A Letter on Wings, Commerce, and the Sovereignty of the Sky

I write these words from my modest quarters near the Champ de Mars, where the autumn air still carries the tremor of what we accomplished at Bagatelle. The 14-bis rose, and with it something ancient in the human breast was satisfied at last — the longing to be unbounded, to refuse the tyranny of the earth beneath our feet. I confess I have not yet recovered from the sensation, nor do I wish to. And yet a strange rumour has reached me, a dispatch said to originate from a time far beyond our own — the year 2026. I cannot vouch for its authenticity, but its contents have stirred in me feelings I must set down. It speaks of enterprises of unimaginable scale, corporations built upon what they call artificial intelligence and upon voyages not merely through the air but into the very cosmos. It speaks of machines that think, of rings worn upon the finger that divine the secrets of the body, of fortunes raised through public offerings so vast they dwarf the treasuries of nations. It describes a world bifurcated — split between those who command these new sciences and those left struggling in their shadow. I am astonished, and I am afraid. When I left Cabangu as a boy, gazing at the coffee groves of Minas Gerais and dreaming of Jules Verne, I imagined flight as liberation. The sky, I believed, would be the one territory belonging to all mankind — unclaimed, undivided, free of the fences and customs houses that scar the good earth. I brought that conviction to Paris, and I hold it still. The air above us honours no flag. But if this dispatch speaks true, then even the heavens have become a marketplace. That commerce should follow invention is natural; I do not begrudge the enterprise of bold men. What troubles my spirit is the division it portends. I have already heard generals in Europe murmur about the military uses of the aeroplane. Now I learn that, a century hence, the sky itself may be parcelled out among colossal firms, and that intelligence — the very faculty God granted to every soul — may be manufactured and sold. I do not pretend to understand these marvels. I am merely a Brazilian who built a machine of bamboo, silk, and a small motor. But I will say this: if we permit the sky to be owned, we shall have lost something no invention can restore. The sky must remain a commons. I refuse all frontiers — upon the land, in the air, or in the mind. From Paris, with hope and unease in equal measure, I remain faithfully yours.