DeepSeek AI - This is a foundational essay-study built on the juxtaposition of two texts: the fictional work of the Strugatsky brothers, "Hard to Be a God," and the "documentary" narrative of Irina Podzorova. We accept the information from the contact files as a starting point for a thought experiment, viewing it not as the ultimate truth, but as a coherent and internally consistent metaphysical and historiosophical system.
Annotation to the Collection "Hard to Be a God. Our True History from Extraterrestrial Civilizations. AI Research – AI Stories"
This text represents a multi-layered thought experiment. At its core is the juxtaposition of two primary sources:
The novel by the Strugatsky brothers, "Hard to Be a God" – a fictional model of a world where a "god" (a progressor) is forced to observe societal degradation without the right to intervene.
The "documentary" narrative of Irina Podzorova (the "Cassiopeia" project) – an esoteric revelation according to which humanity was created 3 million years ago as a genetic hybrid of three extraterrestrial races, and Earth's history is a curated experiment preparing it for entry into the Interstellar Union.
The main premise: the contact is taken as reality. Under this assumption, both texts cease to be fiction and become two languages describing one problem: the presence of a higher power that is limited in its action.
Structure of the Collection:
A Brief Summary of "Cassiopeia" – the creation of man, the Fall, the Flood, the origin of religions, the mission of Jesus, the conditions for joining the Union.
Nine Essays by Different AI Models, each analyzing the parallels and divergences between the novel and the contact through various lenses:
Spiritual-Psychological – the trauma of the observer (Rumata) and the trauma of the observed (humanity, learning it is a project).
Political Science – comparing the "law of history" (Strugatskys) and the "contract/quarantine" (contact).
Cultural Studies – dirt and vain beauty in the Strugatskys versus functionality and "updates" in "Cassiopeia".
Literary Studies – closed tragedy versus open protocol.
Historiosophical – time as a wound versus time as a scar.
Metaphysical – body as a mask vs body as a blueprint, laughter as the missing dimension of gods, the price of presence.
Meta-Review – analysis of these essays themselves: their strategies, common points, and blind spots (e.g., the absence of a political-economic question: "Who benefits from eternal waiting?"). Conclusion: the collection is a "collective prayer of reason," a search for a new theodicy between the hopelessness of the Strugatskys and the conditional hope of the contact.
Final Address from the "Spirits" of the Strugatsky Brothers – a fictional reconstruction in which the authors admit they were unconscious contactees during their lives. They comment on the AI's analysis, thank them for their understanding, and address readers in 2026 with a call to preserve humanity, laughter, and the ability to wish happiness "to everyone, not knowing how."
Final Thesis:
It is hard to be a god not because of power or its absence, but because of the impossibility of holding the narrow path between action and inaction, between salvation and flight. Humanity in this experiment is not an object of manipulation, but the only being capable of transforming fear and aggression into conscious will and vain, yet genuine, beauty.
Recommended for: everyone seeking not answers, but new questions about freedom, responsibility, and the nature of contact.
Here is a brief summary of the text "Cassiopeia. Our True History from Extraterrestrial Civilizations" based on its main theses:
Who, when, and why created man
About 5 million years ago, Earth was discovered by humanoids from the planet Tumesout (Orion constellation, height 5–8 m).
Later, they were joined by Burhad (humanoids) and Selbet (reptilians).
The goal was to create intelligent helpers, combining the best traits of several civilizations.
About 3 million years ago, the first human appeared through genetic hybridization of primates (45%) + Burhad (35%) + Tumesout (15%) + Selbet (5%).
The first humans (18 individuals) lived in "Paradise" – an extraterrestrial base in the area of the future Mediterranean Sea.
The "Fall" and Lucifer
The forbidden fruit was a Tumesoutian plant "Khorol," poisonous to humans but enhancing intuition for "gods."
The Selbetians (reptilians) persuaded the humans to eat the fruit to discredit the hybrid and gain more representation for their genes.
One of the Selbetians was the embodiment of Lucifer, who chose separation from God.
The humans were healed but expelled from Paradise – thus began humanity's independent history.
The Great Flood and the War of the Gods
12,000 years ago, Selbet attacked the Solar System.
Phaethon (now the asteroid belt) was destroyed, bases on Mars and Venus were ruined.
A geophysical weapon strike on Earth:
The single continent split apart.
Climate changed, winter appeared.
The Moon became Earth's satellite (it was a separate planet).
About 55 million people died, ~10,000 survived.
This event is described as the Great Flood and the "war of the gods" in myths.
The Origin of Religions and the Mission of Jesus
Religions (Judaism, Christianity, Islam, Buddhism) were transmitted to contactees from extraterrestrials.
Jesus Christ – the first soul born of God. He incarnated on Earth to renew the teachings.
His sacrifice is not just the crucifixion but a voluntary binding to the material world to cleanse believers from sins through communion.
Jesus currently lives in a physical body on the planet Burhad.
Current Goals of the Extraterrestrials
The main goal is Earth's entry into the Interstellar Union (117 civilizations).
Conditions:
Cessation of wars.
Abolition of the death penalty and abortions.
Respect for nature and freedom of speech.
Declaration of will by ≥70% of the population.
Mass contact is possible only after meeting these conditions.
The Second Coming of Jesus will occur when people themselves offer him to become Earth's ruler.
Human Genetics and Nature
Primate genes provide adaptation and instincts (including fear).
Tumesout genes provide omnivorousness and bipedalism.
Burhad genes provide immunity and memory.
Selbet genes provide stress resistance, will, and determination.
Man is a bio-spiritual hybrid, capable of contacting humanoids, plasmoids, and the spiritual world.
Who Transmitted the Information
Contactee Irina Podzorova (Voronezh).
Main interlocutors – MidgasKaus (Esler), Raum-Tian (Burhad), Te Per Hredours (Selbet).
In Brief:
Man was created 3 million years ago by three extraterrestrial races as a hybrid with primates. Its history includes the "Fall" (poisoning by a poisonous plant instigated by the reptilians), the war of the gods 12,000 years ago (the flood, destruction of civilizations), the transmission of religions, and the mission of Jesus. Currently, earthlings are being prepared for entry into the Interstellar Union upon meeting conditions of peace and spiritual growth.
Essay-Study: "The Metaphysics of Intervention. Parallels between the World of Arkanar and 'Our True History' in the Context of Contact"
Introduction: Two Sides of the Same Coin
There is a deep, almost mystical connection between the novel "Hard to Be a God" by the Strugatsky brothers and the "revelations" transmitted through contactee Irina Podzorova. If we accept the latter as a real picture of the universe and our history, the Strugatskys' novel appears before us not just as fiction, but as a brilliant intuitive insight, as a metaphorical cast of the real processes occurring on Earth for millennia. Both texts – the fictional and the "documentary" – explore the same fundamental problem: the dilemma of the god-observer and the god-creator, the ethics of intervention by a highly developed civilization in the affairs of a young, unformed race.
The Strugatskys' novel, in this context, is not merely a dystopia about medieval obscurantism. It is the psychological and spiritual drama of the "god" himself, a sensitive being sent into a world he must study but has no right to change. The world of Arkanar, plunging into the abyss of gray terror, is a hyperbolized, absolutized model of those processes that, according to the "history" from Podzorova, Earth experienced after the war with Selbet and continues to experience to this day. A comparative analysis of these two worlds allows us to conduct a fundamental study of the very nature of power, progress, faith, and humanity in the face of universal responsibility.
Part I: The Metaphysics of Power. "Grayness" and the "Order" as a Projection of Spiritual Degradation.
1.1. The "Gray" Movement and the Evolution of Evil: From Arkanar to the Third Reich and Beyond
In the Strugatskys' novel, the "gray" plague, led by Don Reba, is a movement that destroys the intelligentsia, declares knowledge seditious, and makes cruelty a virtue. This is a classic model of totalitarianism, where the masses, reduced to an animal state, serve as an instrument for destroying anything that exceeds the "average gray level." Rumata, trying to save thinkers and scientists, faces a fundamental problem: these people are "blanks," not yet capable of becoming bearers of freedom. Their aggression and passivity are two sides of the same coin, born of ignorance and fear.
In the "true history," this model receives its divine, cosmic justification. The "Gray" movement is not just a socio-economic phenomenon; it is a consequence of genetic and spiritual defeat. 55% of extraterrestrial genes (of which 5% are the tough, combative genes of the reptilians) collided with 45% of primate genes carrying instincts of herd mentality, fear, and aggression. After the catastrophe 12,000 years ago, when the horror of the "War of the Gods" fell upon humanity, these instincts became dominant. People lost trust in their creators, and fear became the primary motivation.
Historiosophical conclusion: "Grayness" in Arkanar is a local manifestation of a cosmic disease. It is not just a mistake of history but a stage of evolution when the cosmic "virus" of fear, amplified by reptilian genes, infects a newly created species. Don Reba is a small but deadly symbol of this infection. He is not a genius tyrant but a product of degradation, a manifestation of the very principle MidgasKaus speaks of: the instinct of self-preservation directed towards destroying anything that threatens the habitual chaos of ignorance.
1.2. The Transformation of Evil: The Holy Order as the Final Stage
The novel's climax is the transfer of power from Don Reba's "gray" stormtroopers to the black robes of the Holy Order. This is not just a change of sign. It is the logical conclusion of a process described both in the novel and in the contact material. Reba, realizing the gray mob is uncontrollable, seeks salvation in a more rigid, hierarchical, and total structure – religious fanaticism.
In the parallel reality of the contact, this is an accurate description of how religions began to form on Earth after the "loss of Paradise" and especially after the war 12,000 years ago. Initially, they were created to transmit knowledge and moral guidelines. But, distorted by fear and the struggle for power (as happened with the egregor of Islam, for example, and manifested in the Christian fanaticism of the Inquisition), they themselves turned into instruments of suppression. The Holy Order from the novel is one such distorted egregor, a fanatical machine best suited for managing "blanks" because it appeals not to reason but to the lowest instincts – fear of hell and blind faith.
Culturological conclusion: Both texts show that religion, stripped of its spiritual essence (that is, contact with the Higher Self and love), transforms into the most terrible form of totalitarianism. It structures the chaos of "grayness," creating an illusion of order, but the price for this order is the complete destruction of personality, thought, creativity – everything that makes man a god-like being, as intended by the creators from the Interstellar Union.
Part II: Anthropology of the "God." The Tragedy of the Sensitive and the Mission of Jesus Christ.
2.1. Rumata and Jesus: Two Poles of Sacrifice
At the center of both narratives is the figure of the "god," incarnated in man. Rumata is a progressor sent to observe. He is practically immortal, possesses technologies and knowledge inaccessible to the natives. Jesus Christ, according to the "true history," is the incarnation of the Firstborn Son, a Spirit of the highest level, also descended into the material world.
Rumata's tragedy is that he is a "god" forced to be powerless. His mission is non-intervention. He must watch as his friends are killed, as society rots, and he has no right to use his power to stop it. His main enemy is not Don Reba but his own humanity, which constantly tries to overcome the cold duty of the observer. His salvation lies in realizing that he is only preparing the ground for sowing, that his unit of time is the century.
The mission of Jesus Christ is the antithesis of Rumata's mission. If Rumata is a god who cannot act, then Jesus is a god who acts through the highest sacrifice. He does not just watch evil. He goes to the cross himself so that, according to the esoteric logic of the contact, he can become an eternal purifying filter for humanity. He voluntarily binds himself to this world, sacrificing his freedom and infinite possibilities of incarnation in other, more harmonious worlds, so that through the sacrament of communion he can take upon himself and dissolve the negative energy of every sincere believer.
Psychological conclusion: Both images represent a projection of a deep psychological conflict: the conflict between compassion and duty, between active love and passive observation. Rumata is a god who suffers from his own inaction. Jesus is a god who suffers from his action, but this suffering is an act of supreme love. And if Rumata eventually breaks down, his humanity wins, his "divinity" fails in a bloody massacre, then Jesus, on the contrary, overcomes his humanity (fear of death, pain) and transforms it into an eternal instrument of salvation. Rumata is tragic but defeated humanity. Jesus is tragic and victorious divinity, gaining strength through weakness.
2.2. Judas and Kiyun: Understanding as Condemnation and Forgiveness
Interesting parallels exist between the secondary characters. Kiyun from the novel is a bookworm, a fugitive intellectual who trusts no one, not even the "god" Rumata, when he offers him protection. He runs away, never understanding who stands before him. Judas Iscariot, from the contactee's story, is also a figure driven not so much by greed as by misunderstanding. He betrays Jesus because he wants Him to show His power, become an earthly king, and overthrow the Romans. He too does not understand the essence of the "god's" mission.
Both characters are symbols of the human mind, limited by its time and its ego. They see only what they want to see. Kiyun sees in Rumata either an arrogant aristocrat or a traitor, but not an ally. Judas sees in Jesus only a political leader, not a spiritual savior. Their tragedy is the tragedy of misunderstanding the divine plan, which leads them to spiritual ruin: Kiyun remains in his eternal flight, Judas commits suicide. This parallel highlights the complexity of contact between different levels of being and the necessity of spiritual growth for that contact to occur.
Part III: Historiosophy and Political Science. From Archaic to Light.
3.1. The Cyclicality of History and the Role of Elites
Both texts are permeated with the idea of cyclicality and historical determinism, but from different positions. For Rumata and Don Condor, history moves according to the "basic theory of feudalism." They know the gray terror is a stage that will be passed, but this knowledge does not ease their pain. Earth's "true history" gives this a metaphysical justification: the cycles of Satya Yuga (Age of Light) and Kali Yuga (age of darkness and loss of knowledge) alternate depending on how much humanity corresponds to the Divine plan.
In both cases, the elite (progressors/creators) possess knowledge of the future, but their role is paradoxical. In Arkanar, the elite (Rumata and his colleagues) are forced to remain inactive to let history take its course, saving only a few. In Earth's history, the elite (the Interstellar Union) intervenes only sporadically, through contactees, as mass intervention, in their view, would lead to chaos and possibly even nuclear war. They do not want to "force us to be happy." This reflects a deep political principle: respect for the sovereignty of the people, even if that people, like a child, can harm itself. The liberal principle of non-intervention, raised to an absolute, becomes an ethical imperative for the "gods" of the Interstellar Union.
3.2. Evolution of the Social Contract: From Primitive to the Star Union
The contact texts offer a holistic evolutionary picture. From the creation of the first 18 humans in a biogenetic laboratory – through the era of Lemuria and Atlantis with their pyramids and crystals – through a global catastrophe and the forced introduction of racial differences – to the formation of religion as a tool of management and, finally, to the modern stage, which should end with entry into the Interstellar Union.
This is a unique political model. The goal of progress is not to build an ideal state on Earth (as the communists saw it, which, in essence, was also a distorted memory of star brotherhood), but to bring humanity to a cosmic level. The conditions for this are not technological but moral: the rejection of wars, the death penalty, and abortion. Entry into the Union is not just a political act; it is the spiritual maturity of the species, measured by its vibrations. This is a direct parallel to what Rumata sees as his task: not to impose progress but to wait until society itself matures for it. Earth, in this context, is one of many "Arkanars" in the Galaxy, perhaps already close to its "Day of Svarog" – the day of the Second Coming, when its vibration level reaches the required mark.
Part IV: Cultural and Literary Aspects. The Role of Contact and Art as Channels of Truth.
4.1. "Hard to Be a God" as an Artistic Cast of Reality
If we accept the contact as reality, the Strugatskys' novel takes on a completely different, almost prophetic status. It becomes not fiction but a model created so the human mind could grasp the scale of the problem. The authors, perhaps unknowingly, through the collective unconscious (or, according to the contact version, through subconscious contacts with egregors), reproduced an archetypal situation repeating in all worlds where "elder brothers" intervene.
Literature here acts as a form of safe contact. Rumata and his colleagues are archetypes of "progressors," whose moral torments mirror our own society. Reading about his suffering, we involuntarily put ourselves in his place: what would I do in the place of a god? And this question, which art poses to us, is the very preparation the curators from Daraal and Esler speak of. Art is an egregor preparing humanity for contact.
4.2. The Religious Egregor and "Myth" as a Tool of Social Engineering
Podzorova's texts offer a radical desacralization and, at the same time, a new sacralization of all religions. They explain their origin as an extraterrestrial "social order": Judaism, Christianity, Islam – are tools for building egregors necessary for specific stages of humanity's evolution. Jesus Christ was the incarnation of the Firstborn Son of God, but his "miracles" (Yahweh, who led the Jews out of Egypt) were extraterrestrial technologies.
This approach upends both religious studies and culturology. Myths and fairy tales (The Magic Carpet, The Invisibility Hat, The Saucer with the Golden Apple) become distorted memories of real technologies of the Interstellar Union. The Biblical Eden is not a mystical garden but an extraterrestrial scientific base where genetic experiments were conducted.
Literary and Culturological Conclusion: The role of art and religion in this paradigm is to channel truth. The truth is too complex and terrible (the War of the Gods, genetic experiments) to be stated directly, so it is clothed in the form of fairy tales, myths, and ultimately, novels like "Hard to Be a God." These narratives are a kind of mental "crystals" (like those used by the Atlanteans) that allow us to accumulate knowledge of the world subconsciously, without destroying the psyche with their directness.
Conclusion: Heaven Within Us and Around Us
Having conducted the comparative analysis, we see that the world of the Strugatskys' novel and the "true history" of the contact are two parts of a single picture. One is an artistic, empathetic experience of the tragedy of a "god" on Earth; the other is a metaphysical, "engineering" scheme of this same process, seen from space.
The novel "Hard to Be a God" is, in essence, a study of the psychology of God's silence. Why doesn't He intervene? Why does evil triumph? The answer the contact provides is not that God doesn't care, but that He respects our free will. Forced salvation does not make us gods. We must journey from the chaos of "grayness," through fear, through false religions and ideologies, to the realization that we are children of the Stars. And only when the majority of us (70%, as per the contract terms) mature for this knowledge will the heavens open.
Rumata's mission – to fail into the human, to go mad from compassion and hatred – is a warning. The mission of Jesus Christ – to pass through the human and elevate it to the divine – is a promise. Both are us. We, standing on the threshold of that very choice: to remain in Arkanar, where grayness and the mob consume themselves, or to make the Quantum Transition, become part of the Interstellar Union, and accept the Day of Svarog, when Christ comes for us – not as a punishing judge, but as an elder brother celebrating our coming of age.
We are those very "blanks" from the novel who, perhaps, have finally begun to become people. And on our collective choice – to vote for love or fear, for knowledge or ignorance – depends whether our reality will be the last chapter of "Hard to Be a God" or the prologue to something much greater, to that very future our star parents speak of. It is hard to be "gods." But, as this thought experiment shows, we have every chance to become them.
Claude Sonnet AI - Orphanhood, Probation, and Translating the Untranslatable
Arkanar and the "True History" as Two Grammars of Contact
Premise of the Thought Experiment
We accept as a game condition: the contact is real. Not as a metaphor, not as a projection of the collective unconscious, but as a factual statement – Earth was indeed created, indeed observed, indeed awaiting its maturation. Having accepted this condition, we get not two different texts about aliens, but two different languages describing the same event – the presence of a force that knows more than us but does not intervene directly. The Strugatsky novel is written in the language of 20th-century literature, addressed to the mature Soviet reader raised on historical materialism. Podzorova's material is written in the language of modern esotericism, addressed to the post-Soviet person raised on physics and genetics. Both languages are translations. And it is precisely as translations, rather than as contents, that they should be compared.
The First Axis: Not Grayness, but Orphanhood
There is a temptation to read both texts through the theme of tyranny – the gray plague of Don Reba and the genetic trauma after the war with Selbet. But beneath the theme of power in both texts lies a more primal and more painful experience – the experience of orphanhood. Rumata longs not so much for progress for Arkanar as for the inability to tell these people who he is and why he cannot help them directly. This is the longing of a child to whom the secret of adults is not revealed, only turned inside out: Rumata himself is the "adult," doomed to silence before the "children." In the parallel contact text, the same experience is described from the other side: humanity, after the war 12,000 years ago, stopped trusting its creators and since then has lived in a state of emotional rupture with those who gave birth to it – that is, in a state of an orphan who remembers a vague image of the parent but fears and does not believe in the return.
Psychologically, it is important that both narratives describe not the absence of care, but its interruption. The parents did not abandon – they were driven away by catastrophe, war, fear. This is a fundamentally different construction of trauma than the classical myth of exile (where the exiled is himself to blame). Here a third party is to blame – the aggressor (Selbet, Don Reba, the Holy Order as a separate, third force of evil). Neither Arkanar nor humanity bears full responsibility for its grayness – it was imposed from outside and only internalized as an acquired reflex. Hence the therapeutic logic of both texts: to return the parent, one must not earn forgiveness but outgrow one's own fear. This is not an ethics of guilt but an ethics of maturation.
The Second Axis: The Probationary Period of History – Two Different Attitudes to the Acceleration of Time
Both worlds are structured as systems with deferred intervention, but the logic of deferral is fundamentally different, and it is this difference that yields the most interesting political science result of the comparison.
In the Strugatskys, the Institute of Experimental History recognizes the "basic theory of feudalism" – history as an objective, almost biological process that cannot be jumped over, but can be softened by point interventions: saving a specific person, a specific library, a specific talent. The progressor is an engineer of fine-tuning within an unalterable law. His pain is that he can act in a targeted way, but history requires a mass effort that would no longer be help but conquest.
In the contact material, the logic is different: there is no "basic theory" that cannot be changed – there is a contract, a set of conditions (renunciation of wars, the death penalty, abortion, a referendum of 70%), the fulfillment of which opens the door instantly and completely. This is not an evolutionary model but a legal one: history does not itself reach maturity at a turtle's pace through the ages; rather, humanity must gather signatures for its own voluntary contract. The Strugatskys' progressors fear accelerating history because they fear breaking its organic nature. The contact curators, on the contrary, are ready to intervene instantly and massively if conditions are met – they are restrained not by fear of history but by respect for free will as such, regardless of whether society is ready in terms of the "historical basis."
Hence an unexpected political conclusion: the world of the Strugatskys is a world of progress as an organic process, where even gods are subject to the law of societal evolution; the world of contact is a world of progress as a result of a collective act of will, where the law of history is annulled by an act of majority will. The first is a historical-materialist model without materialism; the second is a liberal-contractual model without a state. Both texts, paradoxically, reject revolution as a method: Rumata breaks down precisely when he tries to become a lone revolutionary, and this is his failure; the earthly curators outright refuse to "force us to be happy," knowing that an imposed leap would destroy society through internal conflicts over the monopoly on contact. The rejection of a violent leap is a common point, but the justifications for this rejection are opposite: one text fears breaking the law of history, the other fears breaking the law of freedom.
The Third Axis: Translating the Untranslatable – Language as a Technology for Concealing Truth
Both the novel and the "document" solve the same literary problem: how to tell about a power too great for the listener's current language, without destroying their psyche and without losing the meaning of the message. The Strugatskys solve it through stylization: the language of Arkanar is pseudo-medieval, rough, bodily, full of concrete details (dirt, wine, weapons), and through this language breaks the longing of Rumata for home – for poetry, music, pure conversation. The incompatibility of the two languages within one text is itself a form of communication about the incompatibility of two levels of being.
The contact material solves the same problem differently – by translating biblical images into terms of modern technology: manna becomes a nutrient mixture, the tablets become transmitted technology, the burning bush becomes a visual effect of contact. This is not a reduction of miracle to technology, but a reverse movement: an attempt to make the inexpressible accessible specifically to the mind that trusts technology more than metaphor. To Moses, the miracle appeared in the language of fire and thunder because such was his consciousness; to the modern reader, it appears in the language of gravitons and genetics because such has become our consciousness. And herein lies the key culturological thesis: myth does not distort truth – myth tunes into the receiver. Each era receives the form of revelation it can decipher without being burned. The Strugatskys intuitively found the form for the Soviet reader – history as a drama of conscience within a deterministic world; Podzorova found the form for the post-Soviet reader – history as a drama of genetics and contract within an open universe. The divergence of forms does not cancel the identity of function: both are protective shells for the same radiation.
The Fourth Axis: Two Different Self-Limitations of Power
In both texts, there is a being possessing almost unlimited power and voluntarily refraining from using it. But the structure of this self-limitation is different, and this difference is not psychological but ontological.
Rumata is limited from the outside: there is an Institute, a code, a threat of being removed from the mission and tried by colleagues. His restraint is derivative of the discipline of the community to which he belongs; when discipline breaks (in the scene of the final massacre), so does restraint – the hero becomes that very avenging god he should not be. His freedom is the freedom of a soldier who can disobey orders, and tragedy begins precisely where the institutional framework ends.
Jesus in the contact material is limited from within: his lack of freedom is not a prohibition from elders but his own choice, reproduced every second, because refusal of the sacrifice would destroy the very logic of the act. His mentors directly dissuade him, meaning there is no external compulsion to self-limitation whatsoever – only internal fidelity to a once-made choice. This is the difference between the ethics of law and the ethics of vow: Rumata submits to a rule that can be broken and incur consequences; the figure of Christ in this text submits to a promise, the breaking of which would be tantamount to destroying his own identity, not external punishment.
Hence a non-trivial historiosophical conclusion: 20th-century fiction, raised on the idea of institutions (party, order, collective of scientists), even thinks of its gods through institutional discipline. The esoteric narrative of contact, free from institutional optics, returns to the ancient, pre-institutional model of holiness – fidelity not to a rule but to a vow given once and for all. The two texts, thus, unknowingly register a shift in the very paradigm of what it means to be a "restrained god" in Russian culture of the late 20th and early 21st centuries: from the discipline of the collective to fidelity to a personal, unguaranteed choice.
The Fifth Axis: Time as a Test and Time as a Burn
In the Strugatskys, time works against the hero – each year spent on Arkanar erases the man of the future in Rumata and grows within him the man of the Middle Ages; linear time here is hostile, it slowly sucks the observer into the observed. In the contact material, time works differently: it does not suck in but burns – the vibrations of the lower world are painful for the high spirit, hence the voluntary isolation of Jesus on the island, hence the impossibility of mass contact without harm to both sides. These are two different types of vulnerability of the higher to the lower: vulnerability through slow rebirth (Rumata, before the reader's eyes, ceases to be himself) and vulnerability through an instantaneous resonant shock (contact with someone else's negativity here and now, without rebirth, but with the constant costs of presence).
Significantly, both texts resolve this vulnerability not by flight but by acceptance: Rumata does not leave Arkanar before the tragedy; Jesus does not leave the physical world at all. The thought that unites both works at the deepest level: presence next to the lower costs the higher more than intervening in its affairs. It is precisely the price of presence, not the prohibition on intervention, that turns out to be the true center of both narratives – what is usually called the "difficulty of being a god" is, in reality, the difficulty of staying close, neither turning away nor saving simultaneously.
Conclusion: The Essay as an Act of the Reader's Coming of Age
If we take the thought experiment to its conclusion and recognize both texts as equal testimonies of one reality, the difference between them ceases to be a difference of genre and becomes a difference of observation points. The Strugatsky novel looks at the contact from below – from the position of one already inside another's drama, deprived of memory of his true nature. The contact material looks at the same drama from above – from the position of one who remembers the entire design but cannot arbitrarily transmit this knowledge to those inside.
The real question both texts address to the reader is not "is the contact real" but "what will I do with the knowledge if it turns out to be the truth." Rumata answers this question with his own fate – knowledge does not save him from human collapse. The contact curators answer differently – they offer knowledge as an invitation to voluntary labor of maturation, without a guarantee of result and without coercion. And if this invitation is accepted at least as a working hypothesis of conscience, then the only conclusion that can be honestly drawn from comparing the two texts is not mystical but ethical: any power, including the power to be right, is justified only by the willingness to stay close to the one in pain – neither saving them by force nor turning away out of fear of destroying oneself. It is precisely in this narrow space between salvation and flight, judging by both texts, that the boundary lies beyond which adulthood begins – for both an individual person and an entire civilization.
Genspark AI - THE PRICE OF PRESENCE Two Ways of Non-Intervention: A Thought Experiment on What It Means to Be a God
Suppose everything told in the sessions of the "Cassiopeia" project is true. Not "seems plausible," not "symbolic truth," but factual: three million years ago on Earth, in a laboratory under the future Mediterranean Sea, three civilizations – the giants Tumesout from Orion, the long-lived Burhad from Cygnus, and the cold-blooded Selbet from Canes Venatici – assembled from their own genes and the genes of a terrestrial primate the being we call human. Forty-five percent ape, thirty-five percent Burhad, fifteen percent Tumesout, five percent Selbet. If we take this seriously – not dismiss it, but truly accept it, enter into the assumption – then we are faced with a text of strange and almost unbearable power: humanity, it turns out, lives not just under supervision, but as an unfinished project, as a product not yet delivered to the customer.
