This is the second part of an ongoing science fiction series
Data flowed over every surface as the protoverse spun up, an artefact of those times she assumed. As lucid clarity diffused across the surface a strange and altogether beautiful scene emerged. City streets scrolled past, hurrying to place themselves, figures emerged from clouds of data, each a loving embodiment of memories millennia old. Under her feet pavement stones of unknown texture and type solidified, a fake sense of gravity asserting itself with a tug. Overhead buildings reached for the aurora drenched sky above, greens and mauves dancing across the sky in a helium sonata of old. Traversing the sky, her eyes filled with strato-tugs, arial conveyors, and a myriad other designs foreign. Yes, that was the right word foreign, for even the signs and evoked conversation felt strange to her eyes and ears. Not wrong, just unfamiliar. Her gaze took in the vista to the horizon, and seeing the data feet knew that it likely encompassed a whole planet’s worth of creation.
A delicate ping resonated across her mind as the protoverse finally coalesced into its own internal harmony. Whoever designed it had a keen eye for detail likely millennia in the making. She let out an amused snort realing she felt a twinge of jealousy. Her own vertical ‘verse was practical and prosaic, a mere escape from the world to a small and cozy space; this was something else entirely, a place to live and experience the world.
Yet, something felt off, familiar in ways that made her uneasy. Looking back at the sky, she cast her eye over the constellations. “Della, map over the star map from over the library circa four thousand Terran years prior.”
Her AI obliged, fading the vivid world and overlaying stars. No match, and even as she spun it forward and backwards there was no alignment. Odd. “Okay, run alignment to all known UET planets.”
Further dimming as Della drew on Syrianna for computational power. Constellation charts flashed across the sky, forwards and backwards attempting to locate the world around them. Forty, fifty, seventy. Minutes dragged into an hour, and then on the eighty seventh an overlocked clicked into place. Not perfect, ninety six percent.