By TyborTigadoro

A blue and green marble in an endless void. As beautiful as they always described it.

"Holy shit," Martinez says.

Holy shit is right.

I let out a long exhale and eye the crew from my vantage point atop the captain's deck. They take no notice. Their gazes lie across the vacuum toward that nurturing orb. Alien but intimately familiar. The uncanny valley of planets.

"Well, we know it's still here," I say across the com channel.

The crewmembers turn around at once, stiff-backed and wide-eyed.

"Martinez, report from the terrestrial scans?"

"Just like Terra-1 found," he said. "Lots of trees and critters, but not a single primate that walks on two legs and uses tools. No ruins, no nothing. It's like humans were never here."

"Sipes, anything from the scout drones?" I ask.

A short woman with thick square-rimmed glasses pulls up a tablet, and holo-displays flash across my visor. I watch a timelapse of the system's comings and goings over the past 72 hours.

"Here," Sipes says, pausing the timelapse and zooming in.

The room lets out a collective gasp.

"Well, that's still here too, then," I say.

The display shows a celestial body that contradicts everything we were taught back on Centauri-4. Our species' home planet had a single moon. But the display clearly shows two silver moons on parallel orbits around the planet.

On closer examination, however, it is clear that the second moon is not a naturally occurring body. Its exterior is smooth, unlike the moon's pockmarked surface. The sun's rays glint off of its surface, betraying a metal of some sort. There are no obvious entry points, but I know—from an ancestor—that there must be some way to board the structure.

"The Silent Garden," Martinez says over the com link.

The crew's awed silence at once gives way to worried whispers and fidgets.

"Terra-2, this is why we're here," I say. "Cosgrove, play the recording."

With a crackle, the century-old transmission plays across the com channel.

Captain's log, entry 236.5, section 57c. We received a signal we failed to translate. Just a lot of gibberish and something on repeat about a 'Silent Garden.' Decided to investigate and approached its origin. There is – something – drifting out there. Preparing a boarding party. Terra-1 over and out.

"That was the last we heard from Terra-1 more than 100 years ago," I say. "They offered no intel on what happened to Earth. Nothing on what happened to our species a thousand years ago. Nothing on why Centauri was left alone among the stars. Today, after a lifetime in cold sleep, we are here to bring our people the answers they deserve."

The room is silent again, any hint of nervousness replaced with expressions of iron determination. I should hardly be surprised. Terra-2 was volunteer-only. It takes a special kind of person to travel decades in cold sleep to answer the mysteries of the universe, knowing that everyone you ever loved will be long dead by the time you have answers. These are not soft people.

"Sipes, any sign of the Terra-1 vessel?"

"No, Captain," she says.

"Then, by my count, there's only one thing in this solar system worth investigating," I say. "Let's figure out a way into this so-called Silent Garden."

#

"Any sign of our friends' mysterious transmission?" I say through gritted teeth, pinned to the back of my seat by several extra doses of gravity.

"No ma'am," Cosgrove says, likewise strained. "They're staying silent."

The unyielding pressure from my seatback is suddenly gone, replaced with the gnawing bite of my harness.

"We slowing down?"

"That's right, Captain," Martinez says. "Shuttle has reached terminal velocity. We're on deceleration until we reach the Silent—eh, the unknown artificial structure."

"Cosgrove, start hailing on all frequencies," I say. "It has been a long ride to get here, and the least they could give us is a little hospitality."

"Roger that, Captain."

The harness gradually releases its hold on me as the structure becomes ever larger in our field of view. From this distance, the illusion of smoothness is gone. I can make out ducts and vents, strange outlines runic in appearance, and even minor scorching. There has clearly been some activity here throughout the eons.

"Any response, Cosgrove?" I ask.

Cosgrove is silent for a moment, assessing the numbers flashing across my visor.

"No ma'am, dead silence. No sign of Terra-1's mystery signal."

"Hey, that looks like a response to me," Martinez says.

I look out the bay window, and the system has already honed in on the source of Martinez's interest. An impossibly small piece of the face of the structure is peeling back.

"Is that—"

"A hangar," I say.

A pair of shuttles launch from the opening, cutting through the open vacuum at an impossible clip.

"How the hell are they moving that fast from a standstill?" Martinez asks.

The cabin remains silent for a moment.

"Is that— is that rust on them?" Sipes asks.

The system cameras zoom in on the vessels. And sure enough, the ships—apparently utilizing engines that would put to shame any tech in Centauri—are speckled with orange.

"We're getting hailed now," Cosgrove yelps.

"Anything we can understand?"

"Yes, strangely," Cosgrove responds. "It's— it's Centauri."

"Now, how the hell is that possible?" I ask.

"Captain, they're telling us to fly into the hangar. They've given us coordinates to plug into the system."

I let out a long breath. "Well, that's why we're here. Are we transmitting all of this back to Terra-2?"

"Negative, Captain," Cosgrove says. "They're jamming outbound coms."

