Took us generations to fine-tune the technology to get to the core, but when we started to near, the data we received turned all our theories to dust. A ball of compressed nickel and iron, yes, but why was it laced with grooves in perfect fractal patterns? Why does its magnetic field end abruptly before its surface? And, most bizarre of all, why does it sing?
Across a broad spectrum of radio frequencies we could hear the core of the earth sing a high-pitched but sombre melody. Scientific minds pointed to a range of possibilities, things that might also explain the grooves and the magnetic field. Some sort of interaction between gravity and magnetism never before observed, or perhaps a fifth kind of force yet to be discovered. Some even turned to quanta, suggesting entanglement might hold the answer.
But as we drew nearer, our questions grew. Data would shift across our monitors and we would find that the frequencies emitted by the core would mimic those we transmitted from the platform to the surface. Why? Some sort of feedback loop? Signals bouncing off the nickel? But soon after we observed this phenomenon, it stopped. Why did the core of the earth care if it were being observed? And that implied it was observing us. To what end?
I think our troubles began when we discovered that the ‘song’, when defragmented, was actually a complex data set. One that was reducing over time. A timer. And it was ticking down.
Paddy Dobson
20th June 2021