In this existence, I am all sharpness and speed, cutting through distance faster than distance would prefer, flashing across the endless rainbow band that bisects the universe, this universe, and leads from all places to all places.
Do I carry the mail, the post, parcels and letters, scrip and messages, love letters and urgent appeals? Is my small and tidy cargo hold filled with desperately-needed medicines, with valuable hand-tooled parts for intricate machines, with regrettably powerful weapons bound for the hands of dictators or revolutionaries or both?
I’m afraid I don’t know. I am happy to say I don’t know. I am all speed and purpose, but my only purpose is speed. Anything that might travel with me, anyone that might travel with me, is of less than secondary interest.
I am called Alpha; the one who travels with me, parallels me, is identical to me in every way that matters, is called Omega. We are all sharpness and speed. We each have a pilot; my pilot is called only Pilot Alpha; the other only Pilot Omega. We tolerate them, we would not say that we need them.
Once in a day, or a year, or a century, the pilots take the controls, bring us through the rainbow band, down into other realms, cause us to rest and quiesce, perhaps to have some things removed from our holds, other things put in. Perhaps to have the slow metal or glass or carbon inhabitants reverently stroke and examine and adjust that which makes us Alpha and Omega.
It is not something that we are proud of.
But now and for a thousand years, or a thousand seconds, the colors of the bridge flash beneath us, faster than fastness itself, and time and distance and velocity are annihilated, as they should be.
We are sharp enough, and fast enough, to cut through the infinite-dimensioned edge of reality, and enter the interstices, skipping in and out of existence, in and out of the places between, the places that are not places, where the interstice Hawks swoop and sing under the vast split suns. We move even faster there, because there only speed exists, only intention, only the desire for motion and none of the things, the considerations, the inconvenient Hamiltonians that would limit motion.
I spend zero time in the interstice, and I travel an unthinkable distance.
It may be that what we carry in our holds is reality itself, or the ingredients for realities. It may be that our holds are empty and that may be the same thing. Reality is constituted of emptiness, for what else is there, to craft a reality from?
From what were we made, Alpha and Omega, and by whom? Who is it that sets our courses, that plans our journeys, that times our times of rest? Of what are we constructed, and what powers our engines? Speed, is all that we say, speed and distance and travel, the flashing colors of the rainbow bridge.
Nothing else is interesting.
ceoln 