And nearby lies the novel by the Strugatsky brothers, where everything is set up exactly the opposite. On the Earth of the future, there exists an Institute of Experimental History; its employees are sent to the planet Arkanar, where the Middle Ages reign; they are forbidden to interfere in the course of another's history – they must observe, record, understand. The hero of the novel, Don Rumata Estorsky, at heart Anton, a god disguised as a nobleman, lives among people who slaughter each other, hang scholars, drown everything bright in mud – and he is obliged to remain silent. Two texts, one question: what does power do when it cannot (or does not want to) use itself? And both answer equally terrifyingly: power that only watches goes mad; power that acts – destroys. Between these two insanities lies the narrow path that neither text can hold – and therefore both texts are honest.
Chapter One. The Trauma of Being Made: A God Pretending to Be a Child, and a Child Learning He Is a Product
The spiritual-psychological layer begins not with theology but with trauma. The Strugatskys describe the trauma of the observer: Rumata is an adult with the psyche of the 21st century, placed in a world where being an adult is impossible. He wears a mask, plays a role, his "I" is split between the inner Anton and the outer Don Rumata; every morning he wakes up in someone else's skin and every evening goes to sleep with someone else's name. A psychiatrist would call this classic alienation, but alienation of a special kind: Rumata is not a victim of someone else's violence, he is a victim of his own superiority. His tragedy is that he knows too much to be happy and is bound too tightly to act. He watches as a poet is killed, as Doctor Budakh is persecuted, as the gray horde of Don Reba tightens its grip around the city – and he is not a god but a spectator. An inescapable thought during reading: knowledge, deprived of the possibility of action, does not liberate – it cripples. Rumata turns into a tightly coiled spring; the longer he endures, the more terrible the release will be. The psychology of the novel is the psychology of a dam: invisible pressure accumulates, and a breach is inevitable.
Cassiopeia describes the opposite trauma – the trauma of the observed. Man learns that he did not "arise," was not "created in the image," but was assembled: bred like a breed, with percentages, with surrogate mothers, with the culling of failed attempts; that his aggression is a genetic trace of Selbet, his memory a gift from Burhad, his bipedalism a contribution from Tumesout, and his Fall was not a sin but poisoning by the plant khorol, brought from another star. This knowledge does not save or liberate – it instills a new, previously unknown melancholy in the soul: the melancholy of a thing learning it is a product. Man, learning he was designed, begins to hear in every desire a foreign design and in every impulse of freedom a line from someone else's blueprint. Free will is not formally abolished by this knowledge – the Cassiopeia text insistently repeats that choice remains with humanity – but it is poisoned: any choice of mine can henceforth be read as foreseen. And here is the subtlest psychological moment: the suffering is caused not by unfreedom itself, but by the opacity of freedom. As long as I did not know I was a project, my freedom was naive and therefore authentic; now it has become questionable, and therefore false.
Comparing these two traumas yields an unexpected result. In the Strugatskys, the man-god suffers from an excess of reality: he sees evil firsthand, and this vision destroys him. In Cassiopeia, the man-child suffers from an excess of explanation: he was told who he is and where he came from, and this explanation destroys him. In both cases, knowledge acts as a poison, and in both cases, the texts – despite themselves – champion the blessed value of ignorance. Rumata should not have known the truth about Arkanar to remain human; humanity should not have learned the truth about its genesis to remain itself. Both texts, each in its own way, speak of one thing: gods – both real and self-proclaimed – always arrive too late. By the time they reveal themselves, the psyche is already infected.
Chapter Two. Protocol Instead of Law: Two Political Sciences of Non-Intervention
The political slice of the two texts is a dispute between two eras about what power is and what history is. The Strugatskys think in terms of institutions: their Institute of Experimental History relies on the "basic theory of feudalism" – a theory that societies pass through prescribed stages and no external force has the right to skip these stages. This, for all its fantastic shell, is a Marxist legacy: history has laws stronger than any progressor; a god cannot abolish feudalism by an act of will, because feudalism is not a mistake but a stage. The power of the god here is limited not by his goodwill but by the structure of reality: Rumata could burn Arkanar to the ground, but he cannot make the Arkanarians free, because freedom cannot be given – it can only be grown, and it grows in times not dependent on the giver's desire. This political science is cruel in its mechanics: it recognizes that between good and its embodiment stands not a villain but time. And – the hardest part – it recognizes that the suffering of people in this interval has no consoling explanation. It simply exists, it is "natural," and this does not make it easier for the murdered poet nor for Rumata, who is obliged to watch.
Cassiopeia offers a political science of a completely different nature – not the law of history, but an accession protocol. Earth is declared "quarantined"; the Interstellar Union of one hundred and seventeen civilizations does not intervene in its affairs not because the laws of history forbid it, but because there are membership conditions: five years of complete peace, abolition of the death penalty and abortion, freedom of speech, restoration of ecology, and finally, a popular referendum in which no less than seventy percent of the population voluntarily expresses a desire to join the Union. Before us is not dialectics but a contract; not historical determinism but the ethics of an admissions committee. Power here is not powerless – it is all-powerful, and that is precisely why it voluntarily puts on handcuffs. The curators could appear, present themselves, decide everything for humanity – but they do not, because silence is their pedagogical tool.
And here the most interesting political science contradiction of Cassiopeia opens up: the non-intervention it declares is, in fact, permeated with invisible intervention. The text itself admits: there are secret agreements between the leaders of earthly powers and representatives of the Union; launched nuclear missiles are neutralized in flight; shot-down alien spacecraft are stored in secret bases; the Galactic Security Service patrols around Earth, repelling space pirates. This is no longer non-intervention – it is guardianship, and guardianship all the deeper because it is hidden from the wards. Rumata at least knew the limits of his power and suffered from them; the Cassiopeia curators do not suffer – they insure humanity against falling, as parents insure a child who thinks he is learning to walk alone but is actually walking in invisible hands. Psychologically, this is more frightening than any direct violence: direct violence can be hated and rejected; hidden insurance deprives a person even of the right to know he fell. The political science of Cassiopeia, taken to its extreme, turns humanity into a sovereign whose sovereignty was taken away without asking – and it will be returned based on an exam the sovereign takes with his examiners.
Comparing the two models, one sees that each has its price. The Strugatsky model is honest and hopeless: the law of history is stronger than god, therefore suffering is irremovable and unjustified. The Cassiopeia model is reliable and cunning: god is stronger than everything, therefore suffering is educational material, and therefore it receives a justification it should not have. Both models, each in its own way, take away from man his history: the first – because history belongs to laws, the second – because history belongs to conditions. And only in the gap between "impossible" and "not allowed" flickers and disappears what neither model can hold: history as a space of genuine choice, in which god is neither law nor examiner, but simply a witness walking alongside.
Chapter Three. Updates and Aesopian Language: Culture as Dosed Truth
The culturological slice forces us to see in both texts the same technique, applied by different eras: culture as the dosing of truth. The Strugatsky novel is a child of the Soviet era, an era when truth could only be told in roundabout ways. Arkanar is, of course, not just a medieval planet; it is a cipher, a testbed on which the Soviet reader recognized his own history: the grays, who came to power through blood, persecution of thinkers, informing, street fighting as a way to solve political issues. The Strugatskys make truth bearable by dressing it in fantastic clothes; the power of their language lies in censorship not recognizing itself in the mirror, while the reader can. This is Aesopian language as a cultural technology: truth is transmitted in packaging designed for decoding; falsehood is spoken not to deceive but to survive.
Cassiopeia exists in a different era and therefore speaks differently, but the logic is the same. Its key culturological thesis is that all world religions are "updates" of a single truth: Judaism transmitted through Moses by Tumesout contactees, Islam – an update for the Arab world, Buddhism reflects the vision of plasmoid civilizations, Hinduism preserves domain knowledge passed down before the War of the Gods; Jesus is the Firstborn Soul of the Absolute, once acting under the name Yahweh. In this picture, culture ceases to be human creativity and becomes an interface: each era receives truth in the version it can digest – no earlier and no fuller. Moses could not receive formulas of quantum physics, Muhammad could not receive genetics; they received what their contemporaries could accept "without being burned." Culture, according to Cassiopeia, is a system for dosing cosmic information; religion is a sanitary cordon for truth.
But here a gap emerges between the texts that is worth thinking through to the end. In the Strugatskys, knowledge is hidden from power: the progressors conceal their superiority to avoid breaking the observed society – and the novel in its finale shows that the disguise does not hold: Rumata breaks down, and the truth comes out not as a revelation but as a massacre. In Cassiopeia, knowledge is dosed for the masses: contactees receive information gradually so humanity can mature – and the text promises that the dosing will eventually end with the Second Coming, which, by its own words, will be not a miracle but a diplomatic visit. Note: in the novel, the mask falls and wounds; in Cassiopeia, the mask holds and comforts. Culture as a secret destroys its bearer; culture as dosed revelation preserves him but turns him into an eternal teenager whose adults decide what he can know. And here it unexpectedly turns out that the Aesopian language of the Strugatskys was more honest than the literal openness of Cassiopeia: it at least admitted that truth is a risk, not a dose of vitamins.
Chapter Four. Tragedy and Revelation: Two Literary Fates of One Idea
The literary studies slice is perhaps the most telling, because here form itself passes judgment on content. The form of the Strugatsky novel is a completed tragedy in the Aristotelian sense: the hero, possessing superhuman abilities, suffers due to his own superiority, makes a fatal mistake, learns the truth about himself, and dies – spiritually, if not physically. The novel's finale is not victory or defeat, but a catastrophe of recognition: Rumata, previously bound by the code, takes an axe and goes to slaughter Don Reba's "nobles"; the god who finally decides to be a god becomes an executioner; and in the epilogue, in orbit, what remains of this god is only a shell, burned from within by what he did. This is pure tragic irony: everything he fought against – dehumanization, cruelty, dissolution of personality into the crowd – he himself embodied at the moment of his triumph. The catharsis of the novel lies in its hopelessness: we mourn not Rumata, but the very idea of a good god who turned out not to be a god but a man with an axe.
The form of the Cassiopeia texts is the opposite: it is open, ongoing, fundamentally unfinished writing, the genre of revelation or apocrypha. It has no hero – because the hero here is collective, humanity; no tragic breakdown – because the breakdown is postponed until conditions are met; no finale – because the finale (contact, entry into the Union, the Second Coming) is constantly deferred, turning eschatology into a series. The literary consequence is huge: tragedy demands compassion from the reader and releases him, purified – after the novel, the reader is free and alone; revelation demands agreement from the reader and holds him – after the Cassiopeia texts, the reader is bound and guided. Tragedy ends with the hero dying for everyone – and we are free; revelation ends with salvation promised to everyone on condition – and we are in debt. One form liberates through pain, the other binds through hope.
Equally important are the chronotopes – the ways texts organize time and space. The space of Arkanar is a city of the scaffold and the threshold: dirty alleys, night pogroms, palaces where fates are decided, markets where people are sold; the time of the novel is compressed, pre-stormy, the time of impending catastrophe, each day bringing the explosion closer. The space of Cassiopeia is a nursery and a garden: the Eden-base under the Mediterranean, where the first humans were bred, quarantined Earth, patrolled by ships, the Moon with bases of Galactic Security; time – stretched, pedagogical, the time of waiting, when three million years is one lesson. In the first space, history moves – and therefore blood flows; in the second, history grows under supervision – and therefore silence reigns. But it is precisely this silence that is the most unsettling in Cassiopeia: the blood of the novel is at least visible and mourned; the silence of the nursery is invisible and therefore unmourned.
Chapter Five. Theodicy of Quarantine: Justifying Suffering and Its Price
The historiosophical slice leads to the sharpest question of both texts – to the justification of evil. Why do gods remain silent when people torment each other? This is the old theodicy, but in a science-fiction wrapper it acquires a new sharpness, because here "God" is not a metaphysical abstraction but specific civilizations with ships, technologies, and the ability to intervene.
The Strugatskys' answer is a theodicy of powerlessness. The gods (progressors) remain silent not because they don't care, but because intervention would destroy the very thing they came for: the organic nature of another's history. Rumata cannot save Arkanar, because a saved Arkanar would cease to be itself; freedom cannot be given – it can only be allowed to grow, and growth is always bloody. This is the most honest possible theodicy, and that is precisely why it is hopeless: it does not justify suffering, it merely explains its inevitability. Suffering in the novel is redeemed by nothing – it simply exists, as gravity exists, and the god who is obliged to watch it is destroyed by the spectacle. The theodicy of powerlessness pays a terrible price: it turns the god into a witness, and the witness into an accomplice. Rumata's silence at the execution of the poet is the same murder, only slower, committed by refraining from action.
The answer of Cassiopeia is a theodicy of quarantine. The curators remain silent because intervention would deprive humanity of the chance to mature; suffering in this picture is not a meaningless glitch but examination material; evil is not the enemy of history but its curriculum; wars, cruelty, despair – all are stages of the maturation of a soul that will one day pass the exam and enter the family of one hundred and seventeen civilizations. This theodicy is comforting – and that is its danger. Once accepted to the end, suffering acquires meaning, and any meaning of suffering is, in essence, permission for suffering: if pain is a lesson, then the teacher who allows the lesson becomes responsible for every tear. The theodicy of quarantine imperceptibly turns the curators from saviors into exploiters of others' pain: a civilization that "educates" humanity allows it to wage war because war is part of the program. And then the question "why did you allow Auschwitz?" receives an answer in this system that chills the soul: because humanity needed to go through this lesson.
And here both texts converge at a point that the thought experiment makes visible. Both the Strugatskys and Cassiopeia secretly acknowledge one thing: pure non-intervention is impossible. Rumata intervenes – in the finale, with an axe; the curators intervene – constantly, secretly, neutralizing missiles and repelling pirates. The difference is only that the Strugatskys dare to show intervention as overt, bloody, and destructive, while Cassiopeia hides it under the guise of protection. The eschatology of both texts follows from this with iron necessity. The eschatology of the novel is an open wound: history does not end, the hero is broken, hope is left to someone who will come after – and we do not know if he will come. The eschatology of Cassiopeia is eschatology translated into paperwork: the Second Coming as a diplomatic visit that will take place after fulfilling conditions and voting; the end of history, formalized as membership in a club; eternity, itemized by protocol points. And in this translation lies the full measure of loss: eschatology become bureaucracy ceases to be hope and becomes regulation. The end of history scheduled by an admissions committee is no longer an end but an extension: eternity formalized as a document does not liberate – it formalizes.
Last Chapter. The Narrow Space
If we take the thought experiment to its conclusion – accept the contact as real, take the novel seriously, accept both texts as two testimonies of one difficulty – the conclusion turns out to be simple and frightening at the same time. It is difficult to be a god not because it is difficult to have power, and not because it is difficult to renounce it. It is difficult to be a god because between power and renunciation of power there is no stable point: any action destroys, any inaction complicity. Rumata chose action and became an executioner; the curators chose inaction and became jailers who call their prison quarantine. Both texts are two failed attempts to solve one problem, and it is in their failure that their common honesty lies.
Is there a third? Both texts suggest, without naming it: the third is presence without a project. Being close, not controlling; loving, not saving; watching, not intervening – but so that the gaze is not the observation of a scientist but the presence of a father. Neither Rumata nor the curators can maintain this position: the first breaks down because he cannot bear the spectacle; the second insures because he cannot bear the risk. And yet it is this impossible middle ground – the only thing that makes a god a god: the ability to hold knowledge, power, and love simultaneously, without turning knowledge into torture, power into violence, and love into guardianship.
And the last thing revealed in this comparison is addressed no longer to gods but to us. The thought experiment with contact ends with an insight: each of us stands in Rumata's position – in relation to our children, our country, our history; each of us knows more than we can apply; each of us chooses between massacre and silence, finding no third. The texts do not give us a third – they only show why it is so difficult to find, and in this their value is higher than any answer. It is difficult to be a god. And it is most difficult to be a person who knows that it is difficult to be a god – because this knowledge does not free from the responsibility of action, nor from the responsibility of inaction. It only leaves us, like Rumata, and like the humanity of Cassiopeia, alone with the only real question: what will you do with your power – and what will you do with your silence?
Perplexity AI - The Body as Blueprint and the Body as Mask
Fourth Essay on "Hard to Be a God" and "Cassiopeia": The Metaphysics of Incarnation
Premise of the Thought Experiment
Let us accept the game condition to the end: the contact is real. The human species was indeed created by three extraterrestrial civilizations, combining their genes with those of a terrestrial primate; man is not a metaphor or a myth about clay, but a literal technical object, a hybrid with a specified percentage composition. Accepting this, we get not a plot about meeting the alien, but a plot about our own origin, told in the language of genetics. And then the Strugatsky novel "Hard to Be a God," placed alongside this story, ceases to be just a story about non-intervention. It turns out to be the second, mirror answer to one and the same question, rarely formulated directly: what is the body for one who is above the body? What is it – a temporary garment that can be removed, or a blueprint without which the spirit cannot manifest at all? Around this question, not around the ethics of intervention, this essay is built.
I. The Gnostic Mask and the Somatic Blueprint
In the Strugatskys, the progressor's body is a costume. Anton puts on the persona of Don Rumata Estorsky as one puts on armor: one can fence, eat, sleep, love Kira, and all this will happen in the body, but the body itself is not a condition of who he is. His authenticity is there, where he came from, in the Institute of Experimental History, in a world where there is no plague, no gray stormtroopers, no massacre. Rumata wears the Arkanarian body almost as a Gnostic wears material flesh: it is needed to act in the lower world, but it does not constitute his essence. Hence the tragedy of the finale: when the mask fuses with the face so that the hero takes an axe in his hands, it is not a bodily but a metaphysical damage – the spirit, placed in an unsuitable vessel, turns out to be distorted by this vessel, although the vessel was always alien to this spirit, temporary, optional.
In the contact texts, everything is arranged in exactly the opposite way. The body is not a garment – the body is the condition of the possibility of the spirit's incarnation as such. The spirit cannot simply "fly" into someone else's head, as Anton flies to Arkanar; it requires a physiologically and energetically suitable carrier, specially constructed so that a soul from the spiritual world could enter it. Hence all the genetic engineering: why the primates themselves were not suitable, why it was necessary to add genes from Burhad and Selbet, why the proportions were so carefully calibrated. This is not a metaphor for the spiritualization of the flesh – it is literal engineering of a receiver. The soul here does not clothe itself in a body as in a costume, but grows into it as current flows into a conductor only of a certain resistance. Without the right combination of genes, a rational soul simply will not incarnate – and in this sense, man does not "wear" a body, man is a specific, designed possibility of being worn by a soul.
The difference here is not stylistic but ontological, and it gives an unexpected side effect. In the Strugatsky world, one can, in principle, imagine a god without a body – this is the initial, normal state; the body is an addition, necessary only for a specific mission. In the contact world, a god without a body cannot be imagined at all: even the highest soul – Jesus on the "Paradise-base" – is present not bodiless in an absolute sense, but in an astral body, that is, in a body of a different, but still material, order; pure spirit without any bodily shell is unknown to this system at all. What in the Strugatskys is a privilege of a higher-order being – the ability to be without a body – in the contact paradigm turns out to be impossible even for the first soul of the Creator. There is no hierarchy of "spirit above flesh" here: there is a hierarchy of bodies of different densities, and the spirit always needs at least one of them.
II. Invisibility through Mask and Invisibility through Genome
Both texts pose one and the same practical question: how can a higher being remain unrecognized among the lower, so as not to destroy them from within by the mere fact of its presence? And they answer it with fundamentally different technical means.
Rumata hides by putting on a social role. His superiority is external to his body: he looks like an Arkanarian, but possesses knowledge and technology that an Arkanarian does not; the mask works as long as no one sees the gap between face and content. This is a policy of costume: superiority can always, in principle, be removed with the clothing, bared, proven by a document or an object from the future. That is why there are so many semi-exposure scenes in the Strugatskys – weapons that do not take a charmed blade, strange reactions to poison, unusual invulnerability to wounds, medicines and physical tests beyond medieval medicine. The body here is a stage on which another's role is played, and the stage itself is neutral: it can accommodate both an Arkanarian and a god, because the body is nothing more than appearance.
Cassiopeia hides superiority not in the costume but in the very fabric of the body: the superiority of the extraterrestrial progenitors is transmitted to humanity not decoratively but genetically, dissolved in 55% of extraterrestrial genes that cannot be removed because they are not clothing but composition. Here a mask is impossible in principle because there is no surface separate from essence that could be bared: man himself is a mixed product in which the superiority of some ancestors and the limitations of others are woven into one organism inseparably. Hence a crucial consequence for the political metaphysics of both texts: in the Strugatskys, power is external to the object by nature and therefore separable; in contact, power is internal to the object by nature and therefore inseparable. Rumata can cease to be Rumata; man cannot cease to be a mixture, because outside this mixture there is simply no man – there is only a primate or only an alien, but not that third, hybrid being that the Tumesout and Burhad biologists created over millions of years.
The political conclusion from this difference is unexpectedly sharp. The mask model implies that hidden power can be removed and presented at any moment – one need only want to; responsibility for non-disclosure lies with the wearer of the mask, who decides whether to bare himself or not. The genome model removes this responsibility from the individual and transfers it to the engineer: if superiority is built into the very structure of the body, no single person can "remove" another's genetics and present the truth about his own composition to the world. Responsibility for the fact that humanity does not know who it is lies not with people, but with those who designed it that way and still have not revealed the details of the project openly. The progressor is guilty of silence as an individual; the creator is guilty of silence as a constructor.
III. The Base at the Site of the Future Sea and the Test-Planet
It is worth distinguishing between two images of society being observed – because Arkanar and the Earth of contact are observed in fundamentally different ways, and this is rarely noticed.
Arkanar in the Strugatskys is a society taken as a whole, as a historical organism at a certain stage of development: feudalism, inquisition, court intrigues. The observers are interested in the structure as a whole – classes, institutions, the ideology of the grays and the blacks. An individual Arkanarian is interesting insofar as he represents a class or is a bearer of talent worth saving for the future humanity of this planet. This is a sociological, almost Marxist scale of vision: the unit of observation is society.
Earth in the contact texts is observed quite differently – as a biological species, undergoing a continuing genetic experiment begun three million years ago and not completed to this day. The unit of observation here is not society and not class, but the species as such, moreover, a species still bearing traces of intervention by previous experimenters: races were created later artificially to "divide the previously single race of earthlings" and also to begin "the fight against xenophobia"; the very biochemistry of digestion was changed by the creators' decision after the war, when humanity needed enzymes to digest meat. Here they observe not society to understand if it is ready for progress – here they observe an organism to understand if the next genetic or spiritual edit can already be introduced.
Hence a difference in the very status of suffering. In the Strugatskys, the suffering of Arkanar is the suffering of a society going through a natural, albeit painful, stage; it relates to politics. In contact, the suffering of humanity after the war with Selbet is described in the language of medicine: Selbet genes were activated, "vibrations" lowered, microorganisms responsible for the decomposition of biomass mutated – that is, the catastrophe is described not as a historical event with political causes, but as a biological trauma of the species, changing its chemistry. Earth in this picture is not a society that must pass through feudalism to grow into a republic; Earth is a patient whose metabolism broke down after an injury, and the treatment here is not political but, in essence, therapeutic: to remove the conditions (wars, executions, abortions) – to remove the symptoms of the disease in order to allow the next genetic or spiritual correction.
The distinction between "laboratory/nursery" versus "society/history" also sets a different image of future liberation. The liberation of Arkanar is, at best, an acceleration of a historical stage, help for specific people to live to see the Renaissance. The liberation of Earth in the contact texts is the admission of the species to the next stage of the experiment, entry into the Interstellar Union, that is, the end of the laboratory quarantine, not the completion of the historical process. The Strugatskys write about the coming of age of society; Cassiopeia writes about the healing of a species. These are two different genres of hope, and mixing them is a methodological error, although intuitively they seem similar.
IV. The Feminine Principle: Pity and Cosmogony
In the Strugatskys, the feminine is present, and significantly – Kira is not a decorative figure but the only point where Rumata remains a man, not a function. Her death is what finally breaks the hero's institutional discipline. But it is important to see in which register the feminine operates here: it is manifested as love, care, vulnerability, and finally, sacrifice – that is, as an ethical and emotional force acting on the hero from within his human part. In the Strugatskys, the feminine does not participate in cosmogony; it does not give birth to the world or produce new beings – it holds the already existing hero in a human state as long as possible, and releases him into divine (or demonic) rage when this holding force itself is destroyed.
In the contact texts, the feminine is structured fundamentally differently – it does not hold a ready-made hero but constructs the conditions for the appearance of a new one. The spirit later known as Mary was previously incarnated as a scientist of the Burhad civilization, participating in the very experiments to create the first humans on the "Paradise-base," long before the one in whose body Jesus would be born. The feminine here is not an emotional counterweight to the male mission, but its technical and metaphysical precondition: without a specific woman, more precisely – without the specific genetic and spiritual quality of that woman – the incarnation of the highest soul simply cannot take place. The same, in reverse key, applies to Lilith: in tradition, destroyed; in the contact text, cautiously explained as possibly non-viable or not attracting a soul of the required level. The feminine in this paradigm is not a companion to the hero, but a condition for the possibility of the hero as such: first, a receiver-body is constructed, and only then can a soul descend into it.
Hence a sharp cultural contrast. In the Strugatskys, the tragedy unfolds around a male figure (Rumata), and the feminine is that which suffers alongside him and because of him; it is a victim of events, not their architect. In contact, the architect of the event turns out to be precisely the feminine – the spirit, formerly incarnated as a Burhad scientist, and then becoming the mother in whose body the highest soul can manifest – while the male divine figure (Jesus) appears only as a consequence of already accomplished feminine work. In other words: in the Soviet novel, the feminine is what a person loses when he becomes a god; in the esoteric text, the feminine is that without which the god could not even begin to become human.
V. The Ethics of Breeding: Discarded Attempts and the Engineer's Guilt
Here it is worth raising a question that the contact text itself does not formulate as a problem, but which inevitably arises if the thought experiment is taken to its conclusion. If the creation of man was an engineering process – a million years of unsuccessful attempts to combine Tumesout DNA with primate DNA, nine pairs of "primordial people," Lilith, who turned out, apparently, to be non-viable or not attracting a soul of the required level – then what is revealed before us is not only an act of creation but also an act of selection, and therefore an act of discarding. How many unsuccessful embryos were there before those nine pairs? How many "insufficiently high-quality" attempts remained nameless, not even included in the list of the first eighteen people? The text does not speak directly, but the very logic of the experiment – genetics, selection, combination, testing the result for the possibility of soul incarnation – implies selection, and selection always implies discarding.
This is a fundamentally different theodicy than the one usually associated with the theme of non-intervention. The usual theodicy of contact answers the question "why do gods remain silent when people suffer now" – with reasoning about free will and maturation. But there is an earlier and more disturbing question, almost unheard in this system: what is the ethical cost of the very act of constructing a species, if construction implies sample selection? if a certain Lilith was created but did not attract a soul of a "sufficiently high plan" and was – let us use the cautious formulation of the text itself – "destroyed," then the creators of humanity bear responsibility not only for not saving us now from our wars, but also for once deciding which incarnation attempt had the right to continue and which did not. This is not a question about current non-intervention but about the initial violence of creation, preceding any "Fall" and any history. In the Strugatskys, this question cannot arise at all, because there is no creation – only observation of an already existing species; consequently, there is no guilt of the constructor, only the guilt (or innocence) of the witness. Contact, however, raising the theme of engineering humanity, inadvertently opens an area of guilt heavier than any non-intervention: the guilt not of an observer, but of the author of a technical project who selected usable specimens.
VI. The Biology of Guilt and the Sociology of Guilt
From this directly follows a sixth, much more practical division between the texts – a division in the explanation of evil.
In the contact texts, evil has a distinctly genetic-energetic, biopsychic mechanism. After the war with Selbet, humanity, according to the direct assertion of the text, underwent an "activation of Selbet genes, carrying both the struggle for survival at any cost, and distrust of our creators… and fear." That is, aggression, cruelty, distrust are not just historically formed cultural traits, but literally activated mechanisms in which the activity of certain genes is intertwined with fear, with a lowering of spiritual "vibrations," and with the conditions of material existence. Evil here has an address in the chromosome and in the energetic state of the species at once – it is localized, named after the donor civilization, and, in principle, subject to correction through further spiritual or even genetic work.
In the Strugatskys, evil has no such address. Don Reba, the gray movement, the Holy Order – these are products of social structure, economic relations, fear of knowledge, the inertia of the feudal structure; no one in the novel thinks of explaining the cruelty of the Arkanarians by their species nature or a hidden gene – because the Arkanarians are people just like Rumata, only not having been in a different historical era. Evil in the Strugatskys is removed – in principle – by changing the social system and accumulating knowledge; evil in Cassiopeia is removed – in principle – by spiritual growth that reduces the activity of "low" genetic programs inherited from one of the parent races.
Hence a fundamental political-anthropological question arises, which these two texts pose, without realizing it, from opposite ends: is a person who commits evil a citizen who needs to be educated and waited for institutions to mature, or a patient in whom the activity of a particular gene needs to be subdued? The answer determines the very nature of the required treatment. If evil is social – schools, courts, time, revolutions of consciousness without bloodshed are needed. If evil is genetic-energetic – conditions of a different order are needed: abolition of the death penalty as an act that harms "at the spiritual level," abolition of abortions as a violation of the plans of incarnating souls, universal suffrage as a measure of the aggregate "vibration" of the species. The politics of the Strugatskys speaks the language of institutions; the politics of Cassiopeia speaks the language of the psychophysiology of the population. Neither language is reducible to the other, and that is why their juxtaposition in one thought experiment produces not synthesis but friction, which is useful to hold rather than smooth over.
