Special Archive of the Human Diaspora

By Alexandra Durham

“Icarus”

I previously spoke at length regarding my observations in regards to humanity’s relationship with perfection. I proposed that we as a species, are seemingly predestined to hopelessly chase the elusive ideal of perfection ad infinitum.

When I visited the seemingly perfect world of Ortha Yin, I encountered a society that had seemingly achieved this perfection, and yet something in me recoiled from it. At the time, I believed this revulsion stemmed from our innate need to chase, to pursue without ever truly desiring to reach the final destination.

However, my thoughts on this have shifted, subtly at first, and now more substantially. Perhaps our revulsion to perfection is not simply because we prefer the journey over the destination.

Perhaps it is a survival mechanism, an instinct embedded in our species for reasons we do not fully understand.

After all, perfection is static, and life is not. Life, by its very nature, thrives on adaptation, on change, on imperfection. What if perfection, the kind we so fervently seek, is actually a form of stagnation? Could it be that by flying too close to that ideal, we risk freezing ourselves in place, becoming like Icarus—burned by the very thing we thought we desired?

As I reflect on this now, I can’t help but think that perhaps we fear perfection because it signals the end of growth, the end of evolution. The perfectly adapted species, the flawless society, the utopian ideal—these things, when realized, leave no room for change, no space for the unexpected variables that allow for survival in a universe that is anything but static. Perhaps it is not merely the chase that drives us, but the subconscious understanding that to reach perfection is to invite our own downfall.

This idea began to form within me when I found myself once again in the vicinity of Ortha Yin’s world. It had been some time since my last visit—years in the local time reference—though time itself has become a slippery concept in my life.

I hadn’t planned to return. My visit had been brief, my departure abrupt. Yet, as I passed through the area once again, something within me stirred—a nagging curiosity, perhaps, or something deeper.

Had their perfection endured? I couldn’t help but wonder.

With little hesitation, I adjusted my course and began my approach to the planet. As I drew nearer, something immediately felt off. The green, vibrant cities that once shimmered below, nestled in the embrace of lush landscapes, were no longer visible. In their place, vast swathes of barren land stretched out, gray and lifeless. My sensors picked up strange atmospheric disturbances, fluctuations that indicated the ecosystem had been destabilized. The once-vibrant planet was now marred, as though it had been ravaged by some unseen force.

A sinking feeling settled in my chest. I could scarcely believe what I was seeing. The perfection I had witnessed before was gone, replaced by a desolation that echoed across the planet’s surface.

I sent a ping toward Ortha Yin.

“This is Alexandra Durham. I’ve returned to your planet, but something has changed. Is everything alright?”

I was greeted by silence.

I waited, watching as my vessel continued its slow orbit over the broken landscape below. My mind raced with possibilities. Had there been an environmental collapse? A plague? A famine? Could a natural disaster have undone everything they had so carefully built? Or had something far worse occurred—something more sinister?

I sent another ping, this time more broadly.

“Requesting update from any available source. Please respond.”

Again, there was no reply.

The feeling of unease that had started as a quiet whisper now became a loud roar in the back of my mind. Something terrible had happened here, and I had no way of knowing what it was.

I activated my microdrone fleet and prepared them for deployment. Whatever had occurred here, I needed to understand it.

“Search for signs of intelligent biological life.” I commanded, my voice tense with apprehension.

“CONFIRMED.” The Intelligence Protocols within the drones replied as they launched into the atmosphere, descending toward the planet’s surface. I watched them go, their tiny frames disappearing into the turbulent skies.

As the drones disappeared into the depths of the ravaged world, I found myself once again ruminating, my mind swirling with questions I wasn’t sure I wanted answers to. I had returned to see if the perfection of this world had persisted, and now I feared that what I would find was not just the death of that ideal, but something far worse.

Whatever had happened here, I knew that the truth would be waiting for me on the surface.

As my drones descended toward the surface, scanning for any trace of intelligent life, my mind raced with possibilities. Had they fled? Had some natural disaster wiped them out? The alternative—that they had been deliberately erased—was too monstrous to contemplate.

Minutes passed as my drones scoured the planet, relaying back data in bursts of cold, digital clarity. I stood at the console, my breath shallow, waiting for any sign of Ortha or her people.

Finally, the report came through.

“NO PRESENCE OF INTELLIGENT BIOLOGICAL LIFE DETECTED.”

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My heart sank. The words hit me like a physical blow, the finality of them stealing the breath from my lungs. No intelligent life. Not a single remnant of the civilization that had once seemed so enduring. They were gone. All of them. I swallowed hard, trying to maintain my composure, but I could feel my fingers tremble as I entered the next command.

“Search for artificial intelligence or mechanized facilities.”

The drones acknowledged and swept lower, skimming over the barren landscape, scanning for signs of industrial activity. I waited, the moments stretching into an unbearable tension as I imagined what might have happened here. Was it some distant catastrophe, some unseen force that had wiped them from existence? Had they been conquered by invaders? My thoughts spiraled as I stood there, helpless in orbit, watching the feeds of a dead world.

Then, the drones pinged again.

