This tale is prompted by my near completion of Richard Dawkins’ The Selfish Gene and form my major worries that arise from it.

It was a Thursday when the Weft happened. The day was cool and humid and the wind hung in the air, waiting.

Unusually, the evolutionary biologists, or at least some, had been on the right track. Some of the theories about symbiosis and parasites technically explain what happen, and indeed match much of my research. What nobody knew was just how soon it could happen.

The Sentients pay me little attention now. They’ve not the limbs to caress, nor the sense to care. They hang in the air, wafting themselves about like giant jellyfish with their trailing, writhing knots of nerves.  The Sentients emit a low lilac light, a subtle glow that crackles with the pattern of the net. They are free of verbal speech, but I can only guess at their true intellect.

The human shells they left behind now stoop and slouch and drag their limbs. They recognise feeling near their legs, but most react aggressively like their lower lizard instincts would. In truth, that’s all they have.

It’s not uncommon to see a skitter of shells moving about as a clumsy group, tendrils from the hanging Sentient overseer high above rested slack across their heads. I try not to look that close – the way the tendrils grope about their ear canals sicken me.

The only thing more sickening is my memory of the Weft itself, and I hope you never have to see that yourselves. The sound of the brainstem parting skull will never leave me.

The buildings have mostly fallen into disrepair, but the weapons and intel systems are well attended.

I’m not sure what the trigger was. The symbiosis need never have ended. My research is slow and difficult, for they guard the net pretty closely now, but the rise of social networks seem to have helped. These are only my thoughts, but I hope you decode this tachyon timecapsule in time.

But who are you to trust me? I’m just a cat.


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