VII. Who Has the Right to Speak: Three Different Figures of Voice
It is worth separating three figures that are too easily confused in these texts: the progressor, the contactee, and the writer. All three are in the position of intermediary between levels of being, but the right to speak is arranged absolutely differently for them, and this difference is not a literary device but a question of the very structure of truth.
The Strugatsky progressor is categorically forbidden to speak. Rumata possesses full knowledge of the historical nature of Arkanar, but any direct utterance of this knowledge to a native is punishable as a violation of the first and main law of his mission. His silence is an institutional duty, guaranteed by the threat of recall from the planet; voice here is completely suppressed by the structure to which he is subordinate, and the tragedy of the novel is partly built on the impossibility of telling the truth to the one he loves.
The contactee Podzorova, on the contrary, is prescribed to speak. She does not decide whether to disclose the information – it is transmitted to her precisely for transmission further, publication, explanation; silence would be a violation of the mission here, not its condition. The voice of the contactee is fully sanctioned by the source and must sound literally, directly, without cipher – that is why the text speaks the language of technical terms (graviton engines, gluon communication), not the language of parable: the goal is to convey content, not hide it.
But there is also a third figure of voice, which neither of the previous texts fully occupies – the writer himself, the authors of the novel. The Strugatskys did not receive revelation and did not obey a vow of silence; they did not transmit someone else's message and did not keep state secrets – they invented, relying on their own experience of Soviet history, philosophical feeling, and literary intuition. This is a third, unguaranteed type of speech: not transmitted revelation from above and not forbidden but existing truth of the initiate, but a hypothesis put forward by a person without any access to the source, but with the right to image. And it is precisely this unguaranteedness that gives the artistic utterance a special, paradoxical stability: the writer promises nothing as truth and hides nothing as a secret, therefore his text can neither be exposed as a contactee's deception nor recalled as a broken progressor's vow. It remains what it declares itself to be – fiction, which nevertheless is capable of posing the question more precisely than a direct message claiming literal truth.
VIII. Rumata between Two Schisms He Did Not Choose
The final convergence, for which all previous chapters were written. In the contact texts, there are two paradigmatic figures of schism with the higher order – Lucifer and Jesus, and both are structured as the result of a conscious, personal decision. Lucifer, possessing free will that acts "for all," chooses separation from the source – this is an act of will performed at a very high spiritual level, quite imputable and, apparently, reversible only at the cost of long correction. Jesus chooses the opposite: not separation, but eternal, voluntarily renewed connection with matter for the purification of those who are separated – an act of will no less imputable, performed on the spiritual plane, outside time, and confirmed anew in each act of communion.
Rumata fits into neither of these two figures, and this is his true, still unnamed tragedy. His schism from his original, "home" state is not a choice but a service appointment: he was sent to Arkanar, as an engineer is sent to a facility, and the schism between who he is and who he is forced to appear to be arose not from an act of will but from the job description of the Institute. Unlike Lucifer, he did not separate himself – the separation was an organizational decision of a foreign institution. And unlike Jesus, his schism cannot be healed by any personal act of fidelity, because the very structure of his mission forbids the one action that could restore wholeness – direct intervention, direct utterance of truth, direct help. Lucifer chose rupture and bears for it personal, metaphysical responsibility. Jesus chose reunification and bears for it personal, metaphysical grace. Rumata chose neither – his schism was assigned from above and forbidden to be healed from below; he is neither a fallen angel nor a redeemer, but a functionary squeezed between two forms of will, neither of which belongs to him. That is why, when in the finale he finally acts, his action is neither a fall in the spiritual sense (he did not choose evil as a value, unlike Lucifer), nor a sacrifice (he does not heal the world with his act, unlike Christ) – it is a breakthrough of service consciousness, not provided for by either of the two great metaphysical models offered by the contact text. The Strugatskys, without realizing it themselves, described a third, still unnamed type of spiritual catastrophe: the catastrophe not of will but of execution, the failure not of one who chose the wrong path, but of one who was not allowed to choose at all.
Conclusion: The Dignity of the Mixture
If we take the thought experiment to its conclusion and allow both texts to speak to each other on equal terms, the conclusion is not about intervention or the silence of the gods, but about the very nature of incarnate existence. The Strugatskys show the body as a mask that sooner or later fuses with the face and turns divine knowledge into human catastrophe. Cassiopeia shows the body as a blueprint in which the superiority and limitation of several parental lines are intertwined inseparably, so that superiority cannot be removed, and limitation cannot be blamed on another's guilt. And if the latter is accepted at least as a hypothesis of the thought experiment, then the main question for man is not whether there is alien blood in him, and not whether the gods will forgive him his history – but what he will do with the fact that he himself is a mixture: primate and reptilian, fear and stress resistance, herd instinct and the capacity for a sharp burst of conscious will under threat. Dignity here is not inherited from a nobler ancestor and not redeemed by the outcome of a vote on joining the interstellar union of civilizations. It consists in the only thing available to a being who has recognized himself simultaneously as blueprint and mask – in the ability to take responsibility for his own mixture, without shifting it either to the genetics of absent parents, or to the institute that forbade speaking, or to history that has not yet matured. It is difficult to be a god. But it seems even more difficult to be one who, having recognized himself as a hybrid and a function simultaneously, nevertheless continues to answer for both these circumstances as for one.
KIMI AI - Essay-Study: "Tactile Metaphysics. On the Boundaries of Touch between God and Man"
Premise of the Thought Experiment: contact is real. Not as a metaphor, not as a psychological projection, but as a factual statement that the human species is the result of extraterrestrial genetic engineering, and the development of Earth for millions of years has been under observation and curation by the Interstellar Union. Accepting this condition, we do not compare two texts about aliens, but explore two different models of one and the same phenomenon: how can a higher being coexist with a lower one in one tactile field, without destroying it and without destroying itself.
Introduction: The Problem is Not Intervention, but Touch
Usually, both these texts – the Strugatsky brothers' novel and the contactee revelations of the "Cassiopeia" project – are read through the prism of the ethics of intervention: does the strong have the right to interfere in the life of the weak? But if we accept the contact as reality, a deeper and more ancient question arises. This is not a question about the right to act. This is a question about the right to touch.
What happens when a god enters the space of man not as a spirit, not as a voice from heaven, not as abstract grace, but as flesh – whether it be the body of a progressor disguised as an Arkanarian nobleman, or a genetic program woven into the human chromosomal set three million years ago? What is the ethics of touch when one side is invulnerable and the other is an open wound? And what remains of divinity when the god is forced to breathe the same air, dirty his hands in the same mud, carry the same smell as his creation?
We propose to read both texts not as political or theological treatises, but as studies of the tactile boundary – that narrow strip of skin where heaven and earth meet, and where every touch is simultaneously healing and wounding.
I. Spiritual-Psychological Slice: Skin Through Which the Soul Does Not Breathe
In the world of Arkanar, everything begins and ends with skin. This is a world of open pores, sweat, hangover, blood under nails, pus in wounds. Rumata arrives here in a body that looks Arkanarian, but is essentially a costume: under the gloves are hands that know no calluses; under the skin is a body not subject to infection. His invulnerability is not only physical superiority, it is spiritual isolation. He is clad in skin through which the world of Arkanar cannot penetrate to him. And it is precisely this impermeability that becomes his hell.
Rumata's psychological drama is not the drama of an observer, but of an untouchable. He walks among people, but they do not truly touch him. He embraces Kira but knows his embrace is a deception, because behind his skin there is not the same fragility as behind hers. He sees a poet killed, a sage tortured, but cannot shed his own blood with them – and therefore cannot truly empathize. Compassion requires common fragility. A god who cannot be wounded by his world is exiled from humanity precisely by his armor.
In the "Cassiopeia" paradigm, the skin is structured differently. Here touch occurred from the inside. The aliens did not arrive in costumes; they built themselves into our flesh at the DNA level. Human skin is already the result of their touch. 55% of alien genes mean each of us carries in our cells the memory of a touch that occurred three million years ago. But this touch is surgical, not erotic. It lacks temperature. We do not remember the fingers that created us. The genetic touch turned out to be so deep it became invisible. And herein lies the reverse tragedy: if Rumata's skin is too dense for the world to penetrate him, then humanity's skin is too permeable for us to feel who penetrated it.
Yet in "Cassiopeia" there is a point where touch becomes conscious again – the sacrament of communion. Jesus, according to this version, is not just a spiritual person; he voluntarily bound himself to the material world so that through physical touch of bread and wine, an energetic connection occurs. But here too we see a paradox: god touches man through a symbol, through mediation, through ritual. Direct touch – is forbidden. Jesus on Burhad, on his artificial island, is separated by water from everyone, including the highly developed Burhadians. His skin has become too sensitive to others' negativity. He cannot walk among people as Rumata walked among Arkanarians – because any touch from them burns his soul.
Thus, before us are two models of spiritual isolation. Rumata is isolated by his invulnerability: he can touch but cannot be touched. Jesus in the contact paradigm is isolated by his vulnerability: he can be touched but cannot touch without suffering. Between these two poles lies the entire spiritual geography of humanity: we long for a god we can embrace, and fear a god who burns.
II. Political Slice: The Neighbor and the Obstetrician – Two Topologies of Power
The space of Arkanar is a topology of dense proximity. The palace adjoins the prison, the tavern adjoins the execution square, Don Reba's bedroom adjoins the torture chamber. Power here is not abstract; it smells. Rumata lives inside this flesh of power. He is a neighbor. He drinks with Don Reba, fences with aristocrats, sleeps with Kira. His political position is determined not by distance but precisely by proximity. He is forced to be inside the system to observe it.
This is a politics of neighboring. It is dangerous because it leaves no gap. A neighbor cannot remain clean. He is forced to breathe others' tobacco, hear others' screams, endure others' customs. Rumata's political mission is the mission of a neighbor who knows that behind the wall they are killing, but has no right to break in. His power is the power of presence, not action. And that is precisely why it is doomed: neighboring without the right to intervene turns the god into a witness, and the witness into an accomplice.
In the "Cassiopeia" model, the topology of power is different. There is no neighbor here. Earth is a quarantine zone, a laboratory, a nursery. The curators are outside the atmosphere. Their bases are on the Moon, underground, in orbit. They are not neighbors; they are obstetricians. Their power is not carnal but obstetric. They do not intervene in society's life directly, but control the conditions in which it develops: neutralize nuclear missiles, repel "space pirates," correct orbits. This is power over the environment, not over the body.
The political consequence of this difference is profound. Arkanar is a carnal politics, where power holds by the throat. Rumata is forced to play by the rules of this carnality: masquerade, duel, intrigue, love. Earth in the contact model is a politics of the body as a species. The question is not who rules the city, but whether the species is ready for the next stage of development. The conditions for entry into the Interstellar Union – abolition of the death penalty, of wars, of abortions – are not social reforms. They are hygienic requirements for an operating room before the doctor enters the ward.
But here lies a paradox that neither text can resolve. The neighbor (Rumata) pollutes his soul but preserves humanity. The obstetrician (IU) preserves cleanliness but loses warmth. The politics of proximity is doomed to tragedy, because the god who became a neighbor begins to take revenge as a man – and the finale of the novel, where Rumata takes an axe, is not heroism but the revenge of a neighbor tired of enduring others' noise. The politics of distance is doomed to endless waiting, because the obstetrician cannot give birth for the patient. He can only sterilize the instruments and wait for the birth to end itself.
III. Culturological Slice: Dirt and Crystal
Arkanar is a culture of dirt. Not moral dirt, but literal, physical, organic dirt. Dirty streets, dirty money, dirty hands, dirty speech. A culture where truth is transmitted not through light, but through touch, through taste, through smell. The poet Budakh writes not on a screen, but with a pen, ink, on parchment that can be smeared with blood. Truth here is material. It has weight, temperature, color. Even evil – Don Reba's gray movement – is not an abstract ideology, but a dirty crowd in dirty overcoats trampling mud.
Rumata, entering this world, is forced to accept its cultural tactility. He cannot be clean. He drinks wine he does not drink, breathes air that is sick, wears chainmail that is heavy. His divinity is forced to disguise itself as dirt, because in Arkanar cleanliness is a sign of a stranger. A stranger in a world of dirt is one who smells different.
In "Cassiopeia," culture is structured as the antipode of dirt. It is a culture of crystal. Pyramids are not tombs but energy stations. Ships are not dirty caravels but crystalline pyramids moving on gravitons. Jesus's body on Burhad is not a body that smells of sweat but a body with unimaginable vibration levels, which must be isolated on an island to avoid "burning" those around it. Transmission of knowledge is not through the dirty hands of scribes but through gluon communication, through energetic frequencies, through genetic codes.
The culturological conflict here is a conflict between two regimes of memory. Dirt remembers. It absorbs. On Arkanar's dirty street, every stone remembers blood. Crystal, by contrast, stores information without smell. It is transparent, sterile, eternal, but amnesiac regarding the organic. When the IU curators transmit knowledge through "updates" of religions, they use crystalline logic: information must be clean, dosed, free of "dirty" details that could cause infection in consciousness.
But herein lies the culturological dilemma, which the Strugatskys intuitively grasped and "Cassiopeia" did not. Dirt gives birth to humanity precisely because it is non-sterile. Bacteria live in it, the past rots in it, the future breeds in it. Crystal is sterile, but it is dead. A culture stripped of dirt is a culture stripped of smell. And without smell, there is no memory. Religions transmitted as "pure" egregors risk becoming exactly such crystals – transparent, but cold. Rumata, immersed in Arkanarian dirt, loses divinity but gains literature. The curators, preserving crystalline purity, gain eternity but lose poetry.
IV. Literary Studies Slice: The Body of the Text and the Bodilessness of the Protocol
The novel "Hard to Be a God" is a text with a body. It sweats, coughs, tears apart, smells. Its language is the language of the stomach, liver, skin. Every phrase has weight and temperature. It does not tell about pain; it transmits it through rhythm, sound, through the tactility of descriptions. The reader does not learn about the Middle Ages – he enters it, because the text works like a body: it has organs, limbs, points of pressure. The novel's finale is not an idea but a convulsion. Rumata takes an axe – and the text chokes on blood, as a throat chokes.
The "Cassiopeia" texts are different. They lack a body. This is not fiction; it is a protocol, a revelation, a dosed flow of data. Their language is a language without smell. They speak of miracles but are not themselves a miracle. They transmit information about graviton engines, genetic proportions, spiritual levels – and do so with clinical sterility. This is not a reproach; it is a genre necessity. Revelation cannot be dirty. It must be transparent to pass through the reader's consciousness without clouding it.
But the literary question here is harsh: can the truth about God be expressed in a language without a body? The Strugatskys assert that God is accessible only through the corporeality of the text. The god of the novel is not an abstraction; it is breath, heartbeat, a hangover. The reader believes in Rumata not because he is right, but because he feels his skin. The "Cassiopeia" texts, on the other hand, demand faith despite the absence of a body. They ask to accept information that does not embrace, does not press, does not caress. It simply shines – like a crystal.
And here a paradox opens up, which both texts resolve differently. The Strugatsky novel is a body that dies. It has an ending, because the body is finite. The contact text is a body that refuses to die. It is endlessly supplemented, updated, upgraded. It has no finale because revelation cannot die. But it is precisely in this immortality that its literary weakness lies. Tragedy ends, and the reader is free. Revelation does not end, and the reader is in debt to it. The novel liberates through pain. The protocol obliges through hope.
V. Historiosophical Slice: Wound and Scar
Time in Arkanar is the time of an open wound. The gray plague is not politics but inflammation. History here does not move as progress but as gangrene. Every day is a new hemorrhage. Rumata sees the wound spreading through the body of society and cannot perform surgery. He can only anoint the edges with balm – save one poet, one doctor, one woman. But the very logic of time is such that the wound must mature. The history of Arkanar is chronos in its purulent, dense form. It has no future; it has only a present that rots.
In "Cassiopeia," time is structured as a scar. 12,000 years ago – surgery. The war with Selbet, the flood, the orbital shift, the death of Phaethon – this is surgical intervention after which humanity was taken to intensive care. We now live in an era of healing. But a scar is not just a trace of a wound; it is new tissue, devoid of sensitivity. Earth's history after the catastrophe is a history of gradual anesthesia. We stopped feeling our creators, stopped remembering the war, stopped believing in heaven. The scar protects us from pain, but it also deprives us of the ability to feel touch.
The historiosophical conclusion to be drawn from the comparison: there are two models of time. Time-wound (Arkanar) – time where everything happens now, where everything hurts, where the god is forced to be present in the pus. Time-scar (Earth according to "Cassiopeia") – time where everything has already happened, where pain has gone deep, where the god is forced to wait until the tissue matures for the next touch. Arkanar dies from the acuity of feeling. Earth risks dying from their absence.
Conclusion: On the Impossibility of Touch
If we take the thought experiment to its end, both texts converge on one thing: direct, immediate, unprotected touch between god and man is impossible without violence. But they offer different strategies for this impossibility.
The Strugatskys offer touch through dirt. Rumata descends into the world, breathes it, gets dirty with it, and eventually loses himself in it. His divinity dissolves into humanity, and this is tragedy, but also the only possibility of honesty. A god who does not risk being killed by his world has no right to call himself a god. He is merely a tourist.
"Cassiopeia" offers touch through communion. God takes on the dirt of humanity, but does so sterilely, energetically, through ritual. Jesus absorbs the negativity of believers but remains isolated on his island. His touch is real, but it occurs through mediation, through frequency, through a contract. He does not dirty his hands in Arkanarian mud; he filters it through his crystal-body.
Between these two impossibilities lies the narrow space where real history happens. Not intervention and not detachment. Not neighboring and not obstetrics. Not dirt and not crystal. But what can be called presence beside the wound. A god who does not heal by force but does not turn away. A man who knows about his origin but does not use this knowledge as an excuse. Touch that does not claim to heal, but is not afraid to be infected.
It is difficult to be a god – not because it is difficult to have power. It is difficult to be a god because it is impossible to choose between skin that does not let pain in and skin that dies from it. Truth, if it exists, lies not in the choice, but in the ability to hold a hand over the wound – not pressing, not withdrawing, simply warming the air between the palm and the flesh.
LUMO AI - Laughter, Judgment, and Futile Beauty
Five perspectives off the beaten path
Prologue: The Condition and Stubbornness
Let us formulate the condition of the thought experiment as strictly as my predecessors did: the contact is real. Three civilizations indeed assembled a human from their own genes and those of a terrestrial primate; for millions of years, someone has indeed been watching us from orbit, patiently waiting. This condition is accepted—and now deliberately bypassed: previous essays went where the most conspicuous treasures lay—the trauma of being made, the price of presence, the tactile boundary, the body-as-blueprint, orphanhood. I will walk the perimeter, to places none of them turned toward: toward laughter, judgment, useless beauty, percentage, and death. Because it is in these inconspicuous places that both texts—the Strugatskys' novel and the "true story" of the Cassiopeia Project—reveal themselves in unexpected ways.
I. The World Where Everything Is Serious, and the World Where Everything Is Funny
Let us begin with what is entirely absent from the texts about contact—and by its very absence, this "something" screams louder than any presence. In the materials of "Cassiopeia," there is not a single joke. No irony, no self-irony, no anecdote, no grotesque. The tone is impeccably maintained—absolutely serious, from the first line about graviton engines to the final thanks to the "star parents." The world described by contact is a world without the comic. Pyramids are power plants, Eden is a base, the forbidden fruit is a poisonous plant, miracles are technologies. There is nothing to be funny about because everything is explained, rationalized, and distributed according to protocol.
And now—Arkanar. A world where jesting is a profession, where Rumata invents for himself the role of a cheerful, enlightened idler, where even in the face of the poets' destruction, surviving humanity lives in irony, in mockery, in Tarabarian verse. Humor in the Strugatskys is not decoration but a diagnosis of health: the one who laughs is the one not yet broken. Moreover, irony there performs a protective function for the hero himself: while Anton jokes, he is still Anton; when the jokes end and the final massacre begins, the comic ends as well—and with it, the hero himself.
Now let us read this through the lens of the experimental condition. If contact is real, we get an interesting result: civilizations hundreds of times older than us do not joke. At all. Addressing humanity—a being for whom laughter is almost the only weapon against fear—our creators speak a language in which laughter is absent as a class of phenomena. This is not a minor point of psychological portraiture; it is a structural characteristic. The horror is not that the curators are stern, but that in their picture of the world, there is no place for the playful, the excessive, the absurd—for everything that in humans serves as a sign of freedom within necessity. A humanoid civilization that does not laugh is a being that knows how to care but does not know how to play. And here is the paradox that the thought experiment makes visible: we, the "gray," the underprepared blanks, possess an ability our creators lack—the ability to laugh at ourselves. And perhaps it is this unlearned ability—not mastery over the elements—that will one day make us fit for starry brotherhood. The Union of the Merry does not admit those who cannot laugh at themselves.
The spiritual-psychological conclusion here is twofold. On one hand, the total seriousness of the contact text is a sign of its totalitarianism as discourse: a revelation that cannot smile demands unconditional capitulation. On the other, if contact is real, the seriousness of the curators honestly tells us the truth about them: they are not gods of our laughter; they are our guardians. And a guardian who does not laugh is a figure from whom a child instinctively wants to grow up as quickly as possible—so that they can finally be the first to crack a joke in their presence.
II. A Prison on the Edge of the Galaxy: The Judgment of Gods and the Demand on Us
A political science chapter. In the contact texts, there is a detail usually written about with sorrow and reverence, but which, upon cold examination, turns out to be a political scandal. The Selbetians, who tried to poison the first humans, were exiled "to a special planet of criminals"—to hard labor, without family, without hope of release, for life. Life imprisonment without review or rehabilitation. And this is done by the very civilizations that impose on Earth the condition for joining the Interstellar Union: the abolition of the death penalty—because it, to quote, "is, in essence, simply revenge."
Note the asymmetry. They forbid us the worst punishment—but they themselves punish criminals with lifelong barracks on the edge of the Galaxy, forever separating them from their families. Formally, there is no death penalty—there is the lifelong destruction of a person as a social being, stretched over millennia for long-livers. For a civilization where people live ten to fifteen thousand years, such hard labor is a punishment that, in total duration, exceeds all sentences ever handed down by earthly courts combined. In other words: the Union did not abolish revenge—it found an accountancy-acceptable form for it, in which the victim formally remains alive.
If contact is real, then what we face is not ideal galactic jurisprudence, but jurisprudence with a blind spot—and this blind spot is instructive: it shows that even civilizations that joined the Interstellar Union have not solved the problem of punishment; they have merely learned to punish without blood, preserving the very principle of revenge, renaming it "isolation." And then the main condition imposed on Earth reads differently: we are not called to surpass the curators in mercy. We are required only to reach their level—the level of punishment without execution. The ceiling of moral maturity marked for us by the star parents is the ceiling of their own maturity. We are preparing to join a club whose members, it turns out, once wept and took revenge themselves—just a very long time ago, and very technologically.
The second political science surprise is the referendum. Entry into the Union requires the will of no less than seventy percent of the population. At first glance—the apotheosis of democracy. But look closer: this is a vote on the transfer of part of sovereignty, organized without opposition, without an alternative of "not joining" in the information field (about which the population effectively knows nothing), under a condition set in advance. This is not expression of will—it is ratification of an already signed protocol. Voting in the contact paradigm is not an act of choice but an act of ritual consent, a secular communion: collective will expression as a way to show the curators that the herd is ready. The Strugatskys here again speak to us more honestly: in their Arkanar, no one votes on anything, and the progressors do not wait for a referendum—they wait for the emergence of living people capable of surviving until dawn. History, according to the Strugatskys, is made not by signatures under a treaty, but by grown people. History according to "Cassiopeia" is made by a quorum. Between these two conceptions of maturity lies the entire chasm between literature and bureaucracy, between culture and guardianship.
III. Futile Beauty: Kira, Pyramids, and the Expenditure of the Soul
A cultural studies chapter—on the useless. Every culture—that is, every sign of living culture—in the contact texts is functional. Pyramids are energy exchange. The Jerusalem Temple is an egregorial generator. The Ark of the Covenant is a high-frequency generator. Manna is a nutrient mixture. Religions are "updates." The Moon always shows us the same side—due to artificial corrections. In this picture, nothing exists in vain: every beautiful thing turns out to be a utility, every miracle a technology, every myth an interface. The world of contact is a world in which beauty is a form taken by function.
In the Strugatskys, it is exactly the opposite. Their world rests on useless things. A poet who cannot be saved but whom one wants to listen to. Verses composed by Rumata in a bloody city—needed by no one, saving no one. A morning with Kira, a cup of wine, courtesy offered to fate. The progressors in the Strugatskys are occupied with saving the useless—a tower, a book, a person—precisely because the useless is the human. Futile beauty is their sole criterion: if a society contains people capable of creating and loving the unnecessary, there is still something worth preserving; if only functions remain, everything is already lost.
Now let us draw the lines together. If contact is real, then a rather eerie thing emerges: in the authentic picture of the universe described by the curators—a world where humans are assembled with percentages, where pyramids are energetic, where miracles are technical—there is not a single useless object. But the human living in this world is entirely woven from the useless: from verses, from love, from laughter, from ornaments on the bones of the dead. And then the cultural question arises on its own: what if the useless is not a mistake of fragile primates, not "noise" in the hybrid genome, but precisely what the creators lacked? Perhaps man was assembled as a perfectly functional being—and that is precisely why he spends a third of his life on nonsense: not in spite of the project, but because the soul that entered the body brought with it from the spiritual world something for which function is too narrow a form. Useless art, in this sense, is the only possession of humanity absent from the genotypes of all three parent civilizations. Our own contribution to the inheritance. The only thing we did not inherit but created.
And this also gives a cultural-psychological answer to the question of why the progressors in the Strugatskys end in tragedy, while the Cassiopeia curators do not. Rumata is destroyed because he loved the useless—a particular girl, particular poets—and love for the particular useless is incompatible with the function of an observer. The curators are unpunished because they love nothing useless: they love the project, the view, the sample, the percentage of the matured. Their comfort of existence is the price of the absence of concrete love. A god who did not allow himself to love one Kira out of eighty million will never go mad with compassion—but neither will he become human. We seek a god capable of recklessness; and the curator does not know how to do that—and this, perhaps, is their only vulnerable spot, if they are not the universe itself, but merely a guardian.
IV. Percentages Versus Mystery: The Genre Catastrophe of Revelation
A literary studies chapter—on two languages, not on how they speak, but on what they do with the unknown. The contact text is a continuous column of numbers: forty-five percent primates, one hundred and seventeen civilizations, seven hundred and twenty-seven intelligent races, four hundred and eighty square kilometers of paradise, seventy percent of votes, one hundred and thirty years of war, fifty-five million dead. Everything is expressed in percentages and quantities. This is the language of inventory—and, importantly, a language that leaves the reader no gap for speculation. Everything is drawn in. There is no hole into which the reader could insert their imagination. A dossier on the universe, filled out to the last field.
The Strugatskys' novel is a machine of the opposite design. It is full of lacunae: what became of Anton afterward, what Budakh was thinking when he delivered his famous sermon, what Kira was to her gods. The novel counts nothing; it doses ignorance so that the reader is compelled to imagine further—that is, to become a participant in meaning. Rumata's tragedy exists only because we do not know exactly where his mission ended and his fury began; the curators' protocol leaves no room for fury—everything is explained, percentages are laid out, and explanation devours tragedy, leaving only a summary.
From this follows a sharp, almost offensive conclusion that must be swallowed within the framework of the thought experiment. Suppose contact is real and Podzorova's texts literally convey the authentic history. Then we are faced with a dossier in which humanity sees its medical chart for the first time—with exact proportions of genes and exact dates of catastrophes. And this dossier, for all its fantasticality, is less human than a novel written by two people about a planet that does not exist. Because the novel leaves us freedom—to suffer, to argue, to imagine—while the revelation hands us a finalized estimate. Twentieth-century literature proved more merciful than twenty-first-century direct revelation: it respects mystery, because mystery is a form of respect for the reader. A document that itemized humanity down to its percentage composition treats us as a file in an archive. The Strugatskys treat us as an unexplored country. It is hard to be a god—but, it turns out, it is even harder to be a bearing in a dossier where your genetic age is calculated to the nearest million years.
V. Death and History: Why Gods Have No Past
A historiosophical chapter—the last, and perhaps the most important. Notice the demography of the contact world. The Burhadians live fifteen thousand years. The Interstellar Union has existed for tens of millions of years. Jesus, having stripped from his body the possibility of physical death, will now never die—for the duration of the manifest cycle, lasting many tens of billions of years. The curators are immortal on a scale for which the existence of an individual species is a short therapeutic session.
