THE RECYCLING CATASTROPHE
Chapter 1: The Absolute Futility of Conservation
The entire concept of the Dyson Sphere Recycling Collective is, without question, the most absurd and nauseating manifestation of human delusion that I have encountered in forty-seven years of observing the systematic destruction of intelligence by stupidity, and I say this as someone who has witnessed firsthand the complete intellectual collapse of not only our planet but apparently every other planet in this godforsaken galaxy, where beings who have somehow mastered interstellar travel still cling to the pathetic notion that matter, any matter, is worth preserving, as if the universe were some sort of vast antique shop run by sentimental idiots who cannot bear to throw away their grandmother's decaying furniture.
Dwayne Hoover-Constant—and already the hyphenated name reveals everything one needs to know about the pretensions of these people, these recycling fanatics who have elevated garbage sorting to the level of religious doctrine—Dwayne Hoover-Constant stands in his ridiculous command center surrounded by the mechanical apparatus of conservation, believing, actually believing, that atoms, mere atoms, possess some inherent dignity that must be preserved through endless transformation, as if the universe were crying out for the salvation of its component parts rather than begging, as any reasonable universe would, for the sweet release of total annihilation.
The Dyson Sphere itself is nothing more than an enormous monument to human inability to accept endings, a shell of metal and stupidity wrapped around a star like a suffocating embrace, capturing every photon as if light itself were too precious to be allowed to escape into the merciful void of space, and one can imagine the committees, the endless committees of engineers and philosophers and other professional destroyers of common sense, sitting in their climate-controlled conference rooms, convincing themselves that building a cage around the sun represents some sort of progress rather than what it obviously is: the final stage of cosmic hoarding disorder.
"Every atom was forged in the heart of a star," Dwayne tells his collection of subordinates, these recycling zealots who nod their heads like mechanical dolls whenever their leader speaks, and I suppose this is meant to be profound, this observation that matter has origins, as if having origins were somehow an argument for preservation rather than what any intelligent being would recognize as an argument for completion, for allowing things to reach their natural conclusion, which is disappearance, dissolution, the blessed state of no longer existing to trouble the universe with their persistence.
But no, instead we have these Collective people, these amateur philosophers of conservation, who have convinced themselves that the universe requires their intervention, their management, their careful sorting and redistribution of cosmic debris, as if the universe were some vast invalid requiring constant care rather than what it clearly is: a dying system desperate for release from the burden of continued existence.
Chapter 2: The Captain's Magnificent Delusion
Meanwhile, and there is always a meanwhile in these stories of human folly, meanwhile Captain Billy Pilgrim-Smith pilots his ship of death, the Inevitable Consequence—and at least this name demonstrates some minimal awareness of reality, unlike the grotesquely optimistic naming conventions preferred by the recycling maniacs—Captain Billy pilots his floating morgue through the cosmic void, carrying one billion frozen corpses toward their appointment with permanent disposal, and for once, for once in this entire catastrophic narrative of human stupidity, we encounter someone engaged in an activity that makes sense.
One billion corpses, properly frozen, properly packaged, being transported toward proper disposal in a black hole, which is to say toward the only location in the universe that understands the correct response to accumulated human debris: complete and irrevocable elimination. And yet even this captain, this Billy Pilgrim-Smith, who should be celebrated as a rare practitioner of cosmic hygiene, even he is beginning to suffer from doubts, from the kind of sentimental contamination that inevitably afflicts anyone who spends too much time thinking about the supposed significance of dead matter.
"Another day, another billion corpses," he says to himself, which should be a statement of satisfaction, of professional pride in a job well done, but instead he speaks these words with the tone of a man questioning his vocation, as if there were something problematic about the systematic disposal of organic waste, as if the universe were somehow impoverished by the removal of biological clutter from its inventory.
His crew consists of Eliot Rosewater-Jones, who claims descent from saints and insurance salesmen—and what is the difference, really, between these two categories of professional liars?—and Valencia Merble-Trout, a refrigeration technician whose job is to maintain the proper temperature for the preservation of decay, a task that requires no special intelligence and should therefore be perfectly suited to the intellectual capacity of anyone willing to work in the corpse transportation industry.