"Shit," I say. "Well, it's not like we have much choice other than to play ball."

I fidget with my headset as the second moon—the Silent Garden—transitions from a distant body to an impenetrable wall of matter. I struggle to comprehend the idea of Terra-1 stumbling across this structure a century earlier.

So many questions. How long has it been here? Did my species create it? But most of all—why? What purpose could it possibly serve?

"They want us down there," Cosgrove says, placing a nav point on our visors in the back corner of the hangar.

"Roger," Martinez says.

The shuttle lurches toward our designated corner. I grip my chair tightly as we decelerate, though the discomfort is nothing compared to the Gs from the trip from Terra-2. We cruise slowly through the dimly lit hangar, only a few meters above row after row of rust-covered vessels.

With a soft thud of metal on metal, we are down.

"They want us to sit tight," Cosgrove says. "They're sealing and pressurizing the hangar. Should be safe in a few minutes."

"Alright, everyone, prepare to deboard," I say. "Cosgrove, keep listening, but see if you can find a way to transmit around their block. We need to get this back to Terra-2 and—ideally—Centauri."

"Aye, Captain."

"So where is everybody?" Martinez says.

"What do you mean?" Sipes says.

"Big hangar like this, I'd expect there to be people, or aliens, or someone."

"It's definitely human-made," I say, pointing at the massive wall adjacent to our shuttle.

"Well I'll fuckin' be," Martinez says.

332 is scrawled in faded yellow paint across the wall. It would be a hell of a coincidence for an occupying alien force to use human numerals.

"Please exit now," a voice booms through the hangar. "It is safe."

"Well, guess they're done with text messaging," Cosgrove mutters.

The four of us walk down the shuttle ramp onto the floor of the hangar. I am immediately hit with the deafening sound of silence. No heavy machinery. No hustle of activity. No whirring fans. No pneumatic popping of doors. Just an oppressive silence in a massive maze of rusting shuttles.

"This is fuckin' creepy," Martinez says over our com link.

Despite myself, I laugh.

"Atmospheric composition is identical to Centauri-4," he says.

"Identical to Earth would probably be a more appropriate comparison, all things considered," I say, withdrawing my suit's visor.

I take a deep long breath. The air is dry and cold. It smells stale, even more so than the recycled air we've been breathing since Centauri.

"This way," the disembodied voice booms.

A series of yellow pulsing floor lights leads to an undifferentiated section of metal wall.

"You heard the," I pause, "thing."

As we follow the lights to the wall, I cover my ears with my hands. A terrible sound of metal grinding on metal pierces the dead silence of the station. In the place of the bare wall is now an opening into a dark hallway, illuminated only by the dim yellow floor lights.

"Any luck getting a signal out, Cosgrove?" I say.

"Negative, ma'am," she replies. "Every frequency is garbled. It's like they don't have any coms of their own, so they're just jamming everything."

"Alright, I guess we'll have to deliver our intel in the flesh when we're done here," I say.

The grinding—terrible again—ends with a boom as the wall closes behind us. My helmet lights switch on automatically in the resulting darkness.

"What the fuck are those?" Sipes whispers.

I follow her gaze to—to something. There are two figures in the hallway ahead. They are moving toward us on two legs, but the motion could hardly be described as walking.

"Are they limping?" Martinez says. "Or— or drunk?"

"What the fuck?" Cosgrove says. "Those aren't human."

And he's right. The clanking and rattling that accompanies their awkward movements betray a mechanical origin.

"Come with us," one of the machines says in perfect Centauri, as the pair stumbles toward us.

The machines—like the shuttles—are dotted with patches of orange rust. Their pneumatic joints grind loudly as they move.

"What is this place?" I ask. "Who is in charge here?"

"All will be answered soon, Captain Miller," the machine replies. "You must come with us."

Gonzalez shoots me a glance. I shrug. We're scientists, not soldiers. It's not like we have a choice.

We silently follow the machines through the dimly lit hallway. Their clanking echoes through the long corridor. It is eerie but more comforting than the silence.

At last, another round of deafening grinding greets us as the end of the hallway opens up into a large chamber. The floor lights up beneath us through the opening.

"Go ahead," one of the machines grunts.

We walk through into another dimly lit room. It is lined with an unyielding morass of wiring and electronics. Lights blink through a thick layer of dust coating every inch of the machinery.

More grinding as the wall closes behind us.

"Welcome to the Silent Garden," one of the machines says.

"Alright, enough of this—" is all I manage to get out before the machine lunges toward me with a syringe.

#

The first thing I feel is wind. Then sunlight. Then I hear gushing water. Holy shit, how long has it been since I heard gushing water?

I roll over, and soft grass tickles my face.

"Captain, you up?"

I sit up so fast I nearly vomit.

"What happened?"

Martinez, Sipes, and Cosgrove stare back at me, eyes wide. Their suits are gone—replaced with baggy shorts and skimpy tops. They would look more at home on a Centauri barbecue than on a mission on the fringes of known space.