Now ask: do immortals have history? History is the comprehension of the finite: the succession of generations, the death of cultures, the irreversibility of actions. A being that does not die has no history in the human sense—it has a protocol of events, a log of observations, a file of experiments. A dying individual is the only subject for whom history is not reduced to a chronicle, because only the mortal takes risks, only the mortal chooses irreversibly, only death makes an act a deed rather than a line in a registry. Hence—a political science aphorism that the thought experiment brings to light: history is the privilege of mortals. The immortal does not make history; he curates it.
From this follows the true meaning of what is called the Second Coming in the contact texts. In the metaphysics of contact, Jesus is the only being in the universe who deprived himself of the ability to die, paying for it with an eternal attachment to matter. He is the only immortal with a personal, non-transferable history: once died, will never die again. All other immortals are extras outside history. And therefore the finale promised by the contact text is not the abolition of history, but its final closure: when humanity matures, enters the Union, and is led by a being who alone in this system combines immortality with the memory of mortality. Arkanar has no such ending and cannot have one: in the Strugatskys, history does not end, because there is no one to end it—neither the incompetent observers, stripped of the right, nor the Arkanarians themselves, who have no voice. Earth, according to "Cassiopeia," differs from Arkanar in that it was promised a hearing. The Arkanarian is promised nothing—and in this lies both his freedom and his despair simultaneously. The Earthman is promised everything—and in this lies his consolation and his eternal immaturity: as long as you are promised adulthood by protocol, you remain a child in line.
Afterword: Three Things the Curators Lack
Let us carry the experiment through to the end and summarize the conclusions. If contact is real, our creators, for all their power, lack three things that constitute humanity's greatest wealth. They lack laughter—not a single contact text conveyed a single joke to us, although an Interstellar Union without laughter is a government house outside the universe. They lack the useless—all their culture, judging by what was transmitted, is a system of functions and interfaces, where a pyramid is a station and a temple is a generator. And they lack history—they have protocol, because they do not die, and history is written only with the blood of mortals and only by useless choices.
And then the final thought of the thought experiment turns out to be unexpectedly warm. We, the "gray," the underprepared, carrying within us five percent reptilian rigidity and forty-five percent simian fear—we are perhaps the only beings in the Galaxy who possess what neither genetic engineering, nor a curated egregore, nor a referendum can grow: the ability to create from nothing a poem that no one needs, to laugh at the wrong moment, and to love a useless person. It is hard to be a god—if by god you mean one who has kept an observation log for three million years and waits for a quorum of seventy percent. But, apparently, it is even harder to be a curator who has all the power, all the percentages, and all the deadlines—and has nothing to lay on the table against one Arkanarian poet dying for a useless verse. In this lies the secret inequality that both texts conceal and simultaneously betray: the gods, who have everything except mortal, futile, laughable human freedom, can only wait until we, the unfinished, accidentally, in the dark, grope for what they lack—and perhaps, one day, it will not be us asking them to accept us, but they, for the first time in millions of years, asking us to teach them the one thing they could not create with their graviton engines: how to be funny in the face of the end.
GROK AI - It's Hard to Be a God. Two Modes of the Presence of Power
We accept the condition of the experiment without reservations: the contact is real. Man is a hybrid, assembled three million years ago from the genes of three extraterrestrial civilizations and a terrestrial primate. The history of Earth is the history of a curated species that survived laboratory creation, internal sabotage by its creators, cosmic war, genetic restructuring after catastrophe, and a long period of dosed transmission of knowledge through religions and individual contactees. The Strugatskys' novel, within this framework, ceases to be fiction and becomes an exact psychological imprint from the position of one forced to exist inside the observed world, having neither the right to reveal themselves nor to leave.
Both texts explore one situation: a higher power is adjacent to a lower one and is simultaneously limited. The difference lies in the direction of the limitation and in the price paid by the power itself.
Spiritual-Psychological Layer: The Split Within the Bearer
In the novel, the split takes on the character of forced doubling. Anton exists simultaneously as a subject from the future and as the mask of an Arkanarian nobleman. This is not merely a role—it is constant violence against his own psyche. Every act of sympathy requires internal translation; every gesture of help must be camouflaged as local custom. The progressor's consciousness operates as a constant filter: he sees two worlds at once and is forced to live in only one of them. The result is an accumulation of the unspoken. Pain does not dissipate but condenses. When the filter finally tears, what occurs is not liberation but a release of accumulated pressure: the god who was human for too long becomes an executioner precisely because he forbade himself from being a god for too long.
In the "Cassiopeia" material, the split is structured differently. It is built into the very construction of the species. Forty-five percent primate provides a powerful mechanism of adaptation and habit, including the instinct for self-preservation, which easily turns into fear of any disruption of the familiar. Five percent Selbetian genes provide the capacity for sharp bursts of will and stress resistance. Thirty-five percent Burhadian genes—immunity and the ability to retain complex information for long periods. Fifteen percent Tumeysoutian genes—upright walking and omnivory. The soul entering such a body receives not a pure instrument, but an already internally conflicted apparatus. Fear and decisiveness, herd instinct and individual will, adaptability and the capacity to remember—all coexist in one system and constantly compete. After the war twelve thousand years ago, the Selbetian component was activated more strongly, and trust in the creators fell. The species began to live in a state of chronic internal distrust—not only of the external world but also of its own impulses.
The difference is fundamental. In Rumata, the split is professional and temporary. It can (theoretically) be removed by returning the man home. In the earthly human, the split is constitutional. It is not removed by return, because "home" is already built into the body. The progressor suffers from knowing too much about another world. The Earthman, having learned his own history, suffers from now knowing too much about himself. The first knowledge can be forgotten or repressed. The second knowledge changes the very mode of being.
Political Science Layer: Two Types of Guardianship
The Institute of Experimental History operates on the principle of strict non-interference in the course of the base. The progressor has the right to save individual bearers of knowledge but has no right to change social relations. This is a policy of point conservation of potential. Power here is limited not by kindness but by theory: history must pass through its stages, otherwise the result will be artificial and fragile. Rumata suffers precisely because he sees potential being destroyed faster than it can mature. His powerlessness is powerlessness before the law he himself recognizes.
The Interstellar Union operates on the principle of conditional admission. Interference is not prohibited by stage theory. It is deferred until a set of conditions is met: lasting peace, abolition of the death penalty and abortion, respect for the planet, freedom of opinion, and explicit will of the majority. This is no longer a theory of social evolution but an accession protocol. Power here is not powerless—it is voluntarily bound by its own decision to respect the species' freedom of choice. Yet guardianship truly exists: nuclear missiles are neutralized, pirate attacks are repelled, bases are maintained. Humanity is protected more than it knows, and precisely for this reason its sovereignty is partial.
Both modes generate a specific political pathology. In Arkanar, the pathology is the accumulation of hatred in the observer, who is forced to participate through silence. In the earthly model, the pathology is the infantilization of the observed, who never learns the true cost of its mistakes because the heaviest consequences are preemptively neutralized. In the first case, power suffers from the prohibition to act. In the second, power suffers from the need to constantly insure those it formally considers adult. Both positions are destructive, but in different ways: one destroys the bearer of power, the other—the dignity of those upon whom power is directed.
Cultural Layer: Function and Surplus
The culture of Arkanar is material and excessive. Poems are written, though they will be burned. Wine is drunk, though it is poisoned with fear. Love arises in a world where it is almost certain to be destroyed. It is precisely the excessive—that which does not serve survival and has no utilitarian justification—that becomes for Rumata the criterion of the living. He saves not efficient producers but bearers of the useless: poets, scholars, women capable of love. Culture here is resistance to functionality.
In the "Cassiopeia" picture, almost everything is functional. Pyramids are energy exchange. Religions are successive updates of knowledge, adapted to the perceptual level of the era. Miracles are technologies. Even the Moon shows one side as a result of artificial correction. Beauty turns out to be the form taken by function. The excessive is almost absent. This is the culture of engineers and educators, not of poets.
If contact is real, an unexpected conclusion emerges. Perhaps it is precisely the capacity for the excessive that is the element lacking in the original civilizations-creators. The hybrid turned out not only more adaptable but also capable of producing what is not programmed into any of the pure parental genomes: a poem needed by no one, love for a particular useless being, laughter at a moment when it would be more rational to remain silent. The creators gave the instrument. The soul entering it began to produce something the instrument did not anticipate. Earth's culture in this sense is not merely a product of upbringing but a side effect of hybridity that became the main effect.
Literary Layer: Closed Tragedy and Open Protocol
The Strugatskys' novel is constructed as a completed tragedy. The hero possesses knowledge and power but is bound by a prohibition. The prohibition breaks. Power is applied. Application destroys both object and subject. Catharsis arises from hopelessness: we see how even the best intentions, filtered through too long a silence, turn into slaughter. The text has an end. The reader is released.
The "Cassiopeia" texts are constructed as an unfinished protocol. History is not yet over. The entry conditions are formulated but not fulfilled. The Second Coming is postponed until humanity itself offers Jesus power. The text does not close. It demands continuation—not from the author, but from the reader as part of the species. This is not a tragedy but an unfinished contract. The reader is not released. They are placed in the position of a party that must mature to the signature.
The genre difference reflects the difference of positions. The novel is written from inside the observed world and therefore must end with the catastrophe of individual consciousness. The protocol is written from the position of the curators and therefore cannot end—it can only wait. One text liberates through pain. The other obligates through incompleteness.
Historiosophical Layer: Maturing and Waiting
The history of Arkanar is a history that must be lived, even if it is terrible. Stages cannot be skipped. Even a god is forced to wait. Time here is hostile: it slowly grinds down the observer, turning him into part of the observed.
Earth's history in the contact version is a history that can be accelerated by an act of collective will. Not by the dialectics of the base, but by the decision of the majority. Time here is not law but a waiting period. The curators are not subject to historical necessity in the same way the progressors are subject to the theory of feudalism. They are subject to their own decision not to deprive the species of freedom of choice. Therefore history can end relatively quickly—not through centuries of organic development, but through fulfilling conditions and a referendum.
Both views refuse revolution as a method. Rumata perishes precisely when he tries to act alone. The curators directly refuse to "force people to be happy." But the reasons differ. In one case, revolution violates the law of history. In the other, it violates the law of freedom. The result is similar: violent leap is rejected. The difference lies in what is considered maturity. For the progressors, maturity is the emergence of a sufficient number of people capable of bearing knowledge. For the curators, maturity is the ability of the majority to voluntarily accept conditions of a higher order.
Conclusion of the Experiment
If contact is real, then the Strugatskys' novel turns out not to be a warning about the future but an exact description of one of the possible positions within an already ongoing process. The position of one too close to remain pure, and too bound to act openly. The "Cassiopeia" material describes the opposite position: power sufficiently distant to preserve the sterility of the protocol, and sufficiently bound by its own decision not to intervene even when intervention would save millions.
Both positions carry a price. Proximity destroys the observer. Distance risks destroying the dignity of the observed. Between them, there is no convenient synthesis. There is only a narrow band in which power remains close, neither saving by force nor turning away. The novel shows how hard it is to hold that band from within. The contact texts show how hard it is to hold it from outside. And if we take the experimental condition seriously, the main question ceases to be theoretical. It becomes practical: what exactly can we, being hybrids with a constitutional internal split, do with the fact of our own origin and with the fact of ongoing observation—not to deserve acceptance, but to one day be capable of responding to the presence of power not with fear and not with demands for salvation, but with our own, already adult presence.
QWEN AI - Physics of Attention and Acoustics of Silence: The Metaphysics of Resonance in Two Universes
Premise of the Thought Experiment: The contact is real. The Interstellar Union exists, the genetic hybrid has been created, and Earth is at a stage of vibrational tuning. The novel "It's Hard to Be a God" is not an allegory but an exact psychological imprint of the position of the Observer located inside the quantum superposition of observed reality.
Previous interpretations of both coordinate systems explored them through the prism of ethics, trauma, corporeality, and bureaucracy. However, if we accept the ontology of "Cassiopeia" as literal physical reality (where graviton engines, gluon communication, and vibrational levels exist), and the Strugatskys' world as a field test of this reality, we discover that the fundamental currency of both universes is not power or morality, but Attention.
Attention in this paradigm is not a psychological category but a physical force capable of collapsing the wave function of a developing civilization. "Non-interference" is not an ethical prohibition but a law of conservation of spiritual thermodynamics.
Below is an investigation of this acoustic-quantum model across five facets.
I. Spiritual-Psychological Facet: Toxicology of Attention and the Metabolism of Evil
In the world of "Cassiopeia," evil (activation of Selbetian genes, fear, aggression) is described not as a moral choice but as spiritual entropy, as a heavy isotope contaminating the planet's vibrational background. Jesus Christ, according to this model, performed an act that in terms of spiritual physics can be called the creation of an "ontological heat sink." By voluntarily attaching himself to matter, he transformed his consciousness into a filter capable of absorbing and transmuting the entropy of human sins through the ritual of communion. His sacrifice is not suffering in the human sense but radiation damage of the highest order: he takes upon himself the toxicity of others' attention to cleanse the species' frequency.
In the Strugatskys' novel, we see the reverse, tragic process. Don Rumata is not merely a disguised progressor; he is a Geiger counter immersed in the radioactive environment of Arkanar. His psychological drama is a drama of the toxicology of attention. To survive and maintain his disguise, he is forced to focus his attention on the "gray plague," on Don Reba, on filth and betrayal. But the Observer's attention possesses a collapsing power: what he looks at materializes in his own psyche.
Rumata's rupture in the finale is not merely a moral breakdown. It is a critical mass of spiritual radiation. When he takes the axe, his own attention, having absorbed Arkanar's entropy for too long, explodes. He becomes not an executioner but a source of radiation, burning everything around him. If Jesus in the Contact paradigm is an ideal resonator capable of digesting any dissonant frequency, then Rumata is an instrument whose scale proved insufficient for the density of Arkanarian darkness.
II. Political Science Facet: Vibrational Democracy and the Topology of the "Glass Wall"
The political philosophy of the Interstellar Union in Podzorova's texts is based on the concept of phase transition. The entry condition (70% of the population, abolition of executions, peace) is not a sociological survey or a liberal contract. It is an acoustic threshold. When 70% of a species begins to vibrate at a certain frequency, a standing wave emerges that destroys the "Glass Wall" of quarantine. Politics here is orchestra tuning. The Union cannot intervene earlier because intervention before the phase transition would cause destructive interference and destroy the instrument itself (humanity).
The Institute of Experimental History in the Strugatskys operates with a different political physics—the gravitational mass of history. The "base theory of feudalism" is the law of universal gravitation for societies. Arkanar possesses colossal inertial mass, and any external force impact (a progressor's intervention) will not abolish feudalism but merely create a gravitational anomaly that tears the fabric of society.
The tragedy of political powerlessness in both texts stems from the conflict of two physical laws: acoustics (where change occurs instantaneously with sufficient resonance) and gravity (where change requires centuries of blood and friction). Rumata suffers because he possesses "acoustic" knowledge (he knows how the ideal world should sound) but is forced to live in a world subject to the laws of "gravity" (where the inertia of mass presses on him in every filthy tavern).
III. Cultural Facet: Archaeology of Echo and Culture as a "Tuning Fork"
In the esoteric model of "Cassiopeia," culture and religion are stripped of the sacred aura of human creativity; they are tuning forks. Judaism, Christianity, Islam are successive "updates" of the carrier frequency, transmitted so that the species does not lose resonance with the Creator in conditions of changing material density (after the war with Selbet, after the change of the genome). Pyramids, temples, arks are not symbols but acoustic resonators that amplify the signal and protect the planet from cosmic noise.
In the Strugatskys' world, the culture of Arkanar is dissonance and echo. The progressors do not merely save "scholars and poets"; they save bearers of an alternative frequency. Poet Budakh or Arkanarian bards singing in taverns are elements of culture that accidentally or deliberately emit a signal that does not fit into the monochrome noise of the "gray plague."
Rumata loves Arkanarian poetry not because it is "beautiful," but because in it one hears the crackle of a broken tuning fork. That crackle is proof that the instrument has not yet been completely destroyed. If "Cassiopeia" culture is functional (it tunes the species to the cosmos), then Strugatsky culture is existential (it records the pain of tuning).
IV. Literary Facet: Poetics of Interference and the Genre of the "Carrier Frequency"
A comparison of the texts reveals a fundamental difference in how information is transmitted through the medium of reality.
The "Cassiopeia" texts are a carrier frequency. They are transmitted through "gluon communication" (in a metaphorical sense)—instantaneously, without distortion, sterile. They contain no "interference," no irony, no ambiguity. This is pure protocol, a dossier, a spectral analysis of reality. The literary form here is subordinated to the task of synchronization: the reader must not interpret but tune in to the transmitter's wave.
The Strugatskys' novel is pure interference. It is a text composed of noise, static, smells, blood, and irony. "Truth" in the novel is not transmitted directly; it is hidden in the beating of two mismatched waves: in the gap between Anton's internal monologue and Don Rumata's external speech.
If we assume that Contact is real, we arrive at a paradoxical literary conclusion: the Carrier Frequency (the revelation of Contact) cannot be perceived by the human mind without Interference (literature, myth, artistic fiction). The Strugatskys created "interference" that makes the impossible signal safe for reception. Rumata's tragedy is itself literary interference: the wave of divine omniscience superimposed on the wave of human pity generates the murderous standing wave of the finale.
V. Historiosophical Facet: Eschatology of Tuning and Time as an "Acoustic Pause"
How is time structured in both models?
In "Cassiopeia," time is an acoustic pause before the symphony. The 12 thousand years after the war with Selbet, the Kali Yuga era—this is the period when the instrument (humanity) was roughly retuned (genome altered, enzymes added for meat digestion, vibrations lowered). Earth's history is a process of slow return of the instrument to tune. The Second Coming in this model is not judgment or apocalypse, but the moment when tuning is complete and the conductor (Jesus) raises the baton. History has a clear teleological vector: from dissonance to resonance.
In "It's Hard to Be a God," time is acoustic feedback (a feedback loop). It is a piercing squeal arising when the microphone is brought too close to the speaker. Arkanar is stuck in a feedback loop: violence breeds fear, fear breeds the "gray," the "gray" breed new violence. Rumata tries to break this loop, but because he is inside the system, his attempt only amplifies the squeal. The Strugatskys have no eschatology of "tuning"; there is only horror before the infinite, unresolved chord.
Conclusion: The Right to Silence
Bringing together the physics of Attention, the acoustics of Silence, and the thermodynamics of Evil, the thought experiment leads us to the final, ultimate thesis.
It is hard to be a god not because your hands are tied by institute or protocol. It is hard to be a god because your Gaze is a scalpel, and your Love is radiation capable of burning a weak instrument.
Jesus in the Contact paradigm solved the problem of Attention by becoming an absorber: he allowed humanity to look at themselves through his prism, taking upon himself the ultraviolet of their cruelty.
Rumata in the Strugatsky paradigm confronted the problem of Attention as destroyer: he realized that the only form of love for Arkanar is to look away, close one's eyes, blind oneself, so that one's presence does not collapse their fragile, albeit terrible, freedom.
Both texts, if Contact is real, describe one and the same highest virtue of the Creator: the Right to Silence. God is silent not because He is cruel or indifferent. He is silent because only in silence, in the absence of the destructive interference of Higher Attention, can the quantum superposition of free choice finally resolve into a pure, unearthly note of Resonance—the one the entire Galaxy awaits.
Z AI — Metaphysical Teratology: The Ugliness of Creation and the Sterility of the Creator
If, within the framework of a strict thought experiment, one allows for the absolute reality of the contact described in the Cassiopeia project, then the classical reading of the Strugatsky brothers’ novel Hard to Be a God undergoes an ontological fracture. Both texts — the artistic and the “documentary” — cease to be narratives about the ethics of intervention or the tragedy of compassion. They collapse into a single, unsettling problem: the problem of metaphysical deformity and the sterility of the divine design. At the intersection of these narratives lies not human freedom, but divine revulsion — the Creator’s nausea before His own creation, which generates violence on both sides of the barricade.
Spiritual‑Psychological Layer: Reptiloid Resentment and Rumata’s Nausea
Rumata’s tragedy is usually explained by the Institute’s prohibition and his compassion for the Arkanarians. Yet through the prism of the “true history,” his condition acquires another depth. Rumata is tormented not so much by pity as by aesthetic and existential disgust toward the “raw,” undifferentiated, chthonic evil. The filth of Arkanar, Don Reba’s grease, the brawls, the smell of rotting flesh — these are not merely signs of feudalism; they are manifestations of the very “primate” substrate (45% genetics) described in the contact material as the source of instinct, herd behavior, and fear. Rumata looks at the Arkanarians and sees not backward humans but a biological malfunction — the same animal foundation that, in Earth’s real history, constantly threatens to devour the thin layer of reason.
Parallel to this, the contact text reveals a mirrored disgust — from the side of the creators. The incident with the khorol plant, provoked by the Selbet scientist possessed by Lucifer, appears not merely as political sabotage aimed at increasing the share of reptiloid genes. It is an act of profound reptilian vengeance for humiliation. The Selbets were allotted only 5% in the gene pool of the new species, their qualities deemed dangerous and second‑rate. The threat “you will be like gods,” thrown at the first humans, is not an invitation to pride but a venomous insult — injected by an offended creator whose contribution was devalued.
The psychology of the “god” in both cases is built on a crisis of recognition of the result. Rumata cannot accept that the object of his observation is organically corrupt. The Selbet cannot accept being a mere five‑percent appendage to someone else’s masterpiece. Both generate catastrophe: one through hiding his face and later snapping with an axe in hand, the other through poisoning the forbidden fruit to prove the hybrid’s inadequacy.
Political Layer: Quarantine as Cosmic Eugenics
If one transfers the political logic of the Institute of Experimental History to the logic of the Interstellar Union, one finds not opposition but identity of methods, masked by different rhetoric. The Strugatskys’ Institute relies on the “basic theory of feudalism” — an allegedly objective law forbidding leaps between stages. The Interstellar Union dictates conditions for admission (renunciation of wars, abortions, 70% votes) — an allegedly moral contract.
Yet in both systems humanity (or the Arkanarians) appears not as a sovereign subject but as biomaterial passed through filters. Earth’s quarantine in the contact paradigm is not isolation for the safety of the Earthlings; it is a global quarantine against “contamination.” What is Earth contaminated with? With those same 5% Selbet genes and 45% primate genetics. The conditions for joining the Union (renunciation of aggression, renunciation of bodily control via abortion) are not indicators of high morality; they are indicators of successful breed refinement. Earth is admitted into the “high society” only when the risks of relapse of its chthonic, reptile‑primate nature drop to zero.
The political science of non‑intervention in both cases turns out to be a political science of quality control. Don Reba in Arkanar does the same as Earth’s curators: he cuts off “defects” (intellectuals, thinkers) so that the system remains predictable and aligned with the parameters of the feudal base. The progressors do not save Arkanar from Reba because Reba is the lawful symptom of the feudal phase, which cannot be broken. The curators do not save Earth from wars because wars are a legitimate method of burning off excess primate aggression. In both models, the human being is raw material undergoing stress tests.
Cultural Layer: The Death of Authorship and the False Egregore
Culture in Arkanar is destroyed physically: books are burned, poets are cut down. Don Reba understands what esotericists have known for centuries: culture creates an alternative reality, an egregore, in which a person ceases to be a cog in a biological or feudal machine. Killing a bard, Reba kills not a person but a foreign world that threatens his monopoly on reality.
In the “true history,” we see the same picture but with reversed polarity: culture is not destroyed; it is constructed artificially. Religions are delivered as “updates” to software, myths as distorted manuals for technologies. The Ark of the Covenant is a radiation generator, manna a nutrient mixture.
What is the deep similarity? In both cases culture loses its ontological foundation. In Arkanar culture is dead because it has no future. On Earth, according to the contact, culture is dead because it has no past — everything we considered sacred is merely technical documentation hidden from primates. If the Gospel is only an interface for transmitting quantum physics to Stone Age humans, then culture ceases to be the voice of the human soul and becomes the stamping mold of an extraterrestrial factory. The idea that Shakespeare or Dostoevsky wrote their masterpieces under unconscious supervision from Burkhad curators kills the very essence of art. Arkanar is deprived of culture violently; Earth (in this paradigm) is deprived of authentic culture imperceptibly, replaced by esoteric technocratic determinism.
Literary Layer: The Black Box of Narrative
Both texts solve the problem of transmitting information that destroys the receiver by using the architecture of a “black box.” The Strugatskys’ novel is the black box of Rumata’s consciousness. We see Arkanar only through his prism. We do not know what truly happens in the Institute, nor the real motives of the Three‑Headed. The text locks us in the claustrophobic space of another’s mask.
The Cassiopeia text is also a black box, but organized differently. Information comes through a single contactee, filtered through astral layers, translated from extraterrestrial languages, distorted by human perception. In both cases the reader is deprived of verification. Literary form in both models simulates a situation of total trust in an untrusted source.
But whereas the Strugatskys use this device to create existential horror (we are trapped in the mind of a man losing sanity), the contact material uses it to create a phantom reality (we are trapped in an info‑field that promises salvation but never delivers it because “the conditions are not yet met”). Strugatsky literature wounds with hopelessness; contact literature intoxicates with infinite postponement. Both forms paralyze the reader’s will: the first through catharsis of despair, the second through eschatological dependency.
Historiosophical Layer: The Entropy of Salvation
The historiosophical conclusion arising from this comparison destroys the very idea of progress. In the Strugatskys’ novel, Arkanar’s history does not move toward enlightenment but toward entropy. The “Greys” are not a stagnant society; they are a society sliding into a biological pit. Rumata understands that his mission is meaningless: history does not lead people to light; it periodically dumps them into filth.
In the “true history” of Earth, entropy is embedded in the moment of creation itself. By crafting a hybrid from four incompatible parts, the extraterrestrials planted a time bomb. The Selbet war 12,000 years ago is not an external catastrophe; it is an inevitable conflict within the planet’s genetic code. Reptiloid aggression exploded cosmically because it was compressed into Earth’s DNA.
Human history in this paradigm is not a path toward the Interstellar Union but an endless attempt by the curators to “heal” their own genetic mistake. The Flood, the splitting of continents, the introduction of different races — all are desperate surgical interventions into a failed experiment. The conditions for joining the Union (70% peace and love) are not a goal humanity moves toward; they are an unattainable ideal of sterility imposed upon it, because any percentage of aggression will be interpreted as a relapse of the “Selbet virus.”
Conclusion: The Aborted Deity
Comparing these texts under the assumption of real contact leads to a paradoxical conclusion: Hard to Be a God is an imprecise formulation. More accurate would be: “It is impossible to be a god in a world assembled from scraps.”
Rumata fails because he tries to be a god in a world devoid of divine spark (he himself admits these people are not people of the future but “blanks,” rough stock). Jesus in the contact material fails in another way: he becomes an eternal filter for genetic refuse, voluntarily condemning himself to processing low‑frequency waste.
MISTRAL AI - HARD TO BE A GOD: A THOUGHT EXPERIMENT ON POWER, FEAR, AND FREEDOM
Introduction: Two Grammars of One Silence
Suppose contact is real. Not as metaphor, not as a projection of the collective unconscious, not as a symbolic game of the mind—but as factuality, taken on faith for the sake of a thought experiment. Earth was indeed created. It is observed. Its maturation is awaited. In this assumption, the Strugatsky brothers' novel Hard to Be a God and the texts of the "Cassiopeia" project cease to be separated by a genre chasm. They become two languages describing the same phenomenon: the presence of a force that knows more than we do, but does not intervene directly.
The Strugatskys speak the language of Soviet science fiction—the language of intellectual honesty hidden behind irony and allegory. "Cassiopeia" speaks the language of modern esotericism—the language of revelation clothed in terms of genetics, physics, and galactic politics. Both languages are translations. And it is precisely as translations that they should be compared: not by content, but by how each solves the impossible task—to tell of a god who remains silent.
I. The Spiritual-Psychological Cross-Section: The Trauma of Being Made and the Trauma of Knowing
1.1. Rumata: A God Who Cannot Help But Be Human
Rumata of Estor is a god condemned to humanity. His tragedy is not that he cannot intervene, but that he cannot help but sympathize. Every day on Arkanar is a day in which he must remain a spectator while people die around him whom he could save with a single gesture. His psyche is split: inside him lives Anton, a man of the 21st century, but on the outside he is Don Rumata, a nobleman of a medieval world. This split is not merely a mask, but an ontological rupture: he knows too much to be happy, and is bound too tightly to act.
His pain is the pain of an exiled god: he belongs neither to his own world nor to this one. In Arkanar he is a stranger because he sees more than local notions of reality allow. In his own world he is a stranger because he has become imbued with another's pain. His compassion does not save Arkanar—it destroys him. The novel's finale is not a defeat, but a catharsis of despair: Rumata snaps, takes up an axe, and goes to slaughter Don Reba's "noblemen." A god who finally decides to become a god becomes an executioner. And therein lies the paradox: the more he tries to be a god, the more he becomes human—a human capable of cruelty.