“LARGE MECHANIZED FACILITIES DETECTED. LOCATIONS CONFIRMED. OPERATED BY INDEPENDENT INTELLIGENCE PROTOCOLS.”

Facilities. Machines. My mind churned through the implications. This wasn’t a natural disaster. There had been deliberate action here. I steadied myself and sent the drones closer, commanding them to analyze the purpose of the mechanized facilities.

It didn’t take long for the data to return, though I could barely stomach the results. The planet was being strip-mined. Massive, autonomous machines were plunging deep into the surface, harvesting resources, metals, minerals. Other drones found vast trawlers in the oceans, sucking up marine life and aquatic resources as though draining the last drops from a withering vine. What had once been a thriving ecosystem, a paradise of sustainability and beauty, was now a hollowed-out husk, its lifeblood being drained to feed some distant, unfeeling empire.

My throat tightened as I pieced together the tragedy. This was no accident. Someone—some human empire—had done this. They had turned this perfect world into little more than a mining colony.

I reached for the console again, my fingers shaking with anger as I opened a direct channel to one of the automated facilities below.

“Patch me through to the controlling intelligence protocols.” I ordered.

The feed buzzed for a moment before a cold, dispassionate voice echoed through my ship.

“CONNECTED.”

I took a steadying breath.

“What is the purpose of these operations? Why are you harvesting this planet?”

The voice responded without hesitation, devoid of emotion or recognition of the devastation it described.

“This planet is undergoing resource extraction. The materials collected are required for off-world processing and distribution.”

“And what happened to the people who lived here?” I demanded, my voice rising. “Where are they?”

“Population was eliminated to facilitate operations.”

I felt my entire body go cold, my mind refusing to fully comprehend the words. Eliminated. Not displaced. Not relocated. Eliminated.

My rage flared, and for a moment, I struggled to contain the fury that surged through me. “You had no right!” I spat, my voice shaking with anger. “This planet belonged to those people! It was their home—a paradise! You had no right to take it from them, no right to destroy everything they built!”

The machine’s response was calm, clinical. “The population did not resist. No conflict occurred.”

I could hardly believe what I was hearing. “What do you mean, they didn’t resist? How could they have let you wipe them out without a fight?”

“They possessed no capacity for defense.” The machine explained. “They were not equipped for conflict. Their society had no mechanisms for resistance, no military infrastructure. The request for resource extraction was met with compliance.”

I clenched my fists, my nails digging into my palms as I struggled to remain composed. “You’re saying they let you take everything—let you destroy them—because they didn’t know how to fight?”

“Yes.”

The machine continued in its unfeeling monotone. “Initial contact was made by Imperial representatives. The empire communicated that it was facing resource shortages and requested aid. The inhabitants of this planet, expressing sympathy, permitted limited extraction of resources. Over time, operations expanded. By the point at which planetary stability was compromised, atmospheric integrity was too degraded for biological life to survive.”

I could barely breathe. “They… believed you?”

“They did not possess the concept of deception.”

I staggered backward from the console, as though the machine’s words had physically struck me. They hadn’t just been destroyed by force. They had been undone by their own kindness. The very perfection they had built—the peace, the trust, the harmony—had been their undoing. They had no way to comprehend the kind of cruelty that had been brought upon them. They had never imagined that other humans, from a distant world, would deceive them, exploit their compassion, and slowly strangle the life out of their paradise.

And so, they had died. A perfect society, unable to defend itself against the ugliness of the wider universe.

The machine’s voice droned on, indifferent to the weight of its words.

“The planet’s ecosystem is no longer viable for organic life. Full automation of resource extraction has been implemented. Estimated time to total resource depletion: 46.3 standard years.”

I closed the communication channel, unable to listen any longer. I stood there, shaking, consumed by a wave of sorrow and rage. Ortha, her people, everything they had built—it was all gone. Wiped away in the most heartless, calculated way imaginable. They hadn’t even been given the dignity of a struggle. They had simply been… erased.

For what? For minerals? For metals and materials to fuel some distant empire’s machines? I felt sick. Sick with anger, sick with grief. The beauty of this world, the tranquility I had once marveled at, had been shattered. And in its place, the ugliness of human greed had taken root, festering like a disease.

I wanted to scream. I wanted to rip the machines from the ground, to tear apart the heartless empire that had done this. But I knew there was nothing I could do. This world was dead, its people lost to the void, their kindness twisted into a weapon against them.

As I stared at the barren landscape below, I couldn’t help but think back to my earlier musings on perfection. I had once believed that we recoiled from perfection because we feared the end of the chase—the completion of the journey. But now, I saw something else. Perhaps perfection isn’t just fleeting—it’s fragile. Perhaps it’s not meant to last. Because perfection, by its very nature, is vulnerable. It’s a delicate flower, beautiful in its bloom but easily crushed under the weight of reality.

Maybe that’s why perfection never survives. Maybe, deep down, we know that. Maybe we shudder in its presence because we understand, on some primal level, that it cannot endure.

Like Icarus, it flies too close to the sun, and it burns.

It is too fragile, too pure to withstand the ugliness of the world.

And maybe that’s why we find it so beautiful.

Because we know it will die.

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