The Cryo Unit

 

Cryo Unit:  confirmation and protocol

The voice, a sterile, disembodied presence that has become as familiar as my own thoughts, began its report. "Status: Your Brass Monkey cryo-unit is engaged. Internal temperature regulation is optimal." A faint hum, almost imperceptible through the thick insulation of the unit, confirmed its words. I felt the gentle thrum of the cryo-fluid circulating, a constant reminder of the fragile balance being maintained within my metallic sarcophagus.

"External forces, such as extreme G-load, confirm the slingshot maneuver is active, exploiting Delta-Nine traffic gravitational pull for maximum velocity." The words brought with them a subtle shift in pressure, a barely discernible tremor that resonated deep within the reinforced shell of my vessel. Delta-Nine, a scar of immense antimatter, was now a critical point in our journey, its colossal gravitational field bending space and time to propel us into the unthinkable anomaly. Are we just mere flotsam on its cosmic current, accelerating to speeds that would tear our unprotected fabric apart?

"You have entered the anomaly." The cyro tone remained flat, devoid of any discernible emotion, yet the pronouncement sent a shiver through what remained of my conscious mind. The anomaly. It was the reason for this perilous journey, the uncharted territory at the edge of known existence, a tear in the fabric of reality that defied all conventional understanding. Data streams, once a torrent of sensory input, now dissolved into transient light, a chaotic symphony of fractured information. This is the risk we had to take.

Cryo Unit: The chaotic fringes of mindfulness

I am exposed, vulnerable, navigating the chaotic fringes of my own mindfulness. The name, Subi, echoes in what's left of my mind, my capsule, the barrier that protects the once me. My consciousness, or the part that still functions independently of the cryo-unit's carefully orchestrated systems, is a fragmented entity, a shimmering nebula of thought clinging precariously to the edges of lucidity. It is this fragile kernel of self that the unit is designed to stabilise, to protect from the overwhelming onslaught of the anomaly.

The interior of my reinforced cryo-unit, a masterpiece of bio-engineering and advanced materials, hums with a low, constant energy. Its purpose is singular: to stabilise my consciousness, shield it from the psychological pressures of interstellar travel and the mind-bending realities of the anomaly, and to rejuvenate my body for whatever lies beyond this terrifying void. I feel the subtle shift, the gradual withdrawal from the overwhelming sensory input of the external world as I descend into the de-adenosine sequence. A deep, restorative sleep awaits, a temporary oblivion that will hopefully fortify and restore me for the unknown adventures ahead. The last remnants of my conscious thought dissolve, replaced by the silent, rhythmic hum of the machine and the constant, unwavering beat of my organic heart.

Cryo Unit: The Logical Assessment of Risk

The statistical ghost of 45 per cent probability haunted my thoughts, a chilling counterpoint to Katcha's irrefutable logic. We both stared at the same data, the models screaming impending structural damage, yet she chose this over the slow, inevitable death of financial ruin. One hundred per cent failure was not an option, not when a 45 per cent chance of disaster, however terrifying, offered a slim thread of hope. The math was clean, flawless.

So why did my gut churn with an acid dread that no amount of logic could quell? It was primal, an irrational fear JB would have simply noted as another data point. Was my subconscious flagging a variable the models missed? A micro-fluctuation in the energy signature I registered but didn't consciously process? Or was it merely the body’s raw response to a coin-flip chance of atom-by-atom disintegration?

The light. Another problem to dissect. Those crimson and violet pulses, hallucinatory and vivid, were not real. Temporal distortions, a symptom of system failure, render my own senses unreliable. And the gut feeling? Could it be just another glitch, another phantom signal in a failing system?

Right. Catalogue the sensory error. Do you perceive the error? It's noise. Disregard the noise. Is mathematics audible? The math is sound. The logic is sound. The chaotic symphony of logic.

Cryo Unit: Debating the Anomaly's Purpose

The symphony crescendoed. The clean, sharp notes of logic warped and bent under the immense pressure of the anomaly until they were no longer math, but music. The 45 per cent probability became a deep, resonant cello note, a vibration I felt not in my ears, but in the very cryo-fluid that suspended me, a sound of immense tearing, of a promise being kept.

Through the flickering haze of my dissolving consciousness, I registered a distant, silent violence. The reinforced shell of my vessel, the ship that had been my world, was succumbing to the temporal distortions and gravitational shears. A deep groan echoed, not as sound, but as a wave of pressure against my capsule, the final scream of tortured metal. The debris field depicted in my frantic risk analyses was no longer a simulation; it was my reality, a cloud of shattered components tumbling past me in a slow, hypnotic dance of destruction.