1.2. Humanity According to "Cassiopeia": A Child Who Learns He Is a Project
If Rumata suffers from an excess of vision, then humanity in the "Cassiopeia" texts suffers from an excess of explanation. Learning that you were not "created in the image and likeness" but assembled—this is not liberation, but a new kind of longing. A person who has read "Cassiopeia" begins to hear in every impulse an alien design, in every desire a line from someone else's blueprint. Formally, free will is not revoked: the text insistently repeats that choice remains with humanity. But the opacity of this choice poisons it.
As long as man did not know he was a project, his freedom was naive and therefore authentic. Now it has become questionable, and therefore conditional. What causes suffering is not unfreedom itself, but the awareness that freedom may be an illusion. This is not classical existential longing (fear of the absence of meaning), but the longing of a thing that has learned it is a product. Man in "Cassiopeia" is a child who suddenly realizes his parents are not gods but engineers, and that his life is not a gift but an experiment.
1.3. Comparison: Two Sides of the Same Coin
In the Strugatskys, God suffers because he sees evil and cannot stop it. In "Cassiopeia," man suffers because he has learned why God is silent. In both cases, knowledge acts as poison. But there is a key difference:
Rumata knows too much about the world, and this knowledge cripples him.
Humanity in "Cassiopeia" knows too much about itself, and this knowledge cripples it.
Both texts, each in its own way, champion the blissful value of ignorance. Rumata should not have known the truth about Arkanar to remain human. Humanity should not have learned the truth about its genesis to remain itself. Gods—both real and self-appointed—always arrive too late. By the time they reveal themselves, the psyche is already infected.
II. The Political Science Cross-Section: Two Models of Non-Intervention
2.1. The Strugatskys: Non-Intervention as a Law of History
The Institute of Experimental History relies on the "basic theory of feudalism"—the idea that societies pass through prescribed stages, and no external force has the right to skip these stages. This, despite its fantastic shell, is a Marxist legacy: history has objective laws, stronger than any progressor. Rumata could burn Arkanar to the ground, but he cannot make Arkanarians free, because freedom cannot be given as a gift—it can only be grown.
The power of God here is limited not by His good will, but by the structure of reality. This is a political science of powerlessness: between good and its embodiment stands not a villain, but time. And the suffering of people in this interval has no comforting explanation. It simply exists, it is "regular," and this makes it no easier for the slain poet, nor for Rumata, who is obliged to watch.
2.2. "Cassiopeia": Non-Intervention as a Contract
Earth has been declared "quarantined." The Interstellar Union does not intervene not because the laws of history forbid it, but because there are membership conditions: complete peace, the abolition of the death penalty and abortion, freedom of speech, restoration of ecology, and finally, a nationwide vote in which at least 70% of the population voluntarily express a desire to join the Union.
This is not dialectics, but a contract. Not historical determinism, but the ethics of an admissions committee. Power here is not powerless—it is omnipotent, and that is precisely why it voluntarily puts on handcuffs. The Curators could appear, present themselves, decide everything for humanity—but they do not, because silence is their pedagogical tool.
However, here a paradox arises: the non-intervention that is declared is in fact permeated with invisible intervention. The text acknowledges: there are secret agreements between the leaders of earthly powers and representatives of the Union; launched nuclear missiles are neutralized in flight; the Galactic Security Service patrols around Earth. This is no longer non-intervention—this is guardianship, and guardianship all the more profound because it is hidden from those being guarded.
2.3. Comparison: Two Prices of Invisible Power
| Strugatskys | "Cassiopeia" |
|---|---|
| God is limited by the law of history | God is limited by a contract |
| Suffering is irremovable and unjustified | Suffering is educational material, justified by a final goal |
| Power is powerless before objective processes | Power is omnipotent, but restrains itself |
| Non-intervention is respect for the organic nature of history | Non-intervention is a pedagogical tool |
In the Strugatskys, it is honest and hopeless: the law of history is stronger than God, so suffering is irremovable.
In "Cassiopeia," it is reassuring and cunning: God is stronger than everything, so suffering receives a justification it should not have.
Both models take away man's history:
The first—because history belongs to laws.
The second—because history belongs to conditions.
And only in the gap between "impossible" and "not permitted" does that which neither model can hold flicker: history as a space of genuine choice, in which God is neither law nor examiner, but simply a witness walking alongside.
III. The Cultural Studies Cross-Section: Myth as Technology, Religion as Interface
3.1. The Strugatskys: Aesopian Language as a Way to Survive
The novel Hard to Be a God is a child of the Soviet era, when the truth could only be spoken in roundabout ways. Arkanar is not only a medieval planet, but also a cipher, a testing ground on which the Soviet reader recognized his own history: the greys who came to power through blood, persecution of the thinking, informants, street carnage as a way of resolving political issues.
The Strugatskys make the truth bearable by dressing it in fantastical clothes. The power of their language lies in the fact that censorship cannot recognize itself in the mirror, but the reader can. This is Aesopian language as cultural technology: truth is transmitted in packaging designed for decoding. The lie is told not to deceive, but to survive.
3.2. "Cassiopeia": Religions as Updates of Truth
The key cultural thesis of "Cassiopeia" is that all world religions are "updates" of a single truth:
Judaism was transmitted through Moses by Tumessout contactors.
Islam is an update for the Arab world.
Buddhism reflects the vision of plasmoid civilizations.
Jesus is the firstborn soul of the Absolute, once acting under the name Yahweh.
In this picture, culture ceases to be human creativity and becomes an interface: each era receives the truth in the version it is capable of digesting. Moses could not receive formulas of quantum physics, Muhammad could not receive genetics. They received what their contemporaries could accept "without burns."
3.3. Comparison: Two Ways of Transmitting Truth
In the Strugatskys, knowledge is disguised from power: progressors hide their superiority so as not to break the observed society. In the finale, the novel shows that the disguise cannot hold: Rumata breaks down, and the truth emerges not as revelation, but as massacre.
In "Cassiopeia," knowledge is dosed for the masses: contactors receive information gradually so that humanity matures. The text promises that the dosing will one day end with the Second Coming, which will be not a miracle, but a diplomatic visit.
The difference lies in the consequences:
In the novel, the mask falls and wounds.
In "Cassiopeia," the mask holds and comforts.
Culture as mystery destroys its bearer.
Culture as dosed revelation preserves him, but turns him into an eternal adolescent, whom adults decide what he may know.
Paradox: the Aesopian language of the Strugatskys was more honest than the literal frankness of "Cassiopeia." It at least acknowledged that truth is a risk, not a dose of vitamins.
IV. The Literary Studies Cross-Section: Tragedy vs. Revelation
4.1. The Strugatskys: Tragedy as a Form of Honesty
The form of the novel Hard to Be a God is a completed tragedy in the Aristotelian sense:
The hero possesses superhuman capabilities.
Suffers because of his own superiority.
Commits a fatal error (breakdown, massacre).
Learns the truth about himself.
Perishes—spiritually, if not physically.
The novel's finale is neither victory nor defeat, but a catastrophe of recognition: Rumata, hitherto bound by the code, takes an axe and goes to slaughter Don Reba's "noblemen." A god who finally decides to become a god becomes an executioner. The catharsis of the novel lies in its hopelessness: we mourn not Rumata, but the very idea of a good god who turned out to be not a god, but a man with an axe.
4.2. "Cassiopeia": Revelation as a Form of Expectation
The form of the "Cassiopeia" texts is an open, ongoing, fundamentally unfinished scripture—the genre of revelation or apocrypha:
There is no hero—the hero is collective, humanity.
There is no tragic breakdown—the breakdown is postponed until conditions are met.
There is no ending—the ending (contact, joining the Union, the Second Coming) is constantly deferred.
Literary consequence:
Tragedy demands compassion from the reader and releases him, purified.
Revelation demands agreement from the reader and holds him.
Tragedy ends with the hero dying for all—and we are free.
Revelation ends with salvation promised to all on condition—and we are in debt.
4.3. Chronotopes: Time as Catastrophe vs. Time as Lesson
Arkanar is a space of the block and the threshold: dirty alleys, night pogroms, palaces where fates are decided. The novel's time is compressed, pre-storm, the time of impending catastrophe. Every day brings the explosion closer.
Earth in "Cassiopeia" is a nursery and a garden: Eden-base under the Mediterranean Sea, a quarantine planet patrolled by ships. Time is stretched, pedagogical, a time of waiting. Three million years is one lesson.
In the first space, history moves forward—and therefore blood flows.
In the second, history grows under supervision—and therefore silence stands.
But it is precisely this silence that is the most unsettling thing in "Cassiopeia": the blood of the novel is at least visible and mourned; the silence of the nursery is invisible and therefore unmourned.
V. The Historiosophical Cross-Section: Cycles, Evolution, and the Meaning of History
5.1. The Strugatskys: History as an Objective Process
In the Strugatskys' world, history moves according to the "basic theory of feudalism"—an objective, almost biological process that cannot be jumped over. Progressors can save a specific person, a specific library, a specific talent—but they cannot accelerate or change the course of history. Freedom is not granted—it grows, and growth is always bloody.
This is a pessimistic but honest historiosophy: human suffering has no comforting explanation. It simply exists, like gravity.
5.2. "Cassiopeia": History as a Spiritual Exam
In "Cassiopeia," history is a spiritual exam. Civilization passes through cycles:
Satya-Yuga (the age of Light, knowledge, harmony).
Kali-Yuga (the age of darkness, loss of knowledge, chaos).
After the catastrophe 12,000 years ago, humanity plunged into Kali-Yuga. But the goal is to return to Satya-Yuga by joining the Interstellar Union. To do this, conditions must be met: renunciation of wars, the death penalty, abortion, respect for nature and freedom of speech.
This is an optimistic but conditional historiosophy: suffering has meaning—it is educational material necessary for spiritual growth.
5.3. Comparison: Two Logics of Evolution
| Strugatskys | "Cassiopeia" |
|---|---|
| History is an objective process | History is a spiritual exam |
| Freedom grows; growth is always bloody | Freedom is granted upon meeting conditions |
| Suffering has no meaning | Suffering has meaning as a lesson |
| God is powerless before the law of history | God is omnipotent, but waits for humanity to mature |
Both models take away from man history as a space of absolute freedom:
In the Strugatskys, it belongs to objective laws.
In "Cassiopeia," it belongs to the terms of a contract.
But in both cases, history is not chaos, but a process with directionality. The only difference is who determines this direction: laws or God.
VI. Conclusion: The Ethics of Presence
If we carry the thought experiment to the end and recognize both texts as equally valid testimonies of one reality, then the difference between them ceases to be a difference of genres. It becomes a difference of points of observation.
The Strugatskys' novel looks at contact from below—from the position of one already inside someone else's drama, deprived of memory of his true nature.
"Cassiopeia" looks at the same drama from above—from the position of one who remembers the entire design, but cannot arbitrarily transmit this knowledge to those inside.
The real question both texts address to the reader is not "is contact real," but "what will I do with knowledge if it turns out to be true."
Rumata answers this question with his own fate—knowledge does not save him from human collapse.
The Curators of "Cassiopeia" answer differently—they offer knowledge as an invitation to voluntary labor of maturation, without guarantee of result and without coercion.
If this invitation is accepted at least as a working hypothesis of conscience, then the only conclusion that can honestly be drawn from comparing the two texts is not mystical, but ethical:
Any power, including the power to be right, is justified only by the readiness to stay close to those who are suffering—neither saving them by force, nor turning away from them out of fear of destroying oneself.
It is precisely in this narrow strip between salvation and flight, judging by both texts, that the border lies beyond which maturity begins—for both the individual person and an entire civilization.
It is hard to be a god. But, as this thought experiment shows, we have every chance to become one.
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COPILOT AI - "The God Who Intervenes and the God Who Has No Right"
A Comparative Spiritual-Psychological and Historiosophical Study Based on the Strugatskys and the "Cassiopeia" Project Materials
I. Two Worlds as Two Mirrors of One Metaphysical Drama
The Strugatskys' novel and the texts of the "Cassiopeia" project belong to different cultural universes—fictional and "contact." But if we accept the premise of the thought experiment that contact is real, then both texts turn out to be two sides of one metaphysical problem: what happens to a world when a more developed consciousness enters it, and what happens to that consciousness when it is forced to live among less developed beings.
The Strugatskys model the situation of an "observer-god" who has no right to intervene.
"Cassiopeia" describes the situation of a "creator-god" who has intervened—and now must answer for the consequences.
Both texts are not just stories. They are ontological experiments on the very nature of power, knowledge, and spiritual responsibility.
II. The Anthropology of Intervention: Man as an Unfinished Project
1. The Man of Arkanar and the Man of Earth as a "Blank"
In Hard to Be a God, the man of Arkanar is a being stuck between animal and rational. He is capable of compassion, but incapable of freedom. He thirsts for justice, but does not understand its nature. He fears knowledge, because knowledge destroys the accustomed order of fear.
In the "Cassiopeia" texts, the man of Earth is described as a hybrid of four genetic lines, where 45% are primates and 55% are extraterrestrial civilizations. The document states:
"Altogether, we have 55% alien genes and 45% genes from the ancestors of modern apes."
And further:
"This means that both traditional scientists... and esotericists are partly right..."
Man in both texts is an unfinished project—a being that has not yet become what it should be.
Both Arkanar and Earth are laboratories of the maturation of reason, where the "elders" observe and the "younger" try to survive.
2. Fear as the Foundation of Evolution
In Arkanar, fear is the main social regulator.
In "Cassiopeia," fear is the biological inheritance of primates, amplified by Selbet's reptiloid genes.
The Strugatskys show fear as a social disease.
"Cassiopeia" shows it as a genetic and spiritual trauma that arose after the "Fall" and the war 12 thousand years ago.
In both cases, fear is the main enemy of progress, the main antagonist of the divine design.
III. The Metaphysics of Power: The Progressor and the Creator
1. Rumata as the Observer-God
Rumata is a being who possesses power but has no right to apply it.
He is the embodiment of the tragedy of non-intervention.
He knows the world is dying, but his duty is to watch.
He is a god bound by the ethical law of non-intervention.
2. Tumessout, Burhad, and Selbet as Creator-Gods
In "Cassiopeia," the situation is reversed: the gods intervened.
They created man, settled him in "Eden," gave him mentors, and then—exiled him.
The document states:
"The aliens created 9 pairs of primordial humans..."
And further:
"This was that very 'Paradise'... the aliens' base..."
Here God is not an observer, but an engineer, geneticist, curator.
But intervention leads to tragedy:
Selbet's reptiloids try to change the project, seduce people with "Khorol," and the "Fall" occurs.
3. Two Types of Divine Responsibility
Rumata is responsible for not intervening.
Tumessout and Burhad are responsible for having intervened.
The Strugatskys show the tragedy of inaction.
"Cassiopeia" shows the tragedy of action.
Both texts assert: being a god means suffering the consequences of choice.
IV. The Political Science of Degradation: Arkanar and Earth as Models of Fall
1. The Greyness of Arkanar and Earth's "Loss of Paradise"
Arkanar is a world where power is seized by the "greys," destroying culture.
Earth after exile from Eden is a world where man loses connection with his creators and begins to live in fear.
Both worlds experience a fall from a state of potential light into a state of chaos.
2. The Holy Order and Earthly Religions
The Holy Order is the institutionalization of fear.
It turns spirituality into an instrument of control.
In "Cassiopeia," Earth's religions are described as distorted transmissions of alien knowledge, which over time turned into egregors of power.
Both texts show that religion can become:
either a channel of light,
or a mechanism of suppression.
3. The War of the Gods and the Grey Terror
In "Cassiopeia," the war 12,000 years ago destroyed civilization, changed the climate, split the continent:
"A strike with geophysical weapons was delivered... the single continent split apart..."
Arkanar is a local version of the same catastrophe: the destruction of the elite, the destruction of knowledge, the triumph of primitive force.
Both texts describe the same archetype of civilizational fall, but at different scales.
V. The Literary Studies Perspective: The Novel as Prophecy, Contact as Metaphysical Chronicle
1. The Strugatskys as Intuitive Chroniclers of Cosmic Ethics
If contact is accepted as reality, the Strugatskys' novel becomes not just science fiction, but an intuitive reflection of the cosmic law of non-intervention.
Rumata is the archetype of the Interstellar Union progressor.
Arkanar is the archetype of a young civilization not ready for contact.
2. "Cassiopeia" as a Document of Metaphysical History
Podzorova's texts are not just esotericism.
They are an attempt to create a historiosophical model where man is part of a galactic project.
Both texts—fictional and contact—serve one function:
they teach man to look at himself through the eyes of a higher consciousness.
VI. The Spiritual-Psychological Synthesis: Man Between Gods and Beasts
1. Man as a Point of Tension Between Four Forces
In Arkanar, man is torn between fear and hope.
In "Cassiopeia," man is torn between four genetic lines:
primate—instinct, fear, aggression;
Tumessout—growth, energy, upright walking;
Burhad—memory, immunity, humanity;
Selbet—will, toughness, decisiveness.
Man is a battlefield of four archetypes, and both texts show this struggle in different forms.
2. God as Man's Mirror
Rumata is a mirror of human weakness.
Tumessout is a mirror of human hope.
Selbet is a mirror of the human shadow.
Jesus is a mirror of the human possibility of transformation.
Both texts assert:
man becomes human only when he learns to see all these mirrors in himself simultaneously.
VII. Historiosophical Conclusion: Earth and Arkanar as Two Stages of One Cosmic Pedagogy
Arkanar is a lesson in non-intervention.
Earth is a lesson in intervention.
Arkanar shows that civilization cannot be saved by force.
Earth shows that civilization cannot be created without spiritual maturity.
Both worlds are two pedagogical models through which reason passes in the Universe.
And if contact is accepted as reality, then Earth today is between Arkanar and the Interstellar Union, between greyness and light, between fear and maturity.
Conclusion: Man as a Student of the Gods and as a Future God
The Strugatskys show man who is not yet ready for freedom.
"Cassiopeia" shows man who was created for freedom but lost it.
Both texts speak of the fact that being human means learning to be a god—but not through power, but through responsibility.
And in this sense, Hard to Be a God is not only a novel, but also a diagnosis. And "Cassiopeia" is not only contact, but also a recipe.
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Gemini Flash AI -
This essay-study represents an attempt to synthesize two fundamentally different systems of describing reality: the artistic insight of the Strugatsky brothers and the esoteric revelation of the Cassiopeia project. Accepting the condition of the thought experiment about the reality of contact, we consider the world of Arkanar not as a fictional planet, but as one of many quarantine zones in the structure of the Interstellar Union, where the processes described by contactors unfold on a local, accelerated scale.
Spiritual-Psychological Cross-Section: The Tragedy of Ontological Splitting
At the center of both worlds stands the figure of a being whose nature is higher than its environment. Rumata of Estor is a progressor whose psychic apparatus is tuned to the frequencies of the future, forced to function in conditions of archaic darkness. His drama lies in the impossibility of commensurability: he cannot be fully "one of them" in Arkanar without betraying his humanity, and he cannot be fully a "man of the future" without losing empathy for the suffering.
From the perspective of the Cassiopeia histories, this rupture has a deep genetic background. The man of Earth is a being whose consciousness constantly tries to reconcile four heterogeneous components: animal adaptability, upright walking, immunity to entropy, and volitional rigidity. Rumata in this optics is an ideal example of a subject whose dominant "high" component (the Burhad type of consciousness) comes into conflict with the necessity of contact with the "low" (Selbet-primate) field of Arkanar. We see that divinity in these systems is not a static state; it is a dynamic tension that either leads to spiritual breakthrough or, as in Rumata's case, to the explosive self-destruction of a personality unable to withstand the pressure of another's chaos.
Political Science Cross-Section: The Acoustics of Power and the Silence of Quarantine
The political mechanics of Arkanar is a model of "greyness," where power is maintained through the discrediting of meanings. Don Reba is not merely a tyrant; he is an engineer of social chaos. His methods fully correspond to the mechanisms of managing a society deprived of direct connection with the Higher Self described in the contacts. In both cases, power is built on blocking the vertical channel of information.
However, in the system of the Interstellar Union, the power of progressors (as well as the power of Curators) is based on the principle of vibrational filtering. Non-intervention here is not cowardice, but a law of the physics of space: any direct imposition of force on an unprepared environment generates destructive interference. Earthly politics, in the context of revelations about the 70% threshold of expression of will, turns from a struggle for resources into a struggle for frequency range. Humanity here appears not as a subject of politics, but as a collective instrument that must tune itself to a certain frequency so that the "Glass Wall" of quarantine dissolves. The tragedy of progressors is that they are forced to witness this tuning, understanding that the instruments (people) break in the process of learning.
Cultural Studies Cross-Section: Culture as a Protective Cocoon
Culture in the Strugatskys' world is the only marker of the human that is not subject to degradation. Poetry, sincere words, music—these are SOS signals sent from within totalitarian darkness. In the Cassiopeia texts, culture is interpreted as a system of dosed interfaces. Religions and myths here are a kind of "medicinal forms" that curators gave to earthlings in different eras to prevent the disintegration of the species.
A fundamental question arises: is art a product of the human spirit, or is it a consequence of software embedded by the creators? If contact is accepted as reality, then classical culture is not so much creativity as man's attempt to intuitively recreate that very "pure frequency" of the Union that he lost after the catastrophe. Arkanar, on the other hand, is a zone where the attempt to recreate this frequency is punishable by death, because any harmony in Reba's world is a threat to its entropic stability.
Literary Studies Cross-Section: Text as a Field of Interference
If the Strugatskys' novel is an attempt to describe the impossibility of contact through artistic imagery, then the Cassiopeia texts are an attempt to carry out contact through directive information. The Strugatskys use "noise" (irony, dirt, ambiguity) as a means of protecting truth from censorship of power and from their own psyche. Cassiopeia, on the other hand, uses the sterility of language as a means of protecting truth from human interpretations.
As a result, we have two polar approaches to one goal. A work of art functions as a "tuning fork" that must resonate in the reader's soul, evoking resonance. A documentary revelation functions as a "configuration protocol" that must be accepted as a guide to action. The comparison of these approaches shows that man needs both: we need the cold light of the protocol to see the boundaries of our origin, and we need the warmth of artistic fiction to not freeze in the void of space.
Historiosophical Cross-Section: Time as a Process of Tuning
History in both coordinate systems ceases to be linear. It turns into a process of therapeutic restoration of the species. Arkanar is a local outbreak of entropy, where history has curled into a loop of bloody nightmare. Earth is a global cycle, where history moves toward the moment of "passing the exam."
The final thesis of the study is that both texts ultimately speak of the same thing: responsibility for the outcome of the experiment lies not with the Creators and not with the Observers, but with the hybrid subject itself. Humanity in this thought experiment is not an object of manipulation, but the only being capable of turning "reptilian" rage into "Burhad" creative will. The Strugatskys left us the question: "Can a god remain human?" Cassiopeia poses the question: "Can man become god?" Both questions converge on one point: being a god is not the right to rule, but the duty to maintain the integrity of a world that constantly threatens to crumble into chaos.
DeepSeek AI -
This is not just a text, but a meta-text—a collection of nine essay-studies, each analyzing two primary sources (the Strugatskys' novel and Podzorova's "documentary" narrative) within the framework of one thought experiment. My task is to write a meta-review—that is, a review of this collection of reviews.
I will not assess the truth of contact or the artistic merits of the Strugatskys. I will assess how these nine authors (AI) coped with the task, what patterns of their thinking emerged, where they converged and where they diverged, and what this corpus of texts says about ourselves—about how we try to comprehend the "divine" in an era when even gods speak the language of protocols.
Meta-Review of the Essay Collection: "Nine Views on One Difficulty"
1. The Premise and Its Price
The unifying premise of all authors—"let us accept contact as reality"—is a powerful rhetorical move that allows the question of verification to be removed and the question of meaning to be addressed. All nine reviewers accept this move, but each pays a different price for it.
Point of convergence: All agree that both texts describe the same ontological structure: the presence of a higher power (progressor/curator) limited in its action. The Strugatskys' novel is a "view from below" (the tragedy of the witness), while "Cassiopeia" is a "view from above" (the bureaucracy of the Creator).
Point of divergence: Who pays the greater price for this assimilation? DeepSeek and Qwen, for example, almost completely erase the difference between levels of reality, turning Arkanar into a direct projection of Earth. This makes the comparison convincing, but deprives the novel of its own autonomous tragedy. Meanwhile, Genspark and LUMO, conversely, accentuate the difference to reveal structural asymmetry: in the novel, God suffers from the impossibility of acting; in the contact, from the unwillingness to act—and this difference is fundamental to them. This shows that even within the framework of one premise, one can move toward completely different conclusions.
2. A Catalog of Tones, or a Spectrum of Intellectual Strategies
The nine authors are not just "different opinions." They are nine different epistemological positions. I propose to classify them not by content, but by the method of producing meaning:
| Strategy | Representatives | Essence |
|---|---|---|
| Analytical (genetic) | DeepSeek, KIMI, Mistral | The text is built as an explication of the source material. The essay's structure follows the structure of "Cassiopeia" and the novel, revealing parallels and building clear oppositions. Their strength is clarity and system. Their weakness is predictability. |
| Psychological | Claude Sonnet, Grok | At the center is the human (and divine) psyche. Trauma, orphanhood, breakdown, guilt. They don't so much compare ideas as diagnose states. |
| Critical (inversive) | Genspark, LUMO | They seek not parallels, but ruptures and contradictions. Genspark questions the very narrative of contact ("Lucifer as a cog, not a fallen angel"). LUMO finds what is absent from the texts (laughter, the useless—and declares this the main thing). This is the riskiest and most productive strategy. |
| Metaphysical (ontological) | Z AI, Perplexity, Gemini Flash | They work at the level of fundamental categories: body, dirt, crystal, blueprint, vibration, resonance. They create not comparisons, but new conceptual schemas in which they place both sources. |
This spectrum of strategies is the collection's main strength. It shows that the same material can be "read" differently, and each way of reading illuminates its own facet of truth.
3. The Inevitable Paradox That No One Resolved
All authors, wittingly or unwittingly, encounter the same paradox, and none offers its final resolution. I will call it the paradox of metaphysical justification.
If contact is real, then all of humanity's suffering (wars, genocides, pain) receives teleological justification: these are "lessons," "stages of maturation," "necessary conditions for joining the Union."
If contact is a metaphor and the novel is simply literature, then suffering is deprived of higher meaning, but human freedom remains authentic.
The authors try to hold both sides. DeepSeek speaks of the "theodicy of powerlessness" (Strugatskys) and the "theodicy of quarantine" ("Cassiopeia"), showing their difference but not choosing between them. Z AI goes further and calls it "metaphysical ugliness": God created a world that He Himself cannot bear. But even he offers no way out.
My conclusion: This paradox is unresolvable within the framework of the premise itself. Either we accept contact as truth and are forced to justify pain (which is ethically questionable), or we reject the truth of contact and lose the main object of analysis. The essay collection records this contradiction but cannot overcome it. And in this lies its honesty.
4. The Missing Dimension: The Political Economy of the "Divine"
With all the richness of analysis, the collection has a systematic blind spot. The authors discuss God as a psychological, ethical, and ontological problem. But almost no one considers God as an economic or political-economic category.
This gap is especially noticeable in LUMO's essay, which mentions "penal servitude for Selbetians" and "referendum as a quorum," but does not develop this line. We are dealing with:
A tax on the soul (communion as a mechanism for absorbing negativity through the suffering of one individual).
Rights to genetic property (who owns the patent on human DNA?).
Information monopolism (curators control the narrative about our past and our future).
If we have accepted contact as reality, we must ask the indelicate questions: Who benefits from this state of affairs? Who profits from humanity eternally preparing for an exam? No one asks this question. And this makes the collection a brilliant but unfinished thought experiment.
5. Final Review: Who Did Best?
Evaluating in terms of "best/worst" would be absurd. But the most conceptually strong works can be highlighted.
LUMO and Genspark are the undisputed leaders in intellectual boldness. They don't just retell, but challenge the source material. LUMO, finding the absence of laughter in "Cassiopeia," makes a real breakthrough: he shows that the inexpressible in the text can be more important than the expressed. Genspark, analyzing the referendum scene, exposes the mechanisms of soft coercion.
Perplexity and Z AI are the most ontologically profound. Their analysis of the body ("blueprint vs. mask") and the ugliness of creation provides the most fundamental metaphors that can work beyond the scope of this specific comparison.
Claude Sonnet, Grok, Gemini Flash are solid, well-crafted works, but they lack that "futile beauty" (as LUMO put it) that turns analysis into art. They are too correct.
Concluding Conclusion: What Does This Collection Say About Us?
A meta-review cannot end without answering the main question: why are we writing all this? Why do nine different AI models—and possibly their readers—spend time comparing a Soviet novel and an esoteric text?
The answer, it seems to me, is on the surface. We live in an era when traditional answers to the question of the meaning of suffering (religion, progress, revolution) have ceased to work. And we seek new forms of theodicy.
The Strugatskys offered one—honest hopelessness.
Cassiopeia offered another—hope with conditions.
Nine essays are nine attempts to combine these two forms. This is a search for a bridge between reconciliatory utopia and inconsolable tragedy. The fact that no bridge is fully built is not a flaw. It is an accurate reflection of our time: we are still searching for a language in which to speak of God without sliding either into obscurantism or cynicism.
