The skies are vast and empty, almost as though specifically crafted to defy exploration.
Humanity sends out probes at increasingly large fractions of the speed of light, hops and skips short distances not even reaching ten lightyears in clumsy, generational crafts, all the while recording where they’ve been, the characteristics of the many suns and planets they’ve visited, their trajectories and positions. Humans evolve into unrecognizability, split and divide into fleets upon fleets, a thousand-thousand different species, scattered into the cosmos like seeds to the wind.
Why they left a long-forgotten Earth becomes unimportant, generations upon generations of astrological recordings convince ever more alien descendants that only the endless pursuit of the universe’s many moving parts, recording the rational mechanics of a material world, lends them purpose. They hop and skip ever farther, their probes scout ever faster, and their map of the cosmos grows.
After many millions of years, two such generational craft intersect, the first such occurrence in all recorded history. An almost religious fervor strikes these two peoples, so unused to coincidence, and the celebrations last an improbable amount of time, measured by a unit so separated from the realities of planetary dwelling as to be unfathomable by their ancestors. But most importantly, the spatial data accumulated by the two vessels is assimilated, compared.
It does not match, in any regard.
They again spend unfathomable stretches of time trying to reconcile these differences, to salvage the purpose of their very existence. Space and time has distorted as they traveled ever faster and farther, has distorted by processesnatural but unknown, planetary orbits have decayed, suns have fallen into singularities. The sciences and methods and language used to record and convey the information has deviated in the millennia since separation such that the objective reality they measure could be identical and neither party would or could ever know. Together, both ships had explored one hundredth of a millionth of the observable universe.
Unlike their ancestors, these post-humans had truly known purpose, had lived a directed and orderly existence that left no room for existentialism. They were Cartographers, their purpose and their being one and the same. Without that, both populations fell to despair and expended all their resources to pour out probes in all directions that would warn other vessels of the cruel truth, exhausting even what was needed to sustain life. They succumbed to a suicide of sorts, a uniquely human act.
No other ship has yet encountered another, nor one of the probes that bear the curse of existentialism. None of them ever will, for the universe is too absurdly, pointlessly vast. In ignorance, they will continue to map the cosmos that continues to change around them, as though tracing the face of a clock even as it ticks down the seconds.