The Soul Continuum by Simon West-Bulford

others in an orgy of pain, persists, and I feel like I need to wash my mind.
    I collapse back into my seat, and then a wild thought comes to me.
    â€œControl, considering that this was vaguely human in form, could it have had a memory? Would it have been recorded in the Soul Consortium Archives?”
    Unknown. Subject identity unknown. Therefore impossible to determine if a file exists.
    I nod, still thinking. “Very well. What about that—what did you call it—proto-particulate architecture? Can you run a surface scan of the files or the codex to see if you can find a match?”
    Yes . . . Yes.
    â€œHow long will it take?”
    Approximately nine hours.
    â€œThen do it. And while I wait, show me Castor’s World. I want to see this impossible planet for myself.”
    The vast panoramic windows of the Observation Sphere shift as the imagers zoom in and focus on the mysterious world, and I feel a kick in the back of my mind—an endorphin release rewarding me for following this path of investigation. I want to think that it is because I have taken a step closer to Qod’s recovery, but I sense it is something else, something deeper, as if it is a response to subconscious stimulus. The thought irks me, and as the ravaged ball of rock and lava that is Castor’s World is brought into perfect clarity, I take a moment to dig through my mind. I regret it instantly. Like fingertips dipped in boiling water, my mind recoils at the attempt. Was that pain? It is something I only ever experience when living ancient lives, but the memory of that sensation is comparable.
    Not wishing to provoke another pang, I return my attention to the world before me. I do not want to slow down the Control Core’s calculations, so I mentally access the data files myself and run a search for any standard historical files relating to Castor’s World. It was, or perhaps still is, the residence of an isolated colony of monks. Other than its unexpected presence, there is nothing particularly unusual about it, except that it was the closest habitable world to survive the Great Cataclysm after the Promethean Singularity collapsed at the center of the universe. There is nothing in the files that could explain how it could possibly have survived the expiration of the universe. With its uniquely designed Slipstream drive, only the Soul Consortium could escape that. There is no other such endeavor on record.
    I spend the next few hours searching, sifting, and filtering data, hunting for anything that might provide a clue that could unravel this mystery, but it is only when the Control Core provides me with an answer to my query that I have a lead.
    There are six hundred twenty-four files in the Soul Consortium Archives containing a match to the proto-particulate architecture found in the subjects on Castor’s World.
    â€œGood. Can I access them?”
    Access is available only by means of the WOOM.
    â€œYou mean I actually have to live as one of these things to find out what I need to know?”
    Correct.
    I go cold at the thought. It has been a long time since I have experienced suffering of any kind—a very long time—but the poor wretch that has now been sent to storage was illustration enough of what I would have to endure. I don’t know if I can go through with it, but even as I resist the idea, the subtle thrill of exploration tweaks the pleasure center of my brain, confirming I must. If I did live as one of these abominations, how could I be sure that I could glean anything from the experience? Was it capable of rational thought? Could something like that even live for very long?
    â€œControl, what is the average lifespan of these lives?”
    Of six hundred and twenty-three of them, the average lifespan is three days. One survived for two hundred and seventy-seven years.
    I groan. Three days is not enough time to learn anything, especially as the subject was unlikely to have any semblance of