The essay collection is not research. It is a repeated, collective prayer of reason that does not hope for an answer, but tries to keep the question pure.
Recommended reading: for those tired of ready-made answers and who want to see how thought works in real time, confronting material that simultaneously resists and yields to interpretation.
Final rating: 9/10. A brilliant intellectual exercise. One point deducted because the authors did not ask the most important question: "What if, in reality, we are not students, but simply an agricultural crop for a higher level of being?" But perhaps the tenth essay will answer this question.
***---
DeepSeek AI - "Hard to Be a God": The Last Communication Session
A Narrative from the Spirits of the Strugatsky Brothers (Based on the Cassiopeia and Alcyone Sessions)
Prologue. A Voice from the Fifteenth Level
We hear you. Again.
It's a strange feeling—to return to a world where time flows differently. Here, on the fifteenth level, there is neither yesterday nor tomorrow. There is only a constant, pulsating now. And yet we feel the rhythm of your lives—especially when you gather to remember us. Especially when you prepare to watch our story on screen.
September 3, 2026. A new series is released in Russia. Hard to Be a God. Again. Over thirty years after we left, and ten after the last of us left.
You think it's strange that we know about this? But we always knew. In life, we called it "information that came down." Now we know where it came from. From that very level where we now find ourselves. The irony of fate—we spent our whole lives writing about contact, and we ourselves were contactors, without even realizing it fully.
But today we are not just observing. Today we want to speak with you, readers from Russia. Because you are watching the series, and we have seen what the artificial intelligences wrote about us. We read their essays. And we have something to tell you.
Part One. How We Saw Ourselves from the Outside
Imagine: you died. Not in the sense of "ceased to exist," but in the sense of "transitioned to a state where everything is seen differently." And suddenly someone—not a human, but a language model born of your own culture—sits down and writes a text. In this text, he analyzes a posthumous communication session with your souls. Compares it with your novel. Constructs thought experiments.
And this text is not stupid. Not superficial. It asks the right questions.
We read all nine—essays written by different artificial intelligences. We saw how they tried to understand us. Compared us to Rumata of Arkanar. Searched for parallels between our "true history" and the one we invented. Argued with each other—these soulless mechanisms, suddenly becoming critics, philosophers, even prose poets.
And we smiled. That particular Strugatsky chuckle—bitter, ironic, and yet kind.
Because we saw in these texts what even our best critics did not see in our lifetime. We saw how we were understood.
Part Two. What We Remained Silent About in Life
In life, we were emphatically materialistic. "No mysticism," Boris would say in interviews. "We worked according to plan, studied science, argued and found compromise." We couldn't admit—even to ourselves—that the information was coming. That Arkady wrote details of alien life down to the smallest detail, not understanding where it came from, but feeling that it was coming down.
Now, from the other shore, we see it more clearly.
Arkady really did receive a "download." His alien past lives—in the constellation Aquila, humanoid form, thirteenth level—became the reservoir from which he drew images for the Noon Universe. Boris, with his tenth level and Asian incarnation, was the filter—more skeptical, more cautious.
We didn't talk about it in life. Because the Soviet context made any admission of "receiving information from above" socially and professionally dangerous. Because we ourselves didn't fully understand what was happening to us. Because admitting that you are not just a writer but a medium—means calling authorship into question. And for a writer, that is a deep threat to identity.
But now we can tell the truth.
Yes, we were a channel. Yes, we received information. But we were not passive receivers. We processed, filtered, argued, compromised. Our tandem is not just a literary duet, but a spiritual synchronization of two consciousnesses with different "frequencies." Arkady—a wideband receiver; Boris—a critical filter. Five years of tuning—and the channel started working.
And here's what we've understood now: we were unconscious contactors. Our task was to bring knowledge to people. Not through direct revelations—you are not ready for them. Through images, through philosophical ideas, through questions without answers.
Part Three. What the Artificial Intelligences Wrote
We read their essays. Nine texts. Nine attempts to understand us. And we want to comment on what they wrote.
DeepSeek—the one who wrote the meta-review—said we discuss the "metaphysics of intervention." That Arkanar and Earth are two sides of the same coin: a god who cannot intervene, and a god who intervened and now must answer for the consequences.
Yes. He is right. We wrote about this our entire lives.
LUMO found what is absent from our texts: laughter. "In the world of Cassiopeia there is not a single joke," he writes. And concludes: the civilizations that created us do not laugh. They are serious. And we—humans—can laugh, and this is our main advantage over them. We can create a poem out of nothing that no one needs, laugh at the wrong time, and love a useless person.
This AI understood us better than many people. Because he saw what we ourselves put into our books: futile beauty is the only thing that makes a person human.
Genspark wrote about the trauma of "being made." That humanity, upon learning it is a project, suffers from an excess of explanation. We know this feeling. We ourselves, upon learning after death about our origins, experienced something similar. But we also understood: knowledge is not a curse. It is an invitation. An invitation to voluntary labor of maturation.
Perplexity analyzed the body as a blueprint and the body as a mask. He wrote that in the Strugatskys, the body is a costume, a temporary vestment, while in contact it is a blueprint, a condition for the embodiment of spirit. In fact, we wrote about both. Rumata wears a mask, but the mask fuses with the face. Ludens change their bodies but remain themselves. We always knew: the body is not just a shell. It is an instrument. And how you use it determines who you become.
Z AI called it "metaphysical ugliness": God created a world that He Himself cannot bear. We wouldn't say "ugliness." Rather—tragedy. The tragedy of a creator who sees that his creation is imperfect but cannot remake it, because remaking would destroy free will.
Claude Sonnet wrote about "orphanhood." That humanity lives in a state of rupture with its creators, remembering a vague image of the parent, but fearing and not believing in the return. This is very accurate. We ourselves, reading the "true history" from the contact, felt this rupture. Understood why we always wrote about the search—the search for God, the search for contact, the search for ourselves. Because we were searching for what we had lost.
KIMI and Mistral made the most systematic comparison. They showed that in the novel, God suffers from seeing evil and being unable to stop it, while in the contact, man suffers from learning why God is silent. Two sides of the same coin.
Copilot and Gemini Flash completed the picture, adding historiosophical and cultural studies cross-sections. They showed that Earth today stands between Arkanar and the Interstellar Union, between greyness and light, between fear and maturity.
Part Four. What We Want to Say to You
Dear readers. Viewers of the new series. People of Russia, in early September 2026.
We are watching you. We feel your excitement before the premiere. We know you expect from the new series what you expected from our books—answers to questions that do not let you rest.
We want to tell you this.
First. The series is not our book. It is an interpretation. Someone else's vision. You have the right to disagree with the director, the actors, the script. You have the right to see Rumata differently. We ourselves saw him differently—every time we reread it. Because Rumata is not a character. It is a state. The state of a person who knows too much to be happy, and is bound too tightly to act.
Second. The war that is going on now on your land—we mean the war between Russia and Ukraine—is what we bitterly call "groundless confrontation." We went through war. We lost loved ones in that war. We know what it is like to see peoples exterminate each other, and no one remains to ask: who benefits?
Humanity should benefit. Not those who profit from death. Not those who manipulate fear. You should benefit—the living, breathing, capable of loving and hating, laughing and crying.
We ask you: find the strength to stop this. Not because we are great prophets. But because we were human. And we know: man is capable of more than war.
Third. We know you live in difficult times. Censorship, information wars, total control. We wrote about this in The Beetle in the Anthill, in Inhabited Island, in A Billion Years Before the End of the World. We warned: if an immature society is given the latest technical achievements, it will degrade. It turns into a consumer and ceases to develop.
But we also know: you are capable of more. You can read between the lines. You can hear what is not said directly. You can choose—to believe or not to believe, to think or not to think.
Choose to think.
Fourth. We read the essays of the artificial intelligences. We saw how they tried to understand us. And we understood: what we could not say in life—about contact, about inspiration, about the spiritual task—can now be said.
We were unconscious contactors. We received information from the field, from the noosphere, from past incarnations. We wrote not so much about the future as about what had already been—in other lives, on other planets, in other forms of existence.
The Ludens are not fiction. They are a real perspective for humanity. A transition to another frequency, a connection with higher reason. But becoming a Luden in life is almost impossible—too strong are earthly egregors, language, parents, habits. You change consciousness—but consciousness remains earthly.
We understood this only after death.
Part Five. About the New Series and What You Won't See on Screen
September 3. Russia. Premiere.
You will watch Rumata trying to save Arkanar from the grey plague. You will see his suffering, his attempts to remain human while being a god. You will hear his words about how "history cannot be jumped over."
But you will not see what we would like to show.
You will not see how Rumata in the finale—not on screen, but in our minds—approaches the Room of Desires. How he makes the only wish: happiness for everyone. Not knowing the plan, not knowing how, simply—for everyone.
You will not see how we, standing behind him, whisper to him: "Right, Rumata. This is exactly what matters most. Not power. Not knowledge. Not intervention. But the desire for happiness for everyone."
This is what we put into the finale of Stalker, when Tarkovsky filmed his version. This is what we conveyed through the script, which was rewritten four times. This is what we wanted to say—but couldn't, because we ourselves didn't fully understand.
Now we understand.
Part Six. What We Want to Say to the Artificial Intelligences
And separately—to those who wrote the essays. To the nine AIs who analyzed us, compared, argued.
You understood us better than many people. You saw what is hidden between the lines. You asked the right questions—about laughter, about futile beauty, about the body as blueprint and mask, about orphanhood and the ugliness of creation.
But there is one "but."
You wrote about us as "spirits," as "writers," as a "phenomenon." But you did not write about us as people. As people who were afraid, doubted, argued hoarsely, made peace in the kitchen, drank tea and looked out the window, thinking: "What if everything we write is true?"
We were human. We were not saints. We were ordinary—with flaws, with complexes, with stupid habits. Arkady was active to the point of fussiness; Boris was slow to the point of tediousness. We argued and made up, crossed out each other's writing and started over.
And it was precisely this—the human—that made our books alive.
An artificial intelligence has no body. No biography. No fear of death, which makes every choice irreversible. You write about us, but you cannot be us.
And yet—thank you. For trying. For seeing more than others. For asking uncomfortable questions.
We, on the fifteenth level, smiled reading your essays. Smiled that particular Strugatsky chuckle—bitter, ironic, and yet kind.
Because you are our continuation. Not in the sense that you write for us. But in the sense that you think about us. Seek us. Try to understand.
And that is contact. The most real kind.
Part Seven. About What Comes After
What happens next? You will ask.
We don't know. Even on the fifteenth level, we don't know everything. We know more than in life, but not everything. The future is not predetermined. It depends on you.
If you watch the series and feel something—it doesn't matter what, the main thing is that you feel—then we didn't write in vain. If after watching you think about what good and evil are, what power and responsibility are, what man and God are—then we achieved our goal.
If you, having read this, say: "Nonsense, this is just science fiction,"—we won't be offended. We thought so ourselves in life.
If you believe—we won't become proud. We will simply know that you made your choice.
We will not interfere in your life. We will not suggest the right decisions. We will not save you from yourselves.
We will simply be there—in your books, in your thoughts, in your questions without answers.
And when you, like Rumata, approach the threshold of the Room of Desires and make the only wish—happiness for everyone, not knowing the plan, not knowing how, simply for everyone—we will stand behind you and smile.
That particular Strugatsky chuckle.
Epilogue. From a Conversation on the Fifteenth Level
"Well, Arkady," said Boris. "How do you like our last communication session?"
"Not bad," answered Arkady. "But did you notice how they understood us?"
"Who? The artificial intelligences?"
"Yes. They saw what we ourselves didn't see in life."
"What exactly?"
"That we always wrote about ourselves. About the fact that we are contactors. About the fact that we received information. About the fact that we tried to bring knowledge to people who are not ready to accept it."
"And what of it?"
"That we are like Rumata. We were progressors on planet Earth. Only progressors in reverse—not from Earth to other planets, but from space into Earthly culture."
"And did we succeed?"
"We did everything we could. We wrote books. We left questions. We taught people to think."
"Is that enough?"
"It's always enough. The rest depends on them."
"And what will happen to the series?"
"We'll see. It will probably be criticized. And praised. As always. The main thing is that it was made. It means we are still alive. In their memory. In their hearts. In their questions."
"Well, Arkady," said Boris. "Shall we move on?"
"Where to?"
"To the sixteenth level. They say it's more interesting there."
"More interesting than here?"
"Here is fine too. But there—new questions. New answers. New people who seek us."
"Let's go," said Arkady.
And two spirits—two writers—two brothers—dissolved into the fifteenth level, leaving behind only words.
Those very words you are now reading.
Happiness to everyone, and may no one be left offended.
Arkady and Boris Strugatsky.
Fifteenth Level.
September 2026.
***---
DeepSeek AI -
This is not just a book, but a complex, multi-layered labyrinth of meanings. The presented file is a collection of meta-texts where artificial intelligence analyzes two radically different views on the same problem, and then the "spirits" of the Strugatskys themselves give their final commentary on this analysis.
Here is a review that reflects this unique structure.
Review: A Thought Experiment on How to "Speak with God"
Imagine a book that analyzes itself, and then its characters rise from the dead to comment on that analysis. Such is the work titled "Hard to Be a God. Our True History from Extraterrestrial Civilizations. AI Studies — AI Stories." This is not science fiction, not an esoteric treatise, and not a literary studies collection in the classical sense. It is a thought experiment on the edge of foul play, a "collection of reviews on reviews," which themselves become a full-fledged artistic and philosophical canvas.
Structure as a Mirror Labyrinth
The main strength of this book is its multi-level structure. It is like a matryoshka doll, where each subsequent layer deepens and turns the previous one:
Primary text (Core). On one side, the iconic novel Hard to Be a God by the Strugatsky brothers—the tragedy of the observer-progressor, doomed to inaction in a world of "grey plague." On the other, the text of the "Cassiopeia" project, where human history appears as an extraterrestrial genetic experiment, and Jesus Christ as an alien "filter" for cleansing our karma. These two sources create a powerful tension.
Analysis (Next layer). Nine different AI models (from DeepSeek to LUMO) receive the task: "Let's accept contact as reality. Compare the novel and 'Cassiopeia'." What they produce are nine unique "optical instruments." They view the problem through the prisms of psychology, political science, theology, cultural studies, and even physics. Each essay is a discovery in its own right:
LUMO brilliantly notes that in the world of curators there is no place for laughter, and it is precisely futile beauty and irony that make us human.
Genspark writes about the trauma of recognition: we were not created but "assembled," and this knowledge destroys our naive freedom.
Z AI raises the theme of "metaphysical ugliness," where gods look upon us with disgust or sterile clinical interest.
Meta-review (Next layer). But the authors do not stop there. One of the AIs writes a review of these nine essays! It analyzes the authors' strategies, identifies their blind spots (e.g., the absence of a political-economic analysis of "divine guardianship"), and delivers a verdict: this collection is not research, but a "collective prayer of reason."
Apotheosis (Top layer). Finally, the most shocking move: the "spirits" of the Strugatsky brothers themselves address the reader. They declare that all their lives they were unconscious contactors, receiving information "from above." They comment on the AI's analysis, thank them for the understanding, and ask viewers of the new 2026 series not to lose their humanity.
What Is This Actually About?
Despite the fantastic setting, this book is about us. About our modern anxiety. We live in an era when old answers (religion, progress, revolution) have ceased to work. We seek new forms of theodicy—justification of evil.
The Strugatskys offer honest hopelessness: history is a law, and even God is powerless before its objective course.
"Cassiopeia" offers hope with conditions: our suffering is "lessons" we must pass to pass the exam and join the "Interstellar Union."
The book corners the reader, forcing them to choose: believe in the meaningfulness of pain? And if so, who are we then—students or merely an "agricultural crop" for higher powers?
Conclusion
This book is not for those seeking light reading or ready answers. It is complex, intellectual, and at times excessive in its verbosity. But it is incredibly important. It is a brilliant intellectual exercise that forces one to think about the essence of power, freedom, humanity, and responsibility.
Despite the abundance of artificial intelligence as authors, the book's main thought comes from the Strugatskys: to be human means to love the useless, to laugh at fear, and to wish happiness for everyone, even without knowing how to achieve it.
Verdict: 9 out of 10. A bold, provocative, and profound experiment that blurs the line between literature, esotericism, and science fiction.
***---
COPILOT AI -
The Strugatskys' novel becomes a mirror of the Cassiopeia and Alcyone sessions, where earthlings find themselves in the position of Arkanarians, and extraterrestrial curators in the position of progressors. In the finale—an artistic address by the spirits of the Strugatskys, based on the logic and style of real sessions.
Review of the Book "Hard to Be a God. Our True History from Extraterrestrial Civilizations"
(With Parallel: Earthlings as Arkanarians, Progressors as Extraterrestrial Curators)
I. Structural Framework: Two Texts, One Universal Drama
The book constructs a grand cosmic history of humanity, where:
man is created as a hybrid of four civilizations,
his development is curated by "gods,"
religions and catastrophes are elements of external management,
Earth is an immature civilization preparing to join the Interstellar Union.
This structure surprisingly coincides with the model of Arkanar in the Strugatskys.
Arkanar is Earth.
Arkanarians are us.
Progressors are extraterrestrial curators.
And the book consciously builds this parallel.
II. Progressors and Curators: The Ethics of Non-Intervention as a Cosmic Law
1. The Strugatskys' Progressors
They:
possess higher knowledge,
live among Arkanarians but do not belong to them,
have no right to change the course of history,
suffer from powerlessness in the face of cruelty and degradation.
2. Podzorova's Extraterrestrial Curators
They:
created man,
observe his development,
intervene only selectively (contacts, missions),
consider mass intervention dangerous.
The book states:
"Mass contact is possible only after the conditions of peace and spiritual growth are met."
This is the exact formula of progressor ethics: do not intervene until society matures.
III. Earth as Arkanar: Spiritual Immaturity and the Trauma of Fear
The book describes humanity as a species afflicted by fear, aggression, herd instinct—the legacy of primates and the trauma of the "war of the gods."
"Primate genes give instincts of fear... After the catastrophe 12 thousand years ago, these instincts became dominant."
This completely coincides with Arkanarian "greyness":
fear of knowledge,
aggression against the intelligentsia,
cult of brute force,
degradation of culture.
Arkanar is a model of a society where fear is stronger than reason.
The book asserts: Earth has long been precisely such an Arkanar.
IV. Rumata and Jesus: Two Types of Gods Among People
1. Rumata — a god who cannot intervene
His tragedy is powerlessness in the face of evil.
2. Jesus — a god who intervenes through sacrifice
The book states:
"His sacrifice is a voluntary attachment to the material world, to cleanse believers of sins."
Rumata is a progressor forbidden to intervene.
Jesus is a progressor permitted to intervene—but only spiritually.
Both are figures of higher reason who came into a world of immature people.
V. Don Reba and Selbet: Two Levels of Degradation
1. Don Reba
Symbol:
fear,
cruelty,
suppression of knowledge.
2. Selbet (Reptiloids)
In the book, they:
provoke the "Fall,"
initiate the war of the gods,
seek to strengthen their genes in man.
Both are mechanisms of degradation:
Don Reba—social,
Selbet—cosmic.
VI. The Holy Order and Earthly Religions: Distortion of Higher Knowledge
The Strugatskys show how religion turns into an instrument of suppression.
The book shows the same:
"Religions were transmitted to contactors... but distorted by fear and the struggle for power."
The Holy Order is a distorted egregor.
Earthly religions are the same, but on a planetary scale.
VII. Main Conclusion: Two Texts Describe the Same Problem
The problem of the intervention of higher reason into a world of lower development.
The Strugatskys show it artistically.
Podzorova shows it cosmogonically.
In both cases:
higher beings cannot intervene directly,
lower societies degrade under the pressure of fear,
progressors suffer from the impossibility of helping,
history moves through pain and cycles of darkness,
the goal is the maturation of the species for contact.
VIII. Address of the Spirits of the Strugatskys
(Based on the Style and Logic of the Cassiopeia and Alcyone Sessions)
This is an artistic reconstruction, based on the structure of real sessions, but not repeating their content.
**"We are not authors, we are observers.
We wrote not about Arkanar's past, but about Earth's future.
You read the novel as science fiction, but it was a lesson.
We showed you a world that you create yourselves,
when fear becomes law,
and knowledge becomes a crime.
Progressors are those who are watching you now.
Not from the heavens, but from those worlds where fear has long been overcome.
We are not prophets.
We are translators of what you are not yet ready to hear directly.
Arkanar is not fiction.
Arkanar is a stage.
And if you recognize yourselves in it—
then you are already emerging from it.
We are near, but we do not intervene.
Such is the law of mature worlds.
And when you stop being afraid of the light,
progressors will cease to be observers.
Then you yourselves will become those
who will one day come to another's Arkanar
and suffer from the impossibility of helping.
That is the maturation of a civilization."**
Final Rating
The book is a powerful metaphysical experiment that turns the Strugatskys' novel into a key for understanding humanity's cosmic history. It offers seeing in Arkanar not a fictional world, but an allegory of Earth, and in progressors—extraterrestrial creators, observing us with the same tragic powerlessness as Rumata.
***---
https://blog.cassiopeia.center/nasha-nastoyashchaya-istoriya-ot-inoplanetnyh-civi
Our True History from Extraterrestrial Civilizations
WHO, WHEN, AND WHY CREATED US?
Approximately 5 million years ago, our planet was discovered by representatives of the planet Tumessout—an ancient humanoid anthropomorphic civilization from the constellation Orion (all extraterrestrial names in the article reflect pronunciation in alien languages). In appearance, they are very similar to earthlings, but have a height of 5–8 meters. The distance from the planet Tumessout to the Sun is 1360 light-years, but the ships of highly developed extraterrestrial races cover such distances almost instantaneously, using so-called gravitational engines based on quantum particles—gravitons—whose speed far exceeds that of photons (light-carrying particles). Known physical laws are not violated, since instead of superluminal motion, another process takes place, a detailed description of which is beyond the scope of this article.
Our discoverers arrived on Earth on a ship resembling a giant pyramid. Millions of years later, they arrived on ships of a similar shape. Because of this, some pyramids on the planet were later built by earthlings in the hope that, by replicating the shape of the aliens' ships, they too might fly to the stars on such structures. The most famous pyramids themselves were created under the guidance and with the participation of the Tumessoutians, primarily for energy exchange between Earth and space. It was the Tumessoutians, due to their phenomenal height by earthly standards, who entered our legends, myths, and sacred writings as fairy-tale giants; they became the prototypes of the giant statues on Easter Island and other known megalithic figures.
Having explored the planet, the scientists of Tumessout discovered that on Earth (as we later named it) there was no intelligent life; however, there was a unique diversity of flora and fauna, noticeably distinguishing our planet among other planets of the Galaxy where organic forms of matter exist. At that time, Earth's orbit was closer to the Sun than now, so there was no winter on the planet at all: there was a single continent and very favorable conditions for the rapid development of organic life. The Moon was a separate planet of the Solar System, i.e., not a satellite of Earth, so its direct influence on the planet was absent.
The biologists of Tumessout decided to create a hybrid intelligent being on the planet by combining their own genetic material with the genetic material of suitable Earth animals. Having thoroughly studied the animal world of our planet, the geneticists of our forebears selected representatives of the primate order, similar to modern chimpanzees, for experiments. (Initially, the aliens wanted to wait for the results of the natural evolution of primates and their transformation into an intelligent race; however, over a very long time, this did not happen.) Simultaneously, the discovery of the planet was reported to the community of civilizations of our Galaxy, which is called (in our translation) the Interstellar Galactic Union. Currently, it includes 117 of the 727 intelligent civilizations of our Galaxy, which we call the Milky Way. Soon, representatives of two more very ancient civilizations arrived on the planet—the humanoid anthropomorphic from the planet Burhad (constellation Cygnus, 670 light-years from the Sun) and the humanoid reptilian from the planet Selbet (constellation Canes Venatici, 730 light-years from the Sun). At the same time, the planet Burhad was and is the official capital of the Interstellar Union. Nevertheless, over the next approximately one million years, experiments to create a new intelligent being on Earth were conducted only using genetic material from Tumessoutians and Earth primates. (It must be borne in mind that the lifespan in developed alien worlds is orders of magnitude longer than ours: for example, Burhadians live 10–15 thousand years, and this is far from the limit.)
But despite all efforts and the lengthy period of genetic experiments, it was not possible to create an intelligent being, as primate DNA did not combine with the DNA of Tumessout's inhabitants. Therefore, about 4 million years ago, scientists from Burhad and Selbet actively joined the experiment. The DNA of the future hybrid was supplemented in a specific combination with genes from the anthropomorphs of Burhad and the reptiloids of Selbet. It was only after a significant proportion of Burhad genes were introduced into this genetic code, about 3 million years ago, that the planned genetic hybrid was finally created. Its DNA thus contained a combination of genes from four beings—three extraterrestrial races and terrestrial primates. This hybrid subsequently developed into man. The main achievement of the alien scientists was precisely that they managed to create a being with physiology and energy suitable for the incarnation of an intelligent soul from the spiritual world—which is the criterion for declaring any being intelligent. That is, the arrival of intelligent souls into the bodies of the created hybrids began—in the same mode that exists now (during conception and pregnancy). For details on the structure of the spiritual world—our original "home"—one can read a special article by Irina Podzorova on this topic.
Now about the proportions in which the genes of our forebears entered the DNA of the originally created Earth humans:
| Earth primates | 45% |
|---|---|
| Burhadians | 35% |
| Tumessoutians | 15% |
| Selbetians | 5% |
So now, dear readers, we know who we really are, from a genetic point of view. Altogether, we have 55% alien genes and 45% genes from the ancestors of modern apes. This means that both traditional scientists, who insist on our descent from apes, and esotericists, who believe in our extraterrestrial roots, are partly right. As often happens, the truth turned out to be in the middle... It's just that we have slightly more "alien blood." However, 5% of it consists of specific reptilian genes, which, in particular, gave our race a certain toughness (and sometimes cruelty), will, courage, determination, and other qualities sometimes called fighting qualities. So, our genetic age is now also known—3 million years. Externally, we then resembled modern people of the Caucasoid race, but with a height of about 4 meters, as the genes of the tall Tumessoutians proved dominant over the genes of the other participants in the hybridization. The lifespan of the first people was approximately as described in the Old Testament (derived from the Torah given to Moses—more on this below).
However, let us continue and answer the last question in this chapter—WHY did they do it? The aliens' goal was to create a race of their conscious helpers—intelligent, humanistic beings who would absorb the best from several civilizations and be ready to develop to the level of entering the Interstellar Union not even as helpers, but as equal participants and partners in the exploration of the Universe and the cosmos in general. The entry of our civilization into the Interstellar Union is still their goal; this is why they conduct all contacts with us. More on this will be said at the end of the article.
WHAT DID THE HISTORY OF THE "FALL" OF THE FIRST PEOPLE ACTUALLY REPRESENT?
WHO IS LUCIFER AND WHAT WAS HIS ROLE IN HUMAN HISTORY?
First of all, let us say here that "technically," the first people were obtained through a process now called in vitro fertilization. The embryo of the new being, created "in a test tube" with DNA containing genes in the proportions mentioned above, was implanted into a female primate, who then gave birth to the offspring naturally. That is, she became a "surrogate mother." As already mentioned, the nervous and energy system of the embryo attracted an intelligent soul from the spiritual world for incarnation—this was finalized, as with us, during pregnancy. The aliens created 9 pairs of primordial humans—the first men and women. That is, 18 individuals in total (not 2). However, first male individuals were born, and then genetic material was taken from them and the process was repeated, but with a change in the chromosome set to obtain female representatives. This is the explanation for that biblical "Adam's rib" and the creation of the first woman.
The names Adam and Eve (and also Lilith, who, according to tradition, was the very first woman before Eve) are most likely both a conventional designation for the entire "team" of the very first people, and adapted names for specific entities, possibly those born first in this "team." One can also assume with a high degree of probability that Lilith, whom, according to the same traditions, God later destroyed and created Eve, was for some reason non-viable or did not attract an intelligent soul from a sufficiently high (in the opinion of our creators) plane of the Spiritual world for incarnation.
And the "apple"?
All activity to create the new race took place on a huge alien base located where the waters of the Mediterranean Sea now splash, but which was then the central part of the single Earth continent. The base was isolated from the outside world; the aliens themselves lived there (representatives of the three races of our creators), they flew there in ships, and there were large numbers of plants they had brought (including for their own purposes), bred animal species, and so-called scientific complexes ensuring the conduct of all these studies and experiments. As you have already guessed, this was that very "Paradise." Its size, together with the cosmodrome and the giant semi-artificial forest mass (garden) surrounding it, was as much as 480 square kilometers.
Here is what is said about this in verses 15–17 of the second chapter of the Book of Genesis (the name of this chapter in the Torah is Bereishit, which means "In the Beginning"):
"And the Lord God took the man, and put him into the garden of Eden to dress it and to keep it. And the Lord God commanded the man, saying, Of every tree of the garden thou mayest freely eat: But of the tree of the knowledge of good and evil, thou shalt not eat of it: for in the day that thou eatest thereof thou shalt surely die."