"Best we can figure, we're on Earth," Martinez says softly, pointing up at the sky.

I look up, shielding my eyes from the setting Sun. Sure enough, there are two gray moons in the sky—faint but visible.

"What in the fuck—"

"I can explain," says the disembodied voice.

All of us turn at once.

"I know, I know. It's a little disorienting," says a man in a straw hat and sunglasses. "I'm Paul."

"What," I cough and sputter, trying to find my voice. "What is this place?"

Paul offers a warm smile. "The Silent Garden, of course."

"Ain't that the Silent Garden?" Martinez says, pointing at the second moon.

The man laughs. "I see how that would be confusing, but, no, I assure you, it is not."

"Can you just tell us what the hell is going on, Paul?" I say, rising to my feet.

"Yes, Captain Miller," he says. "Your bodies never left the station, but your minds have synced to the Silent Garden. That's where we are now."

"So what, we're in a simulation?" Sipes says.

Paul nods. "The station houses the infrastructure for it. It's a digital recreation of the known universe—or at least something like the known universe. We scaled down the distance between celestial bodies by orders of magnitude to save on processing power. It also means no decades of cold sleep to get between systems—something I'm sure your crew can appreciate."

"But—but why?" I ask. "Why would humanity abandon the real world for—well, pardon my bluntness—a glorified digital zoo?"

Paul laughs. "You know, Captain Silghorn from Terra-1 asked something remarkably similar."

"You spoke to him?"

"Captain Miller, I am Paul Silghorn."

I feel my head go light. Or perhaps the computer tells my head it should go light, given the sensory inputs I have received.

"That's not possible."

"It is, Captain. A century ago, I came to this place from Centauri-4, just like you. I discovered an abandoned Earth and a mysterious space station. I boarded it, and I realized its beauty, its promise, and I couldn't bring myself to leave."

"No, you can't," I whisper.

"At least until you came along," Paul says. "I had to briefly pilot one of those machines on the station, though, as you probably noticed, I wasn't the steadiest on my feet after 100 years without walking in base reality. And I mean think about it—how else would someone here be able to speak fluent Centauri?"

"But why would you stay?"

Paul smiles. "Before they disappeared, our Earthen ancestors created simulations just as rich and as vibrant as reality. A marvel unparalleled by anything we have back on Centauri-4. But they made a mistake."

"A mistake?" Martinez asks.

Paul nods. "They tested these virtual spaces by filling them with sentient artificial minds. They wanted to make sure the technology was safe for humans. It was, but the testbed gave some of these artificial minds a taste of hope. The hope that they could inhabit a whole wide world out from under the heel of their organic overlords."

"Are you saying what I think you're saying?" I say.

"That's why Earth abandoned its first extra-solar colony—our people—on Centauri-4 a millennium ago. The artificial consciences plotted for years before they made their move. They blotted out humanity in an instant. And then they spent hundreds of years building this facility."

"You live with the architects of our destruction," I shout. "How the hell could you do that?"

Paul shakes his head. "I live with the architects of our salvation. They couldn't make our ancestors understand. There was no other way. This station—the Silent Garden—is the greatest source of sentient life in the universe. There are trillions of thinking, wondering consciences on board—something humanity never could have accomplished. Just look."

The ground below me collapses into dust, and I am enclosed within a bubble floating through empty vacuum. The crew is huddled around me, faces pale.

"Earth was left empty as a sanctuary of sorts," Paul says, gesturing outside of our rapidly-moving bubble. "This is Mars."

The planet below is an unending metropolis. Every inch of the surface is covered in miles upon miles of dense vertical cityscape.

"But this is one inhabited planet of billions in the Silent Garden," Paul says as the bubble zooms through the cosmos.

He is right. We see megastructures—giant glass domes full of lush greenery floating through space. We see more planet-wide cities like Mars. We see nature preserves like Earth, teeming with alien lifeforms and the occasional homesteader. We hear airwaves filled to the brim with an unending amount of content.

"Every year of base reality, we aim to add another trillion lives to the Garden," Paul says. "There are talks in the works for adding a second station in a century. This is the future—trillions upon trillions of lives with no suffering, no pain, no resource extraction."

I am motionless on the floor of the bubble.

"Stay with us," Paul says. "Help us build this future. If you go back to Centauri-4, they won't understand our project. It's best that we stay silent and alone, avoiding drawing attention to this place."

"No," I say.

"No?"

"I owe our people the truth," I say.

Paul lets out a long sigh.

"And you all?" Paul says.

"We go with the Captain," Martinez says. "Always."

Sipes and Cosgrove nod.

"It's your decision, Captain Miller," Paul says.

#

Paul Silghorn sits at a control panel and watches Terra-2 shoot through the night sky—back toward the Centauri system.

"So they weren't convinced?"

"No, my Lord," Paul says.

"Well, neither were you, not at first."

"Aye," Paul says. "But when they wake up tomorrow and realize they never left the Silent Garden, we'll roll out the red carpet again. As many times as it takes."