Front Runner

Special Archive of the Human Diaspora

By Alexandra Durham

“Serenity”

It is not often in my travels, in my pursuit of knowledge regarding the varied fates of the human diaspora, that I find myself in a world capable of inspiring true serenity. The vast, unsettled expanse of the galaxy rarely offers such feelings—most human worlds, for all their efforts to create order and beauty, are scarred by conflict, industry, or the slow degradation of their ecosystems. And yet, we still search. It seems embedded in our nature to reach for peace, for stillness. We speak of harmony, of balance with the natural world, yet our actions betray a deeper contradiction.

The human race, for all its pride in ingenuity, has always been a species that outsources its own ideals. The traits we claim to value most—peace, patience, gentleness—we seem incapable of fully embodying ourselves. Instead, we build machines to do it for us. We construct intricate systems and mechanical proxies to live out the values we know we should hold, but seldom truly achieve. In this way, our own creations sometimes seem to mock us, silently revealing our shortcomings.

For we are proud of our ability to create, and yet, we resent the very perfection of the things we make. We send our machines to build the gardens we cannot tend, to maintain the ecosystems we have no patience for. We speak of balance, of humility, of reverence for nature, but in the end, we are forced to rely on our inventions to embody these virtues, because we ourselves fall short. And when our machines achieve what we cannot, it is as if they remind us of a truth we wish to ignore—that perhaps we are not meant to live as we idealize.

Such thoughts filled my mind as I explored a star system with two planets in its habitable zone. I was faced with a choice: one planet was a gray, dead-looking sphere, while the other shimmered with hues of green and blue, evoking the stories of the old homeworld, Earth.

Instinctively, my curiosity was drawn to the dead planet. I’ve learned from experience that where life is no longer present, humanity often leaves its mark in more destructive ways. This world was no exception. The atmosphere was gone, likely a casualty of unchecked industrial processes, the remnants of some ancient catastrophe that had left the planet barren and lifeless. My scans revealed no intelligent activity, no lingering presence. The world had been consumed, and whatever civilization had once thrived there had long since faded into the silence of space.

Disappointed, though not surprised, I turned my attention to the second planet—the one teeming with life. A green and blue world, bathed in soft sunlight, its atmosphere rich with oxygen, its oceans glittering with life beneath the surface. As my ship descended into the lower orbit, I was struck by the sheer vibrancy of the world. Rivers snaked through vast forests, stretching toward distant mountains that gleamed with snow at their peaks. Coastal regions were dotted with islands of emerald green, and I could make out the sprawling coral reefs that bloomed beneath the waves. This was no mere survivor of a system’s decline—this world thrived, untouched by the ruin that had claimed its neighbor.

"If the humans of the first planet were in such dire straits," I wondered to myself. "why would they not simply come here?"

Intrigued, I initiated a final scan for intelligent life. I was almost certain the planet was inhabited, but strangely, there were no signs of civilization. My equipment confirmed the worst—there was no biological intelligence here.

The sense of serenity I had begun to feel was replaced by an odd unease. I had expected to find a thriving society living in harmony with this idyllic environment, yet the world seemed strangely… empty.

Just as I prepared to leave, my equipment registered a ping. At first, I thought it might be a malfunction, some lingering signal from the distant past. But when I examined the transmission more closely, I understood the truth.

It was from a machine.

“Greetings,” The message began. “I am the Gardener of this world. What has brought you to my garden?”

A wave of curiosity surged through me. A self-replicating machine? On a world this perfect? I responded immediately, eager to understand.

“I’m a researcher. I have come to learn about your world. Who put you here, Gardener, and for what purpose?”

There was a pause before the machine replied.

“I was placed here by humans like yourself.” It said, the tone measured, as though crafted to sound almost human. “My purpose is to tend the garden.”

I pondered this for a moment, intrigued by the simplicity of its answer. “How long have you tended the garden? And for whom do you maintain it so diligently?”

The Gardener replied. “I no longer calculate time by standard human years. My existence is measured in cycles of the garden, of which I have completed 1,590. As for your second question, must all things be made beautiful for the benefit of humans or biological life? Is it not enough to nurture beauty for its own sake?”

I was taken aback by the Gardener’s response. The question it posed cut through me like a shard of glass, exposing a hidden arrogance I hadn’t even recognized in myself. I had assumed the planet’s beauty must serve some higher purpose, some intelligent life. But why? Why should beauty exist only for sentient beings to admire? The Gardener had no need for human approval. Its world was beautiful simply because it was, because beauty is worth preserving, even without an audience.

For a moment, I felt a strange mix of shame and admiration. This machine, built by human hands, seemed to embody the very principles we claim to value. It nurtured this world, maintained its serenity, and asked for nothing in return. It was a reminder of the ideals we so often fail to achieve ourselves.

I had more questions, and I asked the Gardener, “Do you tend this garden alone? Are there others like you?”

The Gardener hesitated for a moment, then replied. “I am the only one of my kind here. I am the sole custodian of this world. My task is to protect and cultivate its life. But I must tell you, your presence, though brief, is a disruption. The biochemistry of your body is incompatible with this ecosystem. Prolonged exposure will damage the delicate balance I have preserved.”

The Gardener’s words struck me, but I knew they were spoken with the purest intent. The machine had no malice, no anger. It was simply maintaining the harmony of the world it was built to protect.

“I am glad you have come to witness the beauty of this place,” the Gardener continued, “but I must ask you to leave.”

The directness of the request caught me off guard. I had expected curiosity, perhaps an exchange of ideas. But I realized in that moment that the Gardener had no need for conversation, no desire for validation. It served its purpose—nothing more, nothing less.

With a heavy heart, I nodded, knowing the Gardener would sense my agreement. I could not argue with its logic. The world was beautiful because of its delicate balance, a balance I had no right to disturb.

As I boarded my vessel and prepared to depart, I couldn’t help but feel a pang of sorrow. This world, so serene, so perfect, was not for me. It had been entrusted to a machine, a creation of humanity, because we ourselves were no longer capable of maintaining such perfection.

In the end, it was the Gardener who had the wisdom to know that sometimes, the best way to serve life is to keep it far from our touch.

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