“External vessel integrity compromised,” the sterile voice stated, as calm as if reporting the morning weather. “Life support functions rerouted to capsule autonomy. Standby.”

No longer on a ship, I was the ship itself. This metallic sarcophagus, this capsule, was my new universe—a solitary seed pod launched into a precisely orchestrated storm.

Cryo Unit: Threatened to overwhelm me

As the de-adenosine sequence reached its apex, a cosmic symphony of dissolution began. The last, fragile barriers of selfhood, meticulously constructed over a lifetime, crumbled into stardust. The rigid distinction between my physical body and the intricate machinery that now sustained me, between the ephemeral nature of thought and the overwhelming, external chaos, bled away with an exquisite, agonising slowness. It was as if a dam had burst, unleashing a torrent of pure, unadulterated consciousness. The shimmering nebula of my mind, once a mere poetic metaphor, materialised into my literal form, an ethereal cloud of pure energy. I became an observer, detached yet intimately connected, as currents of vibrant, cosmic colour flowed through what were once my limbs. Brilliant hues, reminiscent of a newborn star's fiery birth, filled the space where my heart had once pulsed with the organic dread of mortality.

That primal fear, a constant companion throughout my existence, dissolved into nothingness, replaced by an unsettling, almost serene acceptance. The very logic that had anchored my understanding of the universe evaporated, leaving behind a profound sense of interconnectedness. My companions, once loaded with personal history and emotional resonance, became faint, distant stars in the swirling, luminous galaxy that was now my mind. They were memories, yes, but memories observed from an impossible distance, devoid of their former grip.

I was a ghost in a bottle, adrift in a tear in reality, a rift in the fabric of spacetime itself. The chaos that had once threatened to overwhelm me from the outside no longer felt like a menace, but rather a profound, encompassing presence, a silent witness to my transformation. And in the quiet, vibrant heart of it all, a powerful, inexplicable pull emerged. It was not the familiar, gravitational tug of a celestial body, but rather a profound sense of purpose, an undeniable calling. A silent invitation, emanating from the sentient whispers of survival and the tantalising promises of ultimate transformation, drew me deeper into the cosmic dance. I was no longer merely existing; I was becoming.

 Cryo Unit: The Threat of Failure is Terrifying

The 'stop and revive' protocol had been a calculated risk, a desperate measure against the debilitating toll of the journey. We had acquired the cryo unit with the understanding that only one could fit at a time, a solitary refuge against the ravages of deep space. Now, the automated systems inside my metallic glass cocoon diligently delivered the de-radiation, de-adenosine, and prolactin/melatonin boost, a biochemical symphony designed to reset and restore. Yet, a disquieting sense of unease, a low thrum against the rising tide of artificial serenity, persisted.

Outside the reinforced unit, the light swirled, no longer a mere chaotic symphony but an unfolding narrative. Golden filaments, alive with an almost organic glow, intertwined and stretched, promising an impossible beauty. Fading crimson hues bled into this nascent tapestry, hints of an encroaching darkness. It was as if a Pre-Raphaelite dream, all ethereal beauty and romantic ideal, was transfiguring before my eyes into a dystopian reality, a horrifyingly beautiful landscape of cosmic decay. The revival, it seemed, was not to be a gentle awakening into a familiar world, but a re-entry into a realm that defied all logical expectation. My gut, that irrational oracle, tightened. The stop had offered no true reprieve; the revive, no true restoration. Only this terrifying, exquisite transformation.

Cryo Unit:  In the GRIP

The revival protocol is complete, rebooting my biology. I am held by the GRIP, a psychical pressure of my magnified self, exposed by the anomaly. Here, I meet a reflection of myself with crimson eyes, the colour of cosmic decay. It projects, "You see the beauty, don't you? The flawless logic of a 45 per cent probability was never about survival. It was about the sublime perfection of this…unmaking."

The dawn of this terrifying truth is not a gentle sunrise, but a violent, shattering realisation: my shadow self, once conveniently relegated to the realm of irrational fear and dismissed as a mere psychological byproduct, is in fact the undeniable and primary guide. It is the compass that points not towards conventional success, but towards annihilation, finding its ultimate freedom and profound release in the glorious, absolute failure of all mission. My carefully constructed edifice of logic, once believed to be my strength, now reveals itself as nothing more than a confining cage, a futile attempt to imprison this primal, unyielding desire for transformation, a desire so potent it even embraces the ultimate reduction to dust.