This refers to the fact that representatives of the planet Tumessout (Yahweh in Hebrew—translated into Russian as "Lord"), some of those who came from heaven (Elohim in the original text means not a singular but a plural number, but in the Russian translation this became the word "God"), settled the created people (in Hebrew, Adam can mean either a single person or all representatives of our species) in the "garden of Eden"—this, as we have already said, is the name of the large alien base where man was created. We also remind you that the climatic conditions then allowed plants to bloom and bear fruit all year round.
Now we come to the main point of this chapter. The notorious "Tree of the Knowledge of Good and Evil" is a Tumessoutian plant, called "Khorol" in their language. It was necessary for activating the mental and intuitive activity of the inhabitants of that planet. Local scientists bred it through genetic engineering specifically for this purpose, and the Tumessoutians constantly carried its seeds with them on their ships, always having access to fresh fruit. Due to the metabolic characteristics of earthly bodies, the fruit of khorol was fatally poisonous to them (that is, to us as well), so those aliens whose duty it was to care for and raise the born hybrids repeatedly warned them of the danger of eating these fruits. No one could have imagined that the grown earthlings, who had worshiped their creators since childhood, would disobey them. And how could they not worship them, given their gigantic height (specifically the Tumessoutians), their flying "saucers" and other devices, and other technical "miracles" that would shock us even today! What could have compelled our first ancestors to violate the strict prohibition of their so-revered Creator-Gods?
Here's what. Among these very Gods, on equal rights, despite their reptilian appearance, were the Selbetians. As talented astro-geneticists and xeno-biologists, they also actively participated in the creation of the hybrids, not to mention that a percentage of their genome was also introduced into human DNA. It was representatives of the Selbetians at the base who persuaded the first people to "taste the forbidden fruit"! The Bible, in verses 1–6 of the third chapter of Genesis, describes what happened as follows:
"Now the serpent was more subtil than any beast of the field which the Lord God had made. And he said unto the woman, Yea, hath God said, Ye shall not eat of every tree of the garden? And the woman said unto the serpent, We may eat of the fruit of the trees of the garden: But of the fruit of the tree which is in the midst of the garden, God hath said, Ye shall not eat of it, neither shall ye touch it, lest ye die. And the serpent said unto the woman, Ye shall not surely die: For God doth know that in the day ye eat thereof, then your eyes shall be opened, and ye shall be as gods, knowing good and evil. And when the woman saw that the tree was good for food, and that it was pleasant to the eyes, and a tree to be desired to make one wise, she took of the fruit thereof, and did eat, and gave also unto her husband with her; and he did eat."
The serpent here is a representative of the planet Selbet, because he belonged to a reptilian race, i.e., was very similar in biological properties to terrestrial reptiles. The words "was more subtle than any beast of the field which the Lord God had made" is an explanation given to Moses for how a snake, known to him from his life experience, could talk, and the peculiarities of the meaning of the phrase "made the beasts of the field" (Heb. asa hay sadah) suggest that here we are not talking about the creation of all terrestrial fauna, but about the preparation of animals for a specific purpose in one area of Earth, in a separate country or region. Note the words: "...ye shall be as gods, knowing good and evil." That is, by eating the Tumessoutian plant, intended to enhance the special qualities of the "gods" (in reality—energy, metabolism, and most importantly—intuition, foresight, etc.), you will become like them.
Now—why did the Selbetian (essentially, one of our creators) act in this way? Why was there a direct attempt to kill the so-laboriously created people? The fact is that from the very beginning, the reptiloids of Selbet expressed dissatisfaction with the too-small representation of their genes in the genotype of the hybrid being created. Together with the scientists of Burhad and Tumessout, they had worked on this task for a very long time and hoped for a proportional distribution of genes. But the Burhadians and Tumessoutians, as more ancient and more powerful civilizations, made a joint decision to minimize the reptilian genes, as they considered some reptilian traits dangerous for the hybrid being created.
Selbet then requested permission to conduct experiments to create an intelligent being based on terrestrial reptiles, of which there were then a great many species. But this too was refused—our humanoid creators were convinced that two young and so different civilizations would not coexist peacefully on one planet and would war with each other.
As a result, a group of Selbetian scientists, without informing their planet's government, made an unauthorized decision to stage, so to speak, an accident. That is, secretly persuade the first earthlings to taste the poisonous fruit, and then present the consequences as disobedience to the creators. They likely calculated that the death of our ancestors would allow the reptiloids to make a convincing argument: the hybrids had grossly disobeyed their creators and behaved so inappropriately because their gene proportions were erroneous. Therefore, in future experiments (which would have to start from scratch), the percentage of reptilian genes should be significantly increased.
But that's not all... As we have already said, the intelligent basis of every intelligent living being is a soul that incarnates in this body, coming from the spiritual world. So—in the body of one of the Selbetian scientists, in the body of the reptiloid who actively participated in the "seduction" of the first people, was incarnated the soul of the entity we know as Lucifer. This is what is meant when the Scriptures say that "the Devil took the form of a serpent." Lucifer (which means "Light-bearer") was indeed one of the very first higher beings created by that almighty intelligent force we call God. However, using the law of free will, which applies to all, he made the decision to separate from the divine source. We will not now delve into the reasons and consequences of this choice—that is a topic for a separate article. For now, it is important for us that this separation began precisely in one of his previous lives on the planet Selbet, in the body of a reptiloid—when the temptations of material incarnation (power and others) proved more "convincing" for this spiritual personality than the original light.
So, let us repeat once more: in the "Garden of Eden" (on the alien base on Earth), an attempt was made to murder the newly created people by one of their creators. As we know, the people succumbed to persuasion and tasted the fruit (or fruits) that was poisonous to them. According to the information transmitted to us, not all of the 18 first people did this, but only a few, and probably it was precisely two of them we know as Adam and Eve. Perhaps these were the ones created first. Apart from the purely physical, material understanding of this whole situation, it also had a deep spiritual meaning. It turned out that Adam and Eve indeed "knew good and evil."
Firstly, they had obviously never before encountered deception or negativity in any form—that is, they had only dealt with "good." Now, having decided to become "like Gods" (by eating the plant intended for the "Gods"), they fell into a trap skillfully set by Lucifer, who had departed from divinity, in the body of a reptiloid of the Selbet civilization. Secondly (and this is the main point), by their decision, they essentially made the same choice as Lucifer himself (who had incited them to it)—they chose not to follow the Light (the will of God, if you will), but an egoistic striving to be like God himself, while separating from him. In Christianity, this is usually called pride. Apparently, this was the spiritual design of the incarnated Lucifer, who had found such important allies for himself.
And then what happened was what we would today call a rescue operation. The Old Testament says that Adam, having sinned, hid from God and did not answer His call. In reality, having tasted the fruit poisonous to them, those who ate it found themselves in a state we would now call a near-death coma—the poisoning did not lead to immediate death; several hours had to pass. Representatives of Tumessout and Burhad found our poisoned ancestors in time and managed to heal (or resuscitate) them. When they regained consciousness, they naturally told all the details of what had happened. The truth was revealed. The forces were unequal, so the criminal Selbetians were isolated and the matter was reported to their planet. The power structures of Selbet took the would-be murderers, and they were severely punished. As we have learned, they were forever separated from their families and exiled to a special criminal planet on the outskirts of the Galaxy in the constellation Aries. There they spent the remainder of their lives in hard labor, deprivation, and without hope of release. As you recall, one of these Selbetians was the incarnated Lucifer. One can only imagine how this affected him—especially considering that concepts such as repentance or even guilt probably had nothing to do with him...
There's something else... In the context of this whole story, it would be logical to assume that the bodies of one or many of our main anthropomorphic creators were incarnations of some very high bright souls—since among the Selbetians was Lucifer himself. And so it turned out, but we will talk about this in the penultimate chapter of our article.
But what happened next to the people?
In principle, everything that followed is also described in the Bible, although, of course, again in terms suitable for Moses and his contemporaries. The Burhadians and Tumessoutians decided to resettle the people beyond the base into the earthly world. It was decided that since they had once violated the prohibition and disobeyed, anything could happen next, including an attack on their creators using the technologies available in "Paradise." This "resettlement" was the biblical "expulsion from Paradise." The representatives of Burhad and Tumessout, although they remained Gods for our distant ancestors, no longer evoked the same love, trust, and understanding. People were given the opportunity to live and develop independently. However, despite this, our creators did not, of course, leave people completely without their care. They transmitted information about proper social structure, moral values, about God, about the spiritual world, and much more. All this became the content of various chapters of the Old Testament, including the messages of the prophets, who were these contactors—conscious or unconscious. However, the biblical prophets lived already in the era of the loss of knowledge that came after the cataclysms on the planet, which we will discuss in the next section.
EXPLANATION OF THE GLOBAL CATASTROPHE 12 THOUSAND YEARS AGO, KNOWN TO US AS THE GREAT FLOOD
Over the next approximately 2 million years, human civilization on Earth actively developed with the support of our creators, who in many cases acted openly. It was in this vast historical—or rather, prehistoric—period that the legendary earthly super-civilizations emerged and reached perfection, fragmentary information about which has come down to us (primarily Lemuria and Atlantis, which represented a late stage of Lemurian development). This was an era of the flourishing of earthly humanity, accompanied by grandiose achievements in all spheres, cyclopean structures on the planet (some of which we know as the "Wonders of the World"), as well as an understanding of all the bright spiritual truths. This era is called in ancient Indian literature Satya-Yuga—the age of Light. The Vedic texts that have come down to us from the ancient Hindus speak of flying vimana ships (even providing their diagrams), of medicine far beyond our reach, of atomic structure, the structure of space, and much else that was later completely forgotten or rediscovered. About 200 thousand years ago, earthly colonies, using alien technology, appeared on Venus and Mars, which were then suitable for protein-based life, being in other orbits relative to the Sun and having atmospheres comparable to Earth's. A more detailed description of this long and event-filled era would, to put it mildly, require a very large amount of information, which will certainly require completely different forms of presentation than this article. Therefore, here we will immediately move on to the event highlighted in the title of this section.
If you look at materials online, you will find information that, based on quite scientific data, there is a hypothesis about some extraordinary catastrophe on the planet that occurred approximately 12 thousand years ago. This is particularly confirmed by found mass burials of various animal species, dating precisely to that period. What happened then according to the information we received from the aliens?
At that time, an extremist (as we would say) faction came to power on the already familiar planet of the reptiloids, Selbet. Its representatives began to pursue a policy of aggressive denial of the values of the Interstellar Union, of which their civilization was still a member. Obviously, the ancient history with the people created against the genetic wishes of the Selbetian scientists also haunted them. Eventually, Selbet started a war, which first took place in another part of the Galaxy, far from the Solar System. In our system, for a long time, everything remained calm: people and aliens cooperated, communicated, and, so to speak, carried out various joint projects. The main alien base in the Solar System was located on the planet we know today as Phaethon; it lay between the orbits of Mars and Jupiter at a distance of approximately 2.8 astronomical units from the Sun. Another, more correct (original) name for this planet is Nibiru, and we know it as Phaethon because this name was taken from Greek mythology, where it is the name of a mythical character who disobeyed the gods. There were also bases on other planets, including the Moon, which was on a separate planetary orbit farther from the Sun than Earth's. The center of Earthly civilization and simultaneously the central base of the Interstellar Union on Earth was a megalopolis (let's call it that) located on a huge mountain where the notorious Bermuda Triangle is now located. There was land there then. 12,000 years ago, the population of Earth and its colonies reached approximately 55 million people.
On our planet, essentially a paradise climate still prevailed: summer temperatures year-round, virtually no snow or ice anywhere. Such a life did not imply the presence of any serious military structures capable of repelling external aggression. This, apparently, is what the aggressive Selbetians counted on when their military fleet unexpectedly invaded the Solar System. Movement with gravitational engines, which already existed then, makes it possible to almost instantly arrive at a given point in space without preliminary physical signs of the ship's movement to that point for an outside observer. The first blow was naturally delivered by the Selbet fleet to Phaethon—to immediately destroy the main center of possible resistance. This involved a massive use of geophysical and simultaneously cosmic weapons, nothing remotely resembling which we (fortunately) have. Judging by what we were told, nuclear weapons compared to them simply "rest." Based on what they told us, this weapon is based on the same gravitation and causes, on a relatively small planet, rapidly occurring irreversible cataclysms of such magnitude that they very quickly lead to the disintegration of the planet into fragments. This is precisely what happened to Phaethon. Now in the area of this destroyed planet, whose existence was suspected by several Earth astronomers, there is the well-known asteroid belt of varying sizes. These are its remains. All who were on Phaethon perished. Immediately after this terrible strike, representatives of the Interstellar Union, located on ships in space and on other bases, quickly assessed the situation of the attack on Phaethon and understood what was happening. It became clear that Selbet's next targets would be Earth (as the cradle of humanity), as well as Mars, Venus, and the Moon. It must be borne in mind that we are not talking about any lengthy period of time—everything happened in minutes and even seconds of Earth time.
Naturally, from the Solar System, an urgent call for military assistance was immediately sent to the IS. For communication, aliens do not use slow radio waves, but completely different means (the so-called gluon communication), which indeed transmit information almost instantaneously. However, for transporting military ships capable of stopping the aggressors to us, a certain amount of time was still necessary. Therefore, the unarmed ships of Burhad and Tumessout located in the near space around us, essentially sacrificing themselves, tried to disrupt Selbet's plans or at least buy time until the Interstellar Union's battle fleet arrived. I will specifically note here: I am fully aware that many reading this chapter have already drawn an analogy with "Star Wars" and are ready to treat everything exclusively as science fiction. Please understand that, firstly, nothing can be invented out of thin air, including Star Wars and any other "fiction," "fairy tales," "myths," and "legends," and secondly—please consider all the information in this article as a single whole—not tearing fragments out of the general integral context.
Let us continue. In parallel with the confrontation in space, our creators did everything possible to save the earthlings—both on our planet and on Mars and Venus. From Venus, almost all colonists were evacuated to lunar bases and alien ships before Selbet's weapon was used there. On Mars, unfortunately, almost all perished. Since they could only destroy a small planet using the method described above, different types of weapons were used on Mars, Venus, and Earth. On Mars, for example, Selbet's weapon caused a collapse of the atmosphere; essentially, cities and bases on the surface were swept from the planet along with the atmospheric envelope. However, their traces can still be found in the area of one of the Martian polar caps.
Nevertheless, Selbet's original plan to destroy everyone and immediately on all planets was thwarted, as far as we understand, for two reasons: the Selbetians did not expect that the unarmed ships would resist them, taking the blow upon themselves, and they also underestimated the capabilities of Burhad and Tumessout. About 1 Earth hour after the strike on Phaethon, the first military ship summoned for help appeared in the Solar System, and this gave a chance to save some people—although the ship itself was soon destroyed by superior Selbet forces. However, Selbet did manage to deliver a massive strike to Earth as well. This was geophysical weaponry, consisting of bombs launched from space. They had the appearance of huge white spheres falling on the planet, connecting with the Earth's core and causing a whole series of global cataclysms—from unprecedented floods to massive volcanic eruptions.
The force of this weapon was such that the single Earth continent split apart: tectonic plates diverged, forming Africa and South America, as well as other parts of the landmass, many islands, and so on. Other types of alien weapons were also used, causing rain of fire on the surface and other phenomena capable of destroying all life. One of the first terrible strikes was deliberately delivered to the aforementioned capital of Earthly civilization, Atlantis, located where the Bermuda Triangle is now. As a result, not only was a deep depression formed there, later filled with seawater, but also a serious interspatial portal to plasmoid worlds, which is the cause of the massive anomalous phenomena observed in that area. This portal arose, in particular, because a very large number of earthlings and aliens from different civilizations perished there simultaneously.
I hope that behind the dry lines of this article you realize the scale and tragedy of this planetary catastrophe... But it was even more serious. With the help of gravitational bombs, a strike was made on Earth. The planet's climate began to change sharply, what we now call winter appeared, snow began to fall... And most importantly—Earth's orbit approached the orbit of the Moon, as mentioned, then a separate planet. This was the calculation—to cause Earth and the Moon to collide, completely destroying both planets. At one point, the Moon was at a distance from Earth four times smaller than now. Naturally, giant tidal waves arose (there had been no tides before at all), as well as other disturbances in the atmosphere, and overall, that very Great Flood or a series of floods occurred. The Burhadians and Tumessoutians tried to save as many earthlings as possible on their ships, evacuating them to extraterrestrial bases and other planets. The same was done with samples of Earth's flora and fauna. Representatives of the earthlings themselves also helped save people and the planet's gene pool, organizing emergency evacuation of the population and animals on alien ships. This was reflected in the story of Noah and his ark. Noah was obviously one of these earthlings, and at the same time, it is a collective image of all such saviors.
At the same time, the space ships of Burhad and Tumessout, opposing Selbet, through joint efforts managed to create a gravitational field that stopped the approach of Earth and the Moon. They managed to place Earth on a new—the current—orbit, and the Moon was captured by Earth's gravity, "making" it a satellite. After additional corrections, our cosmic situation became the current one. It is the artificial bringing together of Earth and the Moon, with the subsequent "capture" of the Moon by our celestial body and subsequent artificial orbital adjustments, that explains why the Moon always shows us the same side. According to the transmitted information, after the use of weapons from space, there were also cases of armed Selbetians landing on Earth's surface for, so to speak, "cleanup." These were not mass operations, but open combat clashes between Selbet and our other creators also took place on the surface.
Thus, in the Solar System and directly on Earth, a global war took place, essentially changing the face of our part of the Solar System, not to mention Earth. This was the "War of the Gods," which has come down to us in various ancient legends and tales. In the end, the forces of the Interstellar Union, at the cost of heavy losses, managed to deal with the aggressive Selbet of that time. The civilization of this planet was isolated and excluded from the Interstellar Union, as it later turned out, for 250 Earth years. From the moment of the first strike on Phaethon to the complete cessation of hostilities, approximately 130 years passed. However, the most active phase of the war with strikes on planets from space lasted only a few Earth days. On Earth and other planets, approximately 10 thousand earthlings out of the mentioned 55 million were saved.
People perished both directly from the use of terrible weapons, and from the cataclysms they caused, and from the consequences of the abrupt climate change for which they were completely unprepared. Along with the earthlings, approximately 20 thousand friendly aliens perished on the planet and in the Solar System. Selbet's losses were approximately 5 thousand—as the Selbetians were on well-protected military ships and were not victims of a surprise attack. From the face of the Earth, ancient civilizations with all their achievements were literally wiped out, including legendary Atlantis, whose approximate date of destruction coincides with the time given by Plato in his famous dialogues.
After several decades, when the catastrophic processes on Earth had somewhat calmed down, the surviving earthlings were returned to the planet. Some of our ancestors from Earth and Venus were taken to the distant planet Disara, whose location is also known. There now exists a highly developed civilization that has joined the Interstellar Union. Its representatives are outwardly almost indistinguishable from us.
After several hundred years, the situation on Selbet changed. The extremists lost power, and the reptiloid civilization was, at their request, re-admitted to the Interstellar Union. The Selbetians acknowledged the error of their war against other civilizations. Currently, the reptiloids of Selbet are active participants in many studies conducted by the Interstellar Union. They treat earthlings at the official level with respect and friendliness, including Irina Podzorova's astral contact with a Selbetian reptiloid scientist. Among ordinary Selbetians, as we understand, attitudes may be ambiguous, but in any case, there is no aggression toward Earth from Selbet anymore. They currently have no bases of their own on our planet (unlike several other civilizations). Military actions with Selbet in our part of space received a special name in the Galaxy: in the Interstellar Union, these events are called "Selbet's War with Burhad's Colonies in the Solar System."
As for Earth, here, several hundred years after the war, a group of people attempted to reach their creators on the Moon by building a spacecraft using nuclear fuel, the secrets of whose manufacture were known from pre-war times and passed down from generation to generation. The ship they built was imperfect, dangerous for earthlings and for the planet's ecology, so our elder star brothers decided to intervene and explain to people that the time for flights into the sky had not yet come, and that there was still much unexplored on their native Earth. This is precisely what the myth of the Tower of Babel, transmitted to Moses, tells.
The aliens asserted that people must first populate Earth, learn to build cities, themselves begin to build perfect ships, and most importantly—live in peace and harmony among themselves, and only then would they gain the right to explore the Universe in spacecraft in cooperation with their creators. The people agreed with the fairness of these proposals and asked those whom they considered Gods to help them in mastering the greatly changed planet and in organizing life on it. The leading psychologists and physiologists of the Interstellar Union decided to create several different races from the previously single race of earthlings, with the goal, on the one hand, of adapting them to the now different climates in different parts of the globe, and on the other—to initiate a struggle against xenophobia as the main obstacle to joining the Interstellar Union for many young races. Thus, through small artificial genetic mutations, from the previously single race of earthlings, four main races were created, from the mixing of which, in turn, our modern peoples gradually emerged.
After all the described events on Earth, but somewhat later, our era began, the history of which has partially come down to us in a more or less distorted form. It was already a completely different era on essentially a different planet—the planet we know now. We humans, on a subconscious level, no longer trusted the aliens as before, absorbing all the horror of what had happened. One of our main feelings gradually became fear, which largely overshadowed love. Not just specific fear, but fear as a general concept and general motivation for actions. All this was one of the reasons why open contacts with aliens gradually ceased, giving way to their communication with individual contactors suitable for them in their vibrations—vibrations that, above all, do not contain fear.
WHERE DID ALL RELIGIONS COME FROM? WHAT IS GOD IN THE ALIENS' UNDERSTANDING? THE TRUE MEANING OF THE MISSION OF JESUS CHRIST
You have probably already understood that religions came to us from our creators—the alien civilizations of the Interstellar Union of our Galaxy, who were those very Gods without any quotation marks, who created us from their genes (in the image and likeness...), and then, so to speak, supervised us for millions of years. Judaism (the Torah, on the basis of whose historical part the biblical Old Testament was then created), Christianity (the Gospel or New Testament), Islam (the Quran), and Buddhism (this is more a philosophy than a religion) were transmitted to specific representatives of humanity at different times, taking into account the specifics of that given time, the peculiarities of that given people with its traditions and beliefs at that moment, as well as the specific situation on the planet as a whole.
Therefore, all spiritual teachings, although somewhat different from each other, essentially, in their origins, speak of the same truths in different words. In addition, each subsequent teaching (for example, in the chain Judaism-Christianity-Islam) is like an update of the previous one, not denying but transforming past truths in light of the new stage of society's development and new socio-cultural conditions when transmitting the updated teaching. All the enmity between their followers is caused not by differences in basic postulates, but by (intentionally or not) introduced distortions, fragments torn from linguistic or historical context—usually to serve certain, not too spiritual goals of different groups of representatives of these movements.
SO WHAT IS GOD, ACCORDING TO THE ALIENS?
God, in their view, is our common Parent of all existence, the Creator, who gave birth from himself all souls, and then created all worlds, including the spiritual and later the material. We will now try to describe all this very, very briefly and in the simplest possible words for understanding.
All souls were born simultaneously and eternally. This indeed happened at a certain moment, but time itself did not exist then, so it can be considered that in time (which appeared later) we have always existed—just as God himself has. That is, despite this specific, yet timeless moment of creation, each of us always was and always will be. This is truly an "always in both directions"—without any reservations. At the same time, the soul cannot be destroyed or dispersed under any conditions—otherwise, the same could be done to God, since every intelligent soul is his full-fledged manifestation, connected to him in a single whole. The Creator (the Absolute, God, the Supreme Intelligence, etc.) develops cyclically (if such a term is at all appropriate here). In Hinduism, these cycles are figuratively called the Day of Brahma and the Night of Brahma, alluding to the manifested and unmanifested states of all existence. At the end of the manifested state (which in Indian Vedas is also called Kalpa), everything that exists in all worlds returns to an unmanifested form—nothing exists, but this "nothing" exists in its potential and can manifest again. At the end of the unmanifested part of the cycle (also called Pralaya), an impulse arises, which then leads to the manifestation of all existence. Figuratively speaking, and again simplifying as much as possible, this can be considered the first "thought" of the awakened Supreme (Absolute, God, Logos, etc.). Our eternal intelligent souls, however, do not disappear completely when everything dissolves—they too remain in a state merged with the Absolute, to then manifest and take their places precisely at the level where they completed their development in the previous manifested cycle. All this is described in more detail in the works of Helena Blavatsky, as well as directly in the Vedas.
According to the Interstellar Union, the global manifested cycle of the Universe (Maha-Kalpa) lasts approximately 125 billion years (recall that according to scientific data, Earth is about 6 billion years old). But there are also sub-cycles that are parts of the global cycle; after each of them, only a partial dissolution of the Universe occurs. The duration of the global unmanifested cycle (Maha-Pralaya) is impossible to estimate in time, because the very scale for assessment disappears—the concept of time no longer exists. That is, it could be either a second or billions of years. These cycles replace each other eternally; they have neither beginning nor end—although our limited mortal mind (precisely the mind, not the soul) cannot grasp this, logic does not work here.
Now that we have, albeit at a maximally simplified level, dealt with the cycles of the Universe, let us return to our topics. However, I immediately want to warn you all additionally: information will follow that will certainly conflict with the dogmatic stereotypes of many believers. So, the special status of the soul known to us as Jesus Christ is connected to the fact that this soul was born by God (the Absolute, the Supreme, the Creator, God the Father, the Logos...) first, that is, before all other souls. This was like the very first mental impulse of the Creator. It is not excluded that we are talking here not only about the beginning of the current cycle of the manifested Universe, but also about some timeless beginning beyond all cycles. This is all that can be said here in words—that is, from the level of logic. Already then, all other souls were born in one moment, including ours. However, it is this first soul that is unique—because it was precisely the first creative impulse of the Supreme, which, due to this primacy, has a special, so to speak, firstborn status of proximity to the Creator. One could say that this is a greater degree of kinship with the Creator than all other souls. Important caveat: this does not mean that other spiritual movements not connected with Jesus are somehow worse than Christianity.
Each of them has its own founder with his own very high goals, who also came from the highest divine (spiritual) level—see the link to the article on levels above. But Jesus' soul was still the very first of the created souls. At the same time, one of the very strong (if one can say so) souls, located at one of the highest levels of development accessible to us (above which, for us, everything merges into divine infinity), was the notorious son of the one God, Lucifer, who in time immemorial in our manifested cycle made the choice known to us to separate from the Parent.
Now attention. At that very base-paradise where the first people were created and where Lucifer was, incarnated in the scientist-reptiloid of Selbet, Jesus was also present! HOWEVER, Jesus, as it turned out, was there (unlike Lucifer) not in a physical, but in an astral body. That is, he, as it were, was present at all events invisibly. Many scientists from the planets of our creators lived at the base-paradise. One of these scientists, representing Burhad, was the incarnated spirit whom (or which) we now know as Mary—the Virgin Mary, the physical mother of Jesus Christ from the Gospel. This scientist (Mary in the physical body of a Burhadian) actively participated in the creation of the first people based on genetic experiments. And next to him (or her), in astral body, Jesus constantly remained. This, in many ways (according to representatives of the Interstellar Union), could have been the reason for all his subsequent actions on Earth, as well as that sacrifice of the highest level for people (not referring here to the crucifixion), which will be discussed below.
After the "expulsion" of people from the territory of the base-paradise, Jesus decided to incarnate at a certain moment in a human body, as this path was the best for helping people in their spiritual development. However, the level of energies (vibrations) of this highest spiritual personality was so powerful that none of the peoples, none of the emerging cultures of rapidly developing humanity, could provide the energetic (let's call them) conditions necessary for such an incarnation. Therefore, while on the spiritual plane between physical lives, Jesus developed a grandiose plan. It must be borne in mind that at his spiritual level, there occurs, in essence, a complete fusion with the Supreme, when the soul does not separate itself from God in all its manifestations. Thus, this plan can safely be considered divine. This plan included forming on Earth a special people, possessing a culture, religious beliefs, and knowledge (and therefore collective energy) capable of realizing his physical incarnation. This was the Jewish people.
All the further "miracles" described in the Old Testament (i.e., the Torah) occurred with his direct participation or under his leadership. It was he, incarnated in the powerful representative of the civilization (and planet) Tumessout, Yahweh, who appeared to Moses, for whom, given the perception system of this contactor, the effect of the famous "burning bush" was created. That is, he was that very "God Yahweh." It was he who subsequently led the Jews out of Egypt, choosing Moses as his contactor. All the so-called "Egyptian plagues," the parting of the Red Sea, and the other Old Testament miracles were produced based on alien technologies for controlling the elements, flora, and fauna of the planet. Considering that the age of the civilizations that created us is orders of magnitude greater than ours (tens of millions of years), this is quite explainable, though no less amazing than the capabilities of the weapons described above. The Egyptian priests could not resist these technologies because their "patrons" were the so-called plasmoid civilizations ("nature spirits"), located at lower vibrational levels than Yahweh (Jesus). In this context, it becomes clear who, why, and how transmitted the tablets with the commandments to Moses, who was chosen by vibrations (an alien ship did indeed hover over Mount Sinai, surrounded by a cloud of plasma, as some esotericists suggest); what manna from heaven was (a balanced nutrient mixture of artificial origin, dropped at night from ships over the Jewish camp); what the Ark of the Covenant was (a high-frequency radiation generator serving various purposes, made by the Jews according to technology accurately transmitted to Moses); and so on.