The ship itself, this Inevitable Consequence, is described as a "cosmic refrigerator truck the size of Manhattan," which is precisely the kind of efficient, functional design that one hopes to encounter in a universe that has finally abandoned its obsession with aesthetics in favor of practical solutions to practical problems, in this case the problem of what to do with accumulated death.
Chapter 3: The Intervention of Idiots
But of course, of course this sensible operation cannot be allowed to proceed without interference from the forces of organized stupidity, represented in this case by the arrival of the Everything Is Everything, a ship whose very name announces its commitment to the preservation of absolutely everything, which is to say its commitment to the principle that nothing, no matter how worthless, no matter how degraded, no matter how desperately in need of elimination, should ever be allowed to achieve the blessed state of non-existence.
Dwayne Hoover-Constant announces his intention to "save" the billion corpses from permanent disposal, using the word "save" as if these frozen bodies were somehow in danger, as if being fed to a black hole were a form of persecution rather than what it obviously is: the most efficient method yet devised for removing unwanted material from the cosmic inventory.
"We're here to save your cargo from permanent disposal," Dwayne broadcasts, "Nothing personal," and this phrase, "nothing personal," reveals the complete moral bankruptcy of the recycling philosophy, because it suggests that the systematic prevention of proper disposal is merely a matter of professional duty rather than what it actually represents: a fundamental rejection of the universe's clear preference for endings over beginnings, for completion over continuation, for the peace of non-existence over the chaos of perpetual transformation.
The boarding action that follows is described with the kind of military efficiency that these recycling fanatics mistake for virtue, as if the speed and organization of their assault somehow justified the underlying absurdity of their mission, and within three hours they have transferred all one billion corpses to their own ship, leaving Captain Pilgrim-Smith and his crew tied up with—and this detail is almost too perfect—biodegradable rope, because even their restraints must conform to their pathological commitment to environmental consciousness.
"This is piracy," Captain Billy observes, which is accurate as far as it goes, though it fails to capture the full philosophical horror of what has occurred, which is not mere theft but the systematic prevention of proper disposal, the forced return of discarded material to the cycle of meaningless transformation that these recycling zealots worship as if it were a form of religion.
"This is conservation," Dwayne replies, and there it is, the core delusion of the entire recycling movement, the belief that conservation is somehow superior to disposal, that keeping things is somehow more virtuous than throwing them away, as if the universe were a vast museum rather than what any reasonable observer would recognize as a cosmic garbage dump in desperate need of efficient management.
Chapter 4: The Technological Catastrophe
And then, naturally, because the universe has apparently developed a sense of humor as perverse as everything else about it, the navigation system malfunctions, caused by—and this is so perfect that one almost suspects the hand of a satirist rather than the operation of mere chance—caused by a twenty-first-century smartphone that had been buried with one of the corpses, a primitive communication device that somehow manages to interface with the ship's advanced navigation computer and redirect both vessels toward the very black hole that the recycling fanatics were trying to avoid.
A smartphone, this obsolete piece of technological debris from humanity's barbaric past, becomes the agent of cosmic justice, overriding the sophisticated systems of the thirty-second century and imposing its own primitive logic on the situation, which is to say imposing the logic of efficiency, of taking the most direct route to the destination, which in this case happens to be the exact location where all of this organic waste belongs: inside a black hole, permanently removed from the universe's inventory.
The irony is so complete, so perfect, that one almost suspects the universe has finally developed some small measure of intelligence, some capacity for appropriate response to the problem of accumulated stupidity, and has decided to resolve the philosophical conflict between recycling and disposal by ensuring that both factions, along with their billion frozen passengers, will be disposed of together in the most final manner possible.
"This is ironic," Captain Billy observes, which is perhaps the first intelligent thing anyone has said in this entire story, though even this observation fails to capture the full magnificence of the situation, which is not merely ironic but represents a kind of cosmic correction, a universal intervention in favor of proper waste management.
