The Gate_ origins


She had first caught a glimpse of it in a dream. Back then, when they had engulfed the Implant in the depths of her cognizance_ the dark emerald skies tearing up onto the bruised blue of a gaping New Eden; a dead end consumed with too many suns.

It was a devastated galaxy haunted with violent magnetic storms, cradled by the monotonous tide of toxic undulations that unfurled relentlessly. She lingered in the inconspicuousness of her silent immateriality, until the holographic projection finally glistened, reifying her presence to the System, and she winced wearily. The dream began again.

So, tell me… What will you do?

She initiated the elaborate computing of variations to the optimal alignment to the Gate, and her ethereal senses guided her mechanized embodiment through pulsating tempests and cold secrecies. She summoned speed and the ship sliced faster through the air.

And now?

Now was the expectancy. The time for prowling legacies and the flickering sphere. She huddled up in the intimacy of her capsule. The soft ectoplasmic matter felt stifling so close to the Gate.

But she was the incantation. She was two, she was the female body and the empyrean aura hovering; she was three, she was the ship; she was One.

Are you alive?

Tears were slowly streaming down; she turned her head not to see them. She could sense the noumenon, harbouring deeper in uncharted territories, beyond, inside, its electromagnetic waves always probing through for guests, finding the leaves of life and terminating them. She hastened.


The fleece of the sky wailed as the wings cut through, burying eclipses underneath in the abyss where extent met with expansion, realm for dreams, profoundly perpetual.

The margin is the essence, isn’t it?

She closed her eyes and reinitialised.




Home… She had been feeling out-of-place for a while now. It just didn’t feel right.


The stars seemed dull and immobile; the space her ship sliced through was cold and reluctant. There… was not where she belonged.

‘So, why don’t you go and search for a home?’

She startled. Her personal AI had suddenly chimed in. It was unusual of it to act on its own. Epsilon508 had a rather meditative personality and would not intervene unless explicitly asked to. Her eyes wandered to where she was naturally expecting to see the holographic manifestation. The device was programmed to answer the intuitive call for alterity: the psychological reports had unequivocally stressed the importance of not-self representation. These humanoid pixels bending over the manual command panel… they shaped the material self her mind was granting the AI. Today Epsilon508 was wearing a dark blue uniform. He had not combed his hair. And yes, she did worry about his hair. He was always so self-conscious, immaculately dressed. Something was off; off their usual interplay. She knew Epsilon508’s ‘body’ was the space of alternative intersection, the land where they could meet_ where she could meet with herself. She accepted the rendez-vous.

 ‘Why, when and where are a bit of an overkill, Epsi. Don’t you think I have enough questions already?’

All of this just upset her. Was it the place? Was it the people? Or was it a time? Epsilon508 would probably not speak up and let her bathe in her doubts. She wiggled uncomfortably in the capsule’s ectoplasmic liquid. It penetrated through the tiniest apertures, infiltrated the body in places beyond consciousness, yet it was still possible somehow to breathe in it. Somehow, the jagged horizon of doubt could still be treaded.

‘If it can be treaded, it can be found.’

Damn AI… damn herself. She cracked a half-irritated smile, ‘My, aren’t we talkative today.’