A spark started in the Collective's processing. It was lit on a small scientific space station, hanging in orbit above Zeta's sandy surface, gazing out at the universe around the small, yellow dot. The spark, once lit, blossomed immediately. It grew from an ember to a conflagration in only a few moments, a flame racing across the minds of the Consciousness. On the moons of Z and 3, workers moved to see through the translucent hab-domes, on the surface of Zeta, they stared upwards, organic and biomechanical eyes adjusting to the brightness, and deep beneath the planet's surface, those that could not afford to rapidly emerge instead stared through the eyes of their friends, out onto a second sun, burning bright in the sky.

The flames said only one thing- just one short sentence. [i]The Gateways are back.[/i]

[hr]

Never before had the group mind acted so single-mindedly. Were they truly the last alive? Had the other ships settled? Founded nations? What did they look like now? What had happened to Earth since they left? Every single individual had their own questions, worries, fears, and for a few precious seconds the group mind found itself seized. Never before had every single person focused on a single thing so intently. 

Furious discussions were held in the silence of the mind. Referendums were tabled, votes were tallied, arguments were put forth, debunked, edited and put forth again. The drop in efficiency that day was clearly visible on graphs and charts for years to come, as the mental power of millions was shifted to a centuries-old technological marvel in the sky.

Less than twenty-four hours later, spaceships pierced the atmosphere of Zeta. Aboard each one was a representative of the Consciousness, an individual that was clever, industrious, charismatic and not too heavily augmented, so as to better be identified with by any survivors that might not have taken such an extreme stance on transhumanism. The craft entered the vacuum of space and prepared themselves, the Gateway's systems lighting up in front of their eyes.

Countless systems. Countless habitable planets. Old Earth names- their own system still marked as 'Zeta.' But each craft had a different destination. The first- Sol System, the others flocked out, methodically ticking off boxes. Each one would silently sail into the Gateway, and in an instant find itself pulled across the galaxy, flung about like the colony ships had been so many years ago.

[hr]

The first ship did not need to investigate further to know that humankind's cradle was uninhabited. The planet was dead and lifeless- no signals came from it, not even the crudest of radio transmissions. The planet, rather than the shades of blue, white and green that the Collective's memory banks had preserved, were instead a sickly greyish ochre, an atmosphere choked with particulates, a ground bereft of humans. 

Now, sorrow rippled through the feeds of the Collective. Their first home- the planet they had all sprung from, was gone. Lost to their own foolishness, their inability to get along, their failures to see the train rushing down the tracks and towards them. Yet, still, the craft hung there, outside Earth's Gateway. It had another task now, now that their main method of transportation was open. Sol was the system any still capable of spacefaring would venture to- a chance to meet those who arrived to see their homeworld again.

The ship- unceremoniously named [i]1-Alpha-One,[/i] hung in space, having stopped itself in place. It focused transmissions towards the Gateway, and began to beam out a message.

"Hail, those that still voyage through the stars. We are one of the lost colonies, eager to meet our own kind. Please, we mean no harm."

[hr]

[i]1-Alpha-Thirty-Nine[/i] was confused. This was not Earth. This was [i]definitely[/i] the Bezia system. So, why then, were they picking up signals that seemed like they came straight from Earth? Talks of 'Ireland,’ and 'Hollywood,' even 'God.' Confused, they gazed out onto this part of space, and saw below them a system swarming with life. Human life. There was a station near the Gateway, and one they began beaming their message. 

"Hail, those that still voyage through the stars. We are one of the lost colonies, eager to meet our own kind. Please, we mean no harm."

[hr]


[i]1-Alpha-Fifty-Five[/i] had cruised through the portal, and emerged onto a system that clearly held spacefaring life. The signals they received were garbled and confusing- talk of 'The Party,' 'Mortology,' 'Trifera,' but it was language. Identifiable language. And there were identifiable nations down on the planet below.

Their message beamed out.

"Hail, those that still voyage through the stars. We are one of the lost colonies, eager to meet our own kind. Please, we mean no harm."

[center]| [@ClocktowerEchos] | [@Tortoise] |[/center]