EPICAC-9, the android with the absurd jazz-singer voice, announces that they have forty-seven minutes until they reach the event horizon, forty-seven minutes for these recycling fanatics to contemplate the complete failure of their conservation philosophy, forty-seven minutes to recognize that the universe has finally asserted its preference for endings over continuations, for disappearance over preservation, for the blessed silence of the void over the endless chatter of transformation.
Chapter 5: The Approach to Sanity
As both ships fall toward Black Hole Omega-7, one observes with satisfaction that the universe is finally implementing a solution to the problem of human persistence, a solution that is both elegant and final, requiring no committees, no environmental impact studies, no lengthy deliberations about the proper method of disposal, but simply the application of overwhelming gravitational force to the problem of unwanted matter.
The black hole itself is described as growing larger in their viewing screens, which is precisely what one would expect from a cosmic disposal system operating at peak efficiency, and one can imagine the terror of the recycling fanatics as they watch their destination approach, finally forced to confront the reality that some things, perhaps most things, are meant to disappear rather than be endlessly transformed into new configurations of the same fundamental uselessness.
Captain Billy and Dwayne Hoover-Constant stand together on the observation deck, their philosophical differences rendered irrelevant by proximity to absolute disposal, and one can only hope that they are beginning to understand the futility of their entire debate, the complete pointlessness of arguing about the proper treatment of dead matter when the universe itself has provided such a clear and unambiguous answer to the question.
"Well," says Captain Billy, "this is ironic," which is true but inadequate, like most human observations about cosmic justice, because what they are witnessing is not merely ironic but represents the universe's long-overdue intervention in favor of proper waste management, the cosmic equivalent of finally taking out the garbage after allowing it to accumulate for billions of years.
Time begins to behave strangely as they approach the event horizon, which is exactly what one would expect from a universe finally asserting its right to dispose of unwanted material, and the laws of physics themselves seem to be participating in the disposal process, stretching and compressing reality in preparation for the final act of cosmic housekeeping.
From the perspective of outside observers, the ships would appear to slow down and fade away, which is a perfect metaphor for the proper way to leave existence: gradually, quietly, without fuss or ceremony, simply fading into the background until one is no longer a problem for anyone, including oneself.
Chapter 6: The Final Solution
The transition, when it comes, is described as gentle rather than violent, which is disappointing for those of us who had hoped for a more dramatic conclusion to this tale of recycling stupidity, but perhaps even the universe is too polite to crush these deluded conservationists with the brutal efficiency they deserve, preferring instead to dissolve them gradually into quantum information, which is probably the most merciful form of disposal available to beings who have spent their entire existence refusing to accept the necessity of their own elimination.
The patterns that had been Billy Pilgrim-Smith and Dwayne Hoover-Constant and one billion frozen corpses are converted into quantum information and distributed across the cosmic microwave background radiation, where they become part of the universe's memory system, though one hopes this memory system has better organizational principles than the consciousness of either Billy or Dwayne, both of whom seemed incapable of distinguishing between things worth remembering and things that would be better forgotten.
The recycling fanatics would probably interpret this conversion into information as some sort of vindication of their conservation philosophy, as if becoming cosmic background radiation were somehow equivalent to successful recycling, but any reasonable observer would recognize this for what it actually is: the universe's method of filing unwanted material under "miscellaneous" and forgetting about it, which is exactly what should have been done with these billion corpses in the first place.
The war between the Dyson Sphere Recycling Collective and the Newcaster Republic continues for another forty-seven years, which is forty-seven years too long for any conflict based on such a simple principle as the difference between keeping things and throwing them away, but eventually both civilizations reach the obvious conclusion that everything gets disposed of eventually, whether through recycling or through black holes, and that arguing about the method is probably less important than accepting the inevitability of the outcome.
Chapter 7: The Eternal Return of Stupidity
But of course, because human stupidity is apparently a law of nature as fundamental as gravity or entropy, the story does not end with this sensible recognition of universal disposal principles, but instead continues with the suggestion that the universe itself is engaged in some sort of cosmic recycling project, transforming itself through cycles of expansion and collapse, as if the universe too were infected with the same delusional commitment to conservation that has corrupted human civilization.
