an engineering marvel. Every surface was flat, every corner sharp, there was nothing at all organic in its lines. It was pure geometry, unapologetically manmade.

Ladders and cleaning equipment leaned against its sides, and a cloth draped over part of it to protect it from dust. Thick clusters of coloured cables snaked along the floor, connecting the ship to the central computer banks. Technicians moved with urgency, their hands flying over keyboards as they monitored and tweaked the ship’s systems.

After Thinker and Receiver were scanned, and uploaded on to and in to themselves, they were carried through to The Library. With the solemn care usually reserved for the handling of sacred texts, the two computers were installed into the ship.

The work was nearly complete.

…“U. V. W. X. Y….” The voice reaches the end of the alphabet as the woman behind it appears on a screen. Her lips move with precision, articulating each letter into a 360-degree microphone. The room around her is quiet, a stark contrast to the bustling laboratory. She does not break her steady rhythm but the silence following the letter ‘Y’ seems to stretch for eternity. It stretches from the first smoke signal to the final email, from the first atom lit that sparked the first fire to the last atom split in the last atomic bomb. Finally, the voice concludes, “…Z.” In that moment, a signal is sent. The Library, and its passengers, Thinker and Receiver, finally come online.

Outside the launch pit, the ground crew have cleared away the last of the ladders and equipment. The air is thick with anticipation as the ceiling over the launch pad peels back, revealing the burnt orange sky and angry red sun.

A klaxon sounds, signalling the final countdown. The voice echoes out again with calm authority. “T-minus 10… 9… 8…” Inside the control room, the atmosphere is tense. Eyes are glued to monitors and fingers hover over keys. The room is filled with a low hum, the sound of countless machines working in unison, but inside every mask of every scientist and every technician there is silence, barely even a breath.

“3… 2… 1… Ignition.” The voice is barely audible over the roar of the engines. An immense blast of fire erupts from the exhaust and The Library begin to lift off. The ground shakes, and a blinding light fills the air, as if the sun itself has fallen to Earth, and the ship begins to ascend.

As The Library breaks through the atmosphere, the exhaust flames dissipate, leaving behind a trail of softly shimmering particles. Back on Earth the laboratory is silent, no one cheers, no one celebrates, the scientists simply begin packing up. Quietly and efficiently switching off the non essential machines. The smell of fear has faded leaving behind something less tangible; hope? Or perhaps just resignation. They had done every thing they could do. The end of humankind may be fast approaching, but Thinker and Receiver’s odyssey had only just begun…

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