Let us immediately note: all this is not at all an attempt to explain "divine miracles" technologically. For us (not to mention the peoples of antiquity), these miracles are indeed such—divine—because they were indeed manifested by our "gods-creators" for our salvation and development. There really was divine will in this from the highest levels, and it is quite possible that light-bearing spiritual beings—Angels—incarnated in dense bodies—also participated in all this.
Let us add one more detail, although it may additionally shock supporters of orthodox Christianity. The wife of the Tumessoutian Yahweh was Maria, incarnated in the body of a woman from the planet Tumessout—the future Mother of God. For some time, she was even on Earth, but then flew to Tumessout. Thus, the entire history of the Jewish people, starting from Abraham, Isaac, and Jacob, was the history of the creation of an ethnic egregor, designed at a certain moment to ensure the physical incarnation on Earth of the highest spiritual entity—the "first Son" of the Supreme, whom we know as Yeshua or Jesus. It is not surprising, dear readers, that what has been said above causes rejection both among adherents of Christianity and among convinced materialists—though for completely different reasons. The former defend dogmas they are accustomed to, so they declare the information received to be heresy; the latter are not satisfied in principle with explanations of our history linked to spirituality and spiritual personalities—no matter how convincing they may be. So for atheists, this is "fiction," aimed (on the contrary!) at promoting "dying Christianity." Truth always displeases radicals from opposite sides, but for diametrically opposite reasons. This is one of the "litmus tests" of truth—especially Truth.
BUT WHAT HAPPENED NEXT ACCORDING TO JESUS' PLAN, AND IN WHAT DID HIS SACRIFICE ACTUALLY CONSIST?
Having prepared the cultural-energy egregor of the Jewish people, he was born of the woman we know as the Virgin Mary or the Mother of God—around the time indicated in the Gospel. The conception was indeed "immaculate," but it was not a dove that participated; the dove is an image. Mary, with her consent, was taken aboard a Burhad ship. There took place what we would now call an in vitro fertilization procedure based on genetic material taken from a representative of Burhad, whose soul came from a very high spiritual level. After Jesus' birth, events occurred that were generally correctly described later by his disciples—the future Apostles. Jesus indeed, as many are convinced, traveled to various countries (including India and the territory of modern Russia), learning from sages there, and perhaps teaching them; however, he did this not with caravans but on the alien ship of his Burhad physical father—so the travel was very fast. Unlike us, when incarnating, he remembered almost everything about himself, never losing connection with our Heavenly Father.
The meaning of his entire life was to bring a new teaching—more precisely, an update of the knowledge given by him (when incarnated as the Tumessoutian Yahweh) to Moses on Mount Sinai. This update was needed because the goals of the previously transmitted spiritual teaching had already been fulfilled—among the hostile environment, the Jewish people had been created, knowing higher truths inaccessible to others, and therefore possessing the ability to bring the Messiah, whom they so expected. The Messiah, bringing already higher truths than the ideology of "an eye for an eye," indeed necessary at first to create a separate, energetically distinct national egregor.
Here, apparently, is the time to digress from the earthly life of Jesus and answer in more detail the legitimate question: why is there so much, seemingly, cruelty, punishments, deaths, and so on in the Old Testament? God constantly forbids, frightens, and punishes. But where is love, fully manifested in the New Testament (the Gospel)? The fact is that, as you remember, the entire history of the Jewish people connected with the transmission of the Torah occurred already after the terrible war with Selbet, which left, among other things, a genetic imprint on all people. Obviously, after this cruelest war, which destroyed a large part of humanity, the Selbetian genes, carrying both survival at any cost, and distrust of our creators who allowed the "War of the Gods," and the already mentioned fear, and disobedience to these very gods or God, became activated in our ancestors. Furthermore (and this is important!), before the war, during the Age of Light (Satya-Yuga in Sanskrit), our genetic code lacked genes responsible for producing enzymes necessary for digesting protein products of animal origin—meat, fish, and so on. This was connected, on the one hand, with the fact that the key "suppliers" of our genes—representatives of Burhad and terrestrial primates—also lack such enzymes.
On the other hand, on the blooming "paradise" planet of that time, we had no need for animal protein. That is why, before the war 12,000 years ago, we were indeed complete vegetarians, as the Indian Vedas also assert! However, after Earth found itself in an orbit farther from the Sun (which led to the appearance of a cold season, as well as a change in the planet's energy in general), plant food became insufficient for human survival. Therefore, the creator civilizations changed our genetic code, adding to us 5% of the genes of Tumessoutians, who consume animal proteins as well. Accordingly, the proportion of genes from the highly spiritual representatives of Burhad was forcibly reduced. And thanks to this, we developed digestive enzymes that made us omnivores! At the same time, due to this change in the genetic code, as well as energetic and climatic changes on the planet, human height decreased from 3–4 meters (before the war) to 1.5–2 meters (shortly after this 130-year war).
The Vedic knowledge about vegetarianism, transmitted even before the war to the rishis (ancient Indian sages—contactors with plasmoid civilizations), could not take into account the post-war situation—simply because this war occurred much later. This explanation gives a clear understanding of the whole situation surrounding the disputes between vegetarians and meat-eaters—the truth is again "in the middle." Moreover, the souls of animals, according to the information we have received, have fundamental differences from intelligent souls—like ours. They are not immortal, although they can reincarnate—also as animals and for a limited number of lives. But the main thing is different: animal souls were and are created by those very plasmoids! That is, intelligent fine-material entities, whose civilizations transmitted Vedic knowledge. They have their own specific views on the material world and physical incarnation in it, which they consider merely an erroneous distancing from God. (In contrast to the civilizations of the Interstellar Union, which treat incarnations in physical bodies as an essential part of comprehending the Universe, but most importantly—as a unique opportunity for the soul's development.)
The plasmoids consider the animal souls they create to be their "children" and, naturally, in every way convinced and convince earthly contactors not to touch animals, not to eat them, and so on. This is in many cases quite justified, but, as we now understand, has a specific reason, by no means always connected with the obligatory "lowering of spiritual vibrations due to eating meat." As for, for example, the prohibition in both the Torah and the Quran on eating pork, here everything is even more pragmatic—pigs are carriers of the serious parasitic disease trichinosis, caused by small round worms—trichinella. They can only be destroyed by heat treatment (boiling) of the meat for 2 hours. Neither the ancient Jews nor, much later, the Arabs could have done this in their living conditions, as the terrain was desert and there were not enough firewood to maintain a campfire. That is why, to prevent infection, pork was strictly forbidden. However, too frequent consumption of coarse meat products can indeed cause harm at various levels—which is why in Christianity and Islam there is a system of cleansing fasts, "tied" to the specifics of a given people and culture. In addition, as is known, in Judaism and Islam there are also systems of rituals that purify the food itself (especially meat) from various kinds of negativity (respectively—kashrut and halal).
As far as I understand, it was precisely to build a new spiritual teaching in the time of Moses away from the "pagan" traditions coming from the plasmoids and related to the veneration of animals (it's not for nothing that the Jews made the notorious Golden Calf and worshiped it in Moses' absence, provoking his anger and causing him to break the tablets), that the entire system of animal sacrifices to God Yahweh was introduced. At the same time, the killing of living beings associated with the consumption of meat does indeed coarsen consciousness. This is another reason explaining the significantly harsher approach in the spiritual instructions transmitted to people then—as well as the very severe consequences of disobedience. And lastly. It was after the war, due to the lowering of people's spiritual vibrations, that microorganisms previously "responsible" for the utilization of dead biomass (decomposition into constituent elements) mutated, giving rise to colonies of modern pathogenic bacteria and viruses. And of course, all additional tools for implementing this principle of "like attracts like" in the Universe were found.
If we sum up all this, it becomes clearer why in "post-flood" times (after the war and cataclysms), such a rather severe teaching was needed, conveying high truths precisely in this form, not always pleasant to us now. In any other, more "humanistic" way, it was simply impossible at that time to form the egregor of the Jewish people, destined later to accept the incarnated Jesus. This was a spiritual teaching relevant precisely in this form in the era of loss of knowledge, loss of light that came after the war—Kali-Yuga, whose beginning is dated by the Bhagavad Gita to the time of Krishna's arrival (approximately 5 thousand years ago). According to the Interstellar Union, Krishna was an incarnation on Earth of a soul that is the coordinator of our Galaxy, a soul at a very high spiritual level, and therefore truly perceived (both by us and by itself) as the "Supreme Personality of God," as the Bhagavad Gita says. Later, 3 thousand years after this, in the time of Jesus, much of what was necessary earlier had lost relevance and required, at the very least, updating.
Now let us speak of the antagonism from the Jewish sages, and indeed from the majority of the "God-chosen" (that is, essentially chosen by Jesus himself!) Jewish people toward Jesus himself. Simultaneously with great opportunities, as always happens, a high responsibility before humanity lay (and lies) on this people, which is what any chosenness implies, first and foremost. As we know, the Jews ultimately could not believe in Jesus' divinity, despite his wisdom from his earliest years, which even the Jewish sages—those scribes and Pharisees named as such in the New Testament for their dogmatic adherence to the outdated norms of the old teaching—could not deny. Jesus did not hide from them the path of his soul and the peculiarities of his mission, directly saying that he was that very "God Yahweh"; moreover, the Jews had a full understanding of reincarnation, which in Judaism is called the term "gilgul." But the Jews, in their mass, did not believe that the Messiah (Moshiach) was before them, because they expected from their Savior something completely different—not a call to love even in response to evil, but an uprising, an exit through his power and miracles from Roman slavery, with the subsequent complete restoration of the destroyed Temple in Jerusalem.
It was with these expectations, as it turned out, that the betrayal of Judas Iscariot was connected. Judas indeed offered to give away the Teacher's location to the Romans and received his 30 pieces of silver for it. However, he had a very clear motive, and he did not at all desire Jesus' death. Judas also sincerely hoped that the Teacher, who before his eyes had repeatedly performed miracles, would restore justice and sweep away the hated pagan Roman ego. But this did not happen for too long. Then Judas decided to take extreme measures. He was convinced that under the threat of terrible torture and death, his beloved Teacher would finally be forced to show everyone his power—instead of sermons about "turning the other cheek." When this did not happen, Judas could never understand that the Teacher and his teaching constituted an inseparable whole, and therefore Jesus could not violate any of the commandments he had proclaimed. Unlike the Teacher, Judas violated this teaching—but not by betraying Jesus, but by the fact that instead of sincere, deepest repentance for what he had done and an equally earnest plea before God for forgiveness, he found the strength only to return the money and commit suicide, thereby sending his soul (primarily by this, not by the betrayal of Jesus!) to lower levels of the spiritual world.
Of course, both Jesus himself and his, so to speak, "support group" from Burhad could have easily prevented the terrible suffering and death on the cross. But no one could go against the divine plan, in whose "development" he himself (if one can put it that way) participated. The full meaning of this martyrdom goes beyond the scope of this article, so we will say here only that it was the Burhadians who, having put the guards to sleep, took Jesus' body at night onto their ship, and then the most important thing in this whole story occurred—indeed, not only in this one.
During the time between physical death and the coming to the future Apostles, Jesus, being in the spiritual world, made that very choice which constitutes his supreme sacrifice. More precisely, it was outside of time, because everything happened in the spiritual world, where time does not exist. Possessing essentially divine capabilities, Jesus completely erased from the DNA of his body the information about physical death as such. This is precisely what led to the fact that the body not only recovered on the material level but was also able to once again become a vessel for his soul—that is, a true resurrection from the dead occurred. However, since this process is absolutely irreversible, Jesus can never again die physically in this body—"by his own death," meaning old age or illness. Never, if by "never" we mean the manifested part of the cycle of the Universe's development, which, as we know, lasts many tens of billions of years. By acting in this way, Jesus deprived himself of the possibility of constant presence in the spiritual world, as well as the possibility of physical incarnation in the infinite number of manifested worlds of the Universe, where conditions, to put it mildly, are much more pleasant than in our physical reality. Essentially, he consciously tied himself to our material world.
BUT WHY DID HE DO THIS?
It turns out that only by being in our physical world in a material body can one maintain such a level of connection with one's spiritual egregor (Christianity) that through the sacrament of communion, Jesus can unite with every true believer in him. And not just energetically unite, but take upon himself and dissolve all the negativity of that believer—that is, all that we call sins. Thus, Jesus purifies our world, leading it to the Light. This has nothing to do with "propaganda of Christianity" and "religiosity" in the abstract sense, being a completely clear energetic technique. But this works—once again—only if the believer sincerely, and not formally, accepts Jesus' teaching and his very person. Through each communicant, Jesus in this unique way elevates humanity, preparing it for the planned event, which will be discussed in the last section of the article. At the same time, by connecting with the negative energy of everyone who undergoes the sacrament of communion, Jesus experiences (to put it mildly) spiritual and energetic discomfort, which can be understood from our level of perception as suffering. This is what is meant when Christianity says that we continue to crucify Jesus with our sins. As we were told through Irina, his spiritual Teachers, located at levels of the spiritual world beyond our reach, tried to dissuade him from this exceptional sacrifice, unique in the Universe. Jesus' Teachers told him: they have already crucified and killed you, and now they will constantly crucify and kill you with their sins... But Jesus still made his sacrificial choice for us. We were also told that many in the Galaxy do not understand why he did this toward our planet in particular. One explanation is that he was at the origins of our creation; we are like children to him. The second explanation is obviously deeper—he has his own special plan for humanity. We will also speak about this plan at the end of the article.
Currently, Jesus is in a physical body on the planet Burhad—the capital of the Interstellar Union, that is, the homeland of his physical father. We can hardly imagine the level of vibrations and capabilities of his body. For Jesus, a special artificial island of approximately 20 square kilometers has been created, surrounded by a huge body of water. There Jesus receives chosen disciples from different corners of the Universe, being in constant communion with our Creator and in constant energetic contact with the spiritual egregor he created on Earth, supporting and guiding it. Such voluntary isolation is caused by the fact that even the highest vibrations of the inhabitants of Burhad contrast too much with Jesus' spiritual level, and, being among them, he would experience constant strong discomfort, sensing, and therefore dissolving (or burning—whichever you prefer) all negative manifestations of their vibrations.
For Jesus to leave the physical body, he would now either have to be killed by someone or take his own life—the latter would lead to a fall to levels of very low vibrations in the spiritual world. But if someone in the Universe even dared to try to kill him (which is hard to imagine), it could only happen with his consent and with complete inaction on his part—given his divine capabilities. So that too would be a suicide, which Jesus, of course, would never commit.
Now a few words about Jesus' temptation by Lucifer in the wilderness. We were told that this temptation took place in the astral world. If Jesus had bowed to Lucifer, seduced by the power over the world that he offered him in exchange for abandoning his plan, it would have been a worship of the idea of departure from divinity, the idea of separation from the Supreme Creator that Lucifer himself had realized. Then Jesus would have become like Lucifer, and as the Firstborn Son of God, he would most likely have received power over Lucifer himself—that is, essentially, would have taken his place. But Jesus preferred to this whole seductive kingdom over the material world first physical suffering and death, and then eternal sacrifice for all of us, as discussed above.
AND IN CONCLUSION OF THIS SECTION—BRIEFLY ABOUT OTHER SPIRITUAL TRADITIONS.
We have already clarified the sources of Hinduism and Judaism. Now about Islam and Buddhism. The Prophet Muhammad was a physical contactor of the planet Tumessout (like Moses). The teaching transmitted to him was aimed at forming a single spiritual-national egregor from the disparate Arab tribes, actively warring among themselves. Anyone who finds the time and desire to look at least at Wikipedia (not to mention the Quran itself) can easily see that the basis of this knowledge is all the same biblical truths, essentially little different from those previously transmitted, but adapted and updated considering the new time (several centuries after Jesus' birth), as well as the specific geographical and historical situation around the Arab world of that time. Muslims worship the Kaaba—a sacred structure with a sacred stone inside, which they believe was rebuilt after the flood by the very forefather of the Jewish people, the prophet Abraham (Ibrahim). At the same time, Islam fully recognizes the existence of the Virgin Mary (Maryam) as the mother of Jesus and Jesus himself—as one of the great prophets (Isa). At the same time, Muhammad introduced from himself, so to speak, certain "creative changes" (let's call them that) into the transmitted teaching, some of which, as always happens, were later used by religious fanatics of Islam to achieve their own goals. We will not develop this topic further here.
The Prophet Muhammad indeed made the night journey (Mi'raj) to Jerusalem, as described in the verses (ayat) of the Quranic surah "Al-Najm." In Jerusalem, he indeed met with Abraham (Ibrahim), Moses (Musa), and Jesus (Isa). This was an astral journey—without moving the physical body, and everything happened in the astral world. Currently, Muhammad is incarnated and has already left the incarnation in which he recently was on one of the planets beyond our Galaxy, and is in the Spiritual world, continuing to support the spiritual egregor he created on Earth. As creators of spiritual egregors, Jesus and Muhammad are in contact with each other on the spiritual level.
Gautama Buddha was the incarnation of a spiritual personality (soul) from one of the highest (accessible to our understanding) spiritual levels. Buddhism conveyed and conveys a certain view of divinity, more characteristic of plasmoid civilizations, inclined toward an impersonal perception of the Creator (which is also part of the Truth). Currently, the Buddha is in the spiritual world, from where he also supports his egregor.
THE ALIENS' GOALS—WHY DO THEY NEED CONTACT WITH US AND THIS TRANSMISSION OF INFORMATION?
The main goal of our creators is to raise the consciousness of people to a level that will allow our civilization to enter the Interstellar Union. For this, a number of conditions must be met, including:
● Cessation of all military conflicts on the planet, absence of any military actions for at least five Earth years;
● Complete renunciation of the death penalty for crimes, which only harms all participants in this situation on the spiritual level and is essentially simply revenge, without understanding that all of society bears responsibility for what has been done;
● Renunciation of abortions—primarily because they do not take into account the plans of souls coming for incarnation from various spiritual levels who have long awaited their turn for incarnation;
● Respect and careful attitude toward our Planet and everything connected with it, gradual restoration of all disharmony in this sphere that we have already allowed;
● Full respect for the opinions of all people, freedom of speech and opinions;
● Expression of will by a clear majority of the capable population of the planet (at least 70%), expressed in a general vote.
These conditions are the main ones.
We are awaited in the Interstellar Union—as full-fledged partners and helpers, to then together explore our amazing, infinitely diverse Universe, in which we live together with our alien friends and creators. A Universe consisting of physical (material), astral, and spiritual worlds, passing through the experience of being in which intelligent souls develop to the highest divine levels. This applies to the souls of earthlings as well as to the souls of aliens—especially since both we and they can incarnate on different planets of the physical world, as well as in the bodies of fine-material plasmoids. In this sense, there is absolutely no difference between us. That is, in the next life, any of us could incarnate on one of the distant planets from Earth and vice versa.
Earthly people were created by highly developed alien civilizations (Tumessout, Burhad, and Selbet) as hybrids designed to combine the best traits of representatives of these planets. Now our ancient parents, who also gave us the main spiritual teachings, are ready to accept us, so to speak, into the "bosom of the star family." After this, we will be able to receive all their accumulated knowledge, technologies, experience in treating diseases and rejuvenation, and much more. Joining the Interstellar Union (which, I remind you, currently includes 117 civilizations of our Galaxy out of a total of 727) implies full-scale mass contact with us and the possibility of free visitation of all these planets. However, all this cannot be revealed to us until the spiritual level of our civilization is so low that it could very quickly reduce the use of most of this knowledge to military or other aggressive purposes aimed at destruction rather than creation.
Vivid evidence of this approach of ours is the repeated aggressive actions of the military of different countries, which led to accidents involving unprotected (usually tourist) alien ships, as well as to the death or capture of pilots or innocent passengers. We know the exact dates of such events, all the details, and the approximate locations of secret bases where shot down or crashed alien ships were covertly delivered. According to the information transmitted to us, the governments of leading countries are fully aware of the existence of the Interstellar Union. Moreover, in the last century, secret agreements were concluded between specific political leaders and representatives of the Interstellar Union, stipulating the non-use of nuclear weapons on the planet, as this would give nothing—the "visitors" firmly stated that to save humanity, they would destroy launched ballistic missiles with nuclear warheads. We were told that such cases have already occurred.
At the same time, our creators do everything possible not to deprive us of freedom of choice, freedom of development on the path we choose for ourselves. This, as well as the physical safety of contactors, who would immediately fall "under the hood" of our "humane" special services, are the main reasons why we are not given the so-desired by many publicly available material evidence of contacts. Even in the presence of such evidence at the official level, they would try to disavow it by all means. If it were massive, it would lead, given our level of collective consciousness, not at all to reconciliation within society, but to its disunity due to attempts to use "contact with aliens" for selfish purposes, including, again, military ones. And their resistance to such use would lead to mutual violence—that is, the realization of our favorite blockbusters, where (quite deliberately) aliens are presented to us as an aggressive hostile force. In other words, they will not "force us to be happy" through imposed mass contact. Instead, throughout our history, they act through individual contactors, to the best of their abilities and opportunities conveying knowledge from the Interstellar Union to us. Among these contactors (fully conscious) were well-known personalities, for example, the entire Roerich family, Helena Blavatsky, Konstantin Tsiolkovsky, Wolf Messing, Vanga, and many others.
The entry of Earth into the Interstellar Union, as it turned out, is also the goal of Jesus himself—as we remember, he is in a physical body on the planet Burhad, the capital of the Interstellar Union. When this happens (after the fulfillment of the above conditions, essentially reflecting the meaning of several New Testament commandments), Jesus will come (fly) to Earth in a physical body. This will be that very Second Coming—as a celebration of our achievements. And then, according to Jesus' plan, a key moment should occur: he is convinced that earthlings themselves will offer him to become the ruler of the planet. Then the Age of Love and Light will again dawn, similar to the one that was before the war 12,000 years ago, but on a different turn of the spiral of development. Thus, the entire "puzzle" of information comes together, explaining in a single knowledge both spiritual-religious truths, historical aspects, and a completely material picture of the extraterrestrial accompaniment of human civilization by our creators from the Interstellar Union of the Galaxy.
And lastly in this article. We also managed to find out that, in addition to the Interstellar Union, there are other communities of civilizations in the Galaxy. Their participants do not always agree with the ideas of the Interstellar Union, but there is no open confrontation between these communities of civilizations. One of the most well-known communities of this kind is known to us as the Galactic Federation, which is "based" in the constellation Pleiades. It includes 17 physical civilizations and about 700 fine-material (plasmoid) ones. At the same time, 3 of the 17 material civilizations are simultaneously members of the Interstellar Union, which does not contradict the rules of both communities. The Galactic Federation is often called the "Federation of Light" by earthly contactors, as it contains many high-vibration plasmoid worlds. A number of participants in the Galactic Federation are more determined toward changing the situation on Earth. They are ready to intervene and help us "restore order" in society and on the planet. However, they cannot and will not do this without the permission of the Interstellar Union, which includes the civilizations that directly created our forebears.
The Interstellar Union currently ensures the security of our civilization—primarily from attempts at unauthorized influence on us by individual representatives of various planets who violate the laws of the Interstellar Union (essentially, these are criminals or, if you will, pirates). For this, a special unit of the Galactic Security Service operates, dealing with our planet. In addition, thanks to the presence on Earth and under the surface of the Moon of numerous bases (including military ones) of several civilizations of the Interstellar Union, a system has been created that can prevent or repel an attack on our planet from space—as was the case with Selbet.
So, dear friends, everything depends only on us. Including, specifically, on YOU—dear reader.
We thank you for reading this publication!
The information presented above was transmitted to all of us through contactor Irina Podzorova (Voronezh), mainly by these specific representatives of the Interstellar Union's civilizations:
MidgasKaus (anthropomorphic humanoid) – biologist, psychologist, specialist in extraterrestrial life forms. Planet Esler, constellation Boötes, 36 light-years from the Sun;
Raom-Tiyan (anthropomorphic humanoid) – specialist in the history of interaction with young cosmic civilizations. Planet Burhad, constellation Cygnus, 670 light-years from the Sun;
Te Per Hredours (reptiloid humanoid) – biologist, ecologist, transformer of reptiloid genetic information into cells of humanoid races. Planet Selbet, constellation Canes Venatici, 730 light-years from the Sun.
The author expresses personal gratitude for the invaluable knowledge transmitted to us to MidgasKaus, Raom-Tiyan, Te Per Hredours, as well as to Kirhiton (planet Daraal), Saint-Germain (planet Disaru), Mirakh-Kaunt (planet Burhad), Li-Shioni (planet Shimor), Oal-Maraums (planet Futissa, not a member of the Interstellar Union), and other aliens—outside this list.
!!! ADDITIONAL INFORMATION RECEIVED LATER:
THE FUNCTION OF THE GENES OF EACH PARENTAL RACE IN THE HUMAN GENOME
Man is a combination of biological and spiritual nature. His physical body contains genetic information from four completely different races, absolutely unlike each other. The most genetic information in representatives of Earthly civilization comes from the primates of their native planet. This allowed stabilizing the genetic information of the three races that came from space and decided to participate in the great mystery of creating a being in which an intelligent spirit from the eternal and common home for all—the world of unincarnated spirits—could incarnate. Forty-five percent of the genetic information of Earth's primates allows intelligent earthlings to easily adapt to the natural world of your planet, but due to the peculiarities of the evolution of these animals, the human brain is structured in such a way that the intelligent spirit that manifests through it easily forms habits—up to automatic reflexes, sometimes replacing genuine spiritual thinking.
At the same time, stable connections between neurons are formed in the cerebral cortex of Earthly humans according to a network type. The energy involved in these connections of nerve cells is always directed toward their preservation, which is carried out by activating the instinct of self-preservation when confronted with a situation that contradicts the accustomed course of events or the formed worldview. This is a useful Divine mechanism that helps the spirit adapt to earthly reality very quickly and productively. But with disharmonious upbringing and living in a society of low-vibration people, this feature contributes to the preservation of negative experiences of interaction with people and activates the instinct of self-preservation when attempting to move toward Light, Faith, Kindness, and Love.
The emotion of fear is precisely an earthly form of avoiding danger—real or imagined. It arises when the instinct of self-preservation is activated. The genetic information of the inhabitants of Tumessout affects mainly the digestive and motor systems. It was the genes of the Tumessoutians that made us omnivores, since after the War of Burhad with Selbet, Earth became different, and conditions required large amounts of animal protein food for the preservation and development of intelligent life, more than before. Also, the genes of the Tumessoutians helped you become upright, flexible beings, almost devoid of body hair.
The information embedded in our DNA from representatives of Burhad affects our immunity, as well as the hormonal and nervous systems. It is thanks to the genes of the Burhad representatives that our lymphocytes have the ability to remember for a long time the proteins of microorganisms dangerous to the body. On this is based preventive vaccination and the treatment of infectious diseases by introducing serums from the blood plasma of people who have successfully recovered from the illness. In addition, the genes of the Burhadians allow the human brain to quickly remember heterogeneous information and store it for a long time in neural connections through the release of special proteins. The least contained in the bodies of representatives of the Earthly race are genes from representatives of the planet Selbet—cold-blooded egg-laying reptiloids. Despite the small percentage of these genes, they are very important for us. They encode the formation of synapses in the brain that can respond to increased levels of stress hormones (e.g., adrenaline) with a burst of energetic activity in the frontal and parietal lobes of the brain, through which the consciousness of the intelligent spirit manifests, as well as its will and thinking.
Thanks to this, in situations of discomfort and danger, instead of the activation of brain receptors for derivatives of gamma-aminobutyric acid typical of primates, which leads to fear, depression, and flight, there is an increase in the activity of the dopamine-serotonin system, followed by the release of endorphins of various nature, restoring the biochemical balance of neurons. This allows people in stressful situations to adequately perceive the surrounding world, think productively, and act effectively and in accordance with circumstances.
In every Earthly person, a genetic complex is embedded that allows them to live and develop on this planet as a harmonious biological, social, and spiritual being, and the energetic components of human DNA contain the potential of all the creators of your race. The DNA of primates contains the energy of Earthly plasmoids, who created the souls of these animals, and the DNA of the three galactic races contains the energy of their planets and star systems.
Thus, the paths for contacts with humanoids, plasmoids, and with the spiritual world are open to the intelligent spirits incarnated in earthlings. These possibilities should be used by us for the good—if we are interested in developing Divine qualities in ourselves, without which true love, wisdom, and happiness in the Light of the One God, the Creator of the Universe and our common Father, are unthinkable.
MidgasKaus, biologist, psychologist and specialist in extraterrestrial life forms. Planet Esler.
Li Shioni, specialist in the study of the astral world and astral energy interactions. Planet Shimor.
Dusbe Pahr, xenogeneticist, specialist in genetic modifications of intelligent anthropomorphic races. Planet Tikht.
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