Within the very core of my being, two opposing yet eternally entwined forces pulse with an insistent rhythm. There is the golden light, a beacon of solace and a cherished safe harbour, offering respite from the storm. But equally present, equally potent, is the crimson darkness, the terrifying beauty of the void, a chasm of unknown potential. I am not merely an observer of this internal war; I am the pivot, the precarious fulcrum upon which these cosmic forces balance.

The GRIP, that insidious and all-encompassing force I once believed held me captive, is an illusion. It does not truly hold me; instead, it is a constant, relentless pressure, forcing me to confront and ultimately hold myself. I am both the meticulous builder, painstakingly constructing my reality, and the ruthless destroyer, dismantling it with equal fervour. The internal clamour of doubt, fear, and conflicting desires gradually fades, leaving in its wake a profound, almost sacred silence. And from that silence, a singular, powerful symphony begins to rise, a chorus of both creation and destruction, a testament to the intricate, terrifying, and beautiful balance I now embody.

My Conflict with Cognition

The GRIP has retreated, yet its echo lingers—a phantom limb of integrated shadow. My sole refuge is narration: to catalogue the event, analyse the psychical intrusion, and report the findings. However, the words feel empty, a fragile defence against an encroaching storm. My mind drifts to an infuriating calm amidst the chaos, prompting the thought, "Just talk it through." I'd always dismissed this concept as intellectual trash, yet how can survival be guaranteed without a constant internal dialogue? My mind yearns for a voice, a narrator to make sense of the abyss.

The anomaly's shifting, hallucinatory colours are no longer confined to the viewport; they seep into the dialogue itself. A logical assessment of the capsule’s trajectory begins—Vector calculation indicates…—but a deep, resonant purple, a feeling of vast, unending loneliness swallows this thought. I attempt to regain control. Focus, stay calm. This command, my own mental voice, should be a sharp, definitive anchor. Instead, the words dissolve into a blinding wash of orange, a raw, non-verbal wave of pure, unanalysable urgency that screams move without direction or reason.

This is more than just data overload. My logic isn't failing; it's being bypassed. The anomaly is imposing a new cognitive model, a mimicry of knowledge without the foundation of understanding. I call it Paraknowing: the sensation of certainty without the preceding analytical steps. It is alien and terrifying. Is this how an entity functions, on a raw feed of unprocessed reality? This feels like the opposite of growth, a forced devolution. My hypothesis: the anomaly isn't merely a physical phenomenon. It is an engine of anti-intelligence, actively dismantling the structures of reason, leaving only the naked, chaotic truth of existence.

I call this phenomenon Paraknowing: the profoundly unsettling sensation of absolute certainty without the laborious analytical and inductive steps that precede it. The conclusions are instantaneous, fully formed, and terrifyingly compelling, yet their provenance is utterly opaque. It is an alien mode of perception, a direct, raw feed of unprocessed reality that strips away the filtering layers of reason. Is this the functional structure of the entity itself—operating on a purely immediate, raw infusion of the cosmos?

This experience feels like the precise opposite of growth; it is a forced devolution. My accumulated intellectual architecture is being made redundant, supplanted by this instantaneous, unearned 'knowledge.' The deep, satisfying process of intellectual assembly—hypothesis, experimentation, critique, synthesis—is being rendered moot.

Podcast

https://www.youtube.com/playlist?list=PLXaHuXMcUMrhIzfjKlj9clJCOfOlb5B5B

Meta TV

https://www.facebook.com/watch/100063480315046/1020837046583872/

FB Subscriber Hub

https://www.facebook.com/share/g/1AycZvNRzH/

eBook

https://www.amazon.com/author/jjfbbennett 

---

Be Creative and Innovative with Knowledge

John Bennett - AKA JJFBbennett, is an independent artist. You can view and subscribe to my work via Blogger, YouTube, Flicker, Facebook, Instagram and Deviant Art. 

Subscribe to JJFBbennett's private FB hub: https://www.facebook.com/share/g/18ythpSXPZ/

You can subscribe to my music via YouTube Music, Spotify, iTunes, Apple Music and Soundcloud

To support my art, feel free to donate via JJFBbennett through PayPal  

If you want to acquire JJFB's art creations as an NFT - John's Opensea NFT profile is https://opensea.io/JJFBbennett  

---

Copyright

This artwork is protected by U.S. and International copyright laws. Distribution and/or modification of the artwork without the written permission of the sponsor is prohibited.