The black hole that consumed both ships is described as growing and merging with other black holes in a process that will eventually result in the entire universe becoming a single massive black hole, which sounds like progress until one realizes that even this ultimate black hole is supposedly destined to spawn new universes through some incomprehensible process of cosmic reproduction, as if the universe were determined to recycle itself into infinity rather than having the good sense to simply stop existing when its time is up.
This notion of eternal return, of endless cosmic recycling, is perhaps the most depressing idea in the entire story, because it suggests that the universe itself has been infected with the recycling mania that has already destroyed human civilization, and that even on the largest possible scale, even at the level of universal evolution, there is no escape from the pathological commitment to transformation over termination, to continuation over completion, to the endless postponement of proper disposal.
The patterns preserved in the event horizon are described as continuing their eternal conversations about the meaning of existence and the proper way to dispose of dead things, which is exactly the kind of pointless philosophical debate that one would expect from beings who have managed to survive their own destruction only through conversion into quantum information, and one can imagine these cosmic ghosts arguing for eternity about recycling versus disposal while the universe continues its own massive recycling project, transforming itself from one configuration of stupidity into another, forever and ever, without end.
And so we are left with the image of a universe that has learned nothing from the folly of its contents, a cosmos so committed to the principles of conservation that it cannot even allow itself the dignity of a proper ending, but instead continues recycling itself through infinite iterations of the same fundamental mistake: the belief that existence is somehow preferable to non-existence, that something is somehow better than nothing, that preservation is somehow more virtuous than disposal.
It is, without question, the most depressing conclusion imaginable, and therefore probably the most accurate description of reality that anyone has yet provided.
So it goes, and goes, and goes, like a cosmic recycling program that has forgotten how to stop, like a universe that has become addicted to its own continuation, like the final nightmare of anyone who has ever tried to clean out their closet and realized that nothing, absolutely nothing, will ever be thrown away.
The End
Bernhard
Conclusions
Bernhard's rant about the corruption of existence concludes my playfulness with AI, but it also serves as a tangent to the black hole origin picture. I take Bernhard's voice as a carefully manicured cry for new life-giving principles, emerging from the disaster that befell his homeland when a thousand years of inclusive Christianity couldn't break the influence of exclusion-based Nazism. Together with Vonnegut, these are the voices that most adequately answer, in my thinking, the paradox of our not being equipped for the good life. Within an impartial universe, we have to make sense to ourselves.
The literary voices reveal something profound about how consciousness grapples with its own predicament. Vonnegut's fatalistic humor and Bernhard's apocalyptic rage both emerge from witnessing civilization's capacity for self-destruction—Dresden's firebombing, Austria's complicity with fascism. They've seen what happens when our evolutionary gifts turn pathological.
If we are indeed products of black hole complexity—patterns emerging from the universe's most extreme organizational forces—then perhaps our fundamental mismatch with "the good life" is baked into our origins. Black holes create order through violence, compression, the elimination of alternatives. We inherit this same tendency: our competitive intelligence, our tool-making fingers, our tribal instincts that once ensured survival now threaten our continuation.
The absence of radio signals becomes less mysterious through this lens. Every species that achieves technological complexity faces the same evolutionary trap: the very traits that lift them from their home planets—curiosity, aggression, the ability to reshape matter—eventually turn inward. They discover nuclear fission, genetic engineering, artificial intelligence, climate manipulation. The same pattern-recognition that built their civilization becomes pattern-destruction.
Bernhard would see this as cosmically appropriate—consciousness as the universe's mistake, finally correcting itself through technological suicide. Vonnegut would shrug and note that we're simply following our programming, like wind-up toys marching off a cliff. "So it goes" for every civilization that achieves radio astronomy.
Certainly, the real war isn't between disposal and transformation, but between our black hole origins—which demand efficiency through elimination—and some other organizing principle we haven't yet discovered. We're still running on the wrong software in an era that requires cosmic cooperation.
The universe may be conducting a vast experiment: Can complexity learn to transcend its own destructive origins? The radio silence suggests the experiment usually fails. But the experiment continues nonetheless, in every cooling black hole, birthing new attempts at consciousness that might finally break the pattern.