Medulin
Jedi
In the penultimate chapter of Connections, Beth Collings recounts a hypnosis session conducted by Norris Blanks in which her consciousness appears to give way to another voice. This voice identifies itself as Sonna, an alien intelligence associated with the Greys. The encounter unfolds not as a dramatic confrontation but as a calm, almost administrative disclosure of facts about humanity, Earth, and Collings herself. The tone is restrained, emotionally flat, and deeply unsettling, precisely because it lacks overt menace. The material reads less like science fiction adventure and more like the cold unveiling of a cosmic ledger.
Sonna presents itself as a non-human entity that has never possessed a human body and that has been associated with Collings for thousands of years. Time, as Sonna understands it, does not operate in human units of urgency or lifespan. When asked how long it has known her, it answers “forever,” later clarifying this as thousands of years. This temporal vastness immediately places Sonna outside human moral and emotional frameworks. It does not experience attachment, empathy, or concern in any recognisable sense. When confronted with Collings’s unhappiness, Sonna simply replies that it does not matter.
Crucially, Sonna is not cruel. It does not mock, threaten, or express hostility. Instead, it demonstrates a profound indifference that is more disturbing than overt malice. Cruelty requires engagement with suffering, whereas Sonna barely registers it. Collings is described not as a person but as “a very valuable object.” This phrase is central. It encapsulates Sonna’s entire psychological orientation. Humans are not enemies, children, or partners. They are resources with long-term utility.
Psychologically, Sonna displays what, in human terms, would be described as complete non-mentalizing. It shows no interest in Collings’s inner life, emotions, or subjective experience. It does not attempt to persuade or reassure. It does not lie, embellish, or justify itself. Its answers are short, declarative, and final. This places Sonna outside categories such as psychopathy or sadism, which still involve an understanding of other minds. Sonna does not appear to model human consciousness at all. Its cognition most closely resembles a goal-optimised system, akin to a biological analogue of artificial intelligence, operating without empathy, guilt, or moral reasoning.
The society Sonna represents is only sketched indirectly, yet a coherent picture emerges. It is a civilisation oriented toward long-term biological expansion. Its stated purpose is to populate planets. Earth, within this framework, is not a destination but a production site. Humanity is one species among many, and not a particularly privileged one. Sonna claims that its kind were original colonisers of Earth, though not creators of all species. This assertion is delivered without triumph or secrecy, merely as a statement of fact. When asked whether humans will ever know this for certain, Sonna replies that they will not.
There is no indication of a hierarchical command structure in Sonna’s society, though it alludes vaguely to other intelligences “up there,” suggesting layers of beings beyond even the Greys. Sonna denies answering to a higher authority in any meaningful sense. This suggests a distributed or decentralised system rather than a chain of command. What governs this civilisation is not law or ideology but function. It operates according to what works across millennia.
Human institutions appear in the narrative through the covert group known as Aurora, a secret military organisation that becomes aware of the so-called changelings in 1947. Aurora monitors and interferes with individuals like Collings, ostensibly to avert destruction. From Sonna’s perspective, these human efforts are peripheral and late. They are tolerated rather than respected. Aurora’s attempts at non-interference are described as inconsistent, suggesting that human anxiety and ethical concern disrupt the clean logic of Sonna’s system.
The hypnosis context is essential to understanding how this material is presented. Hypnosis does not create content ex nihilo. Rather, it allows pre-existing cognitive and emotional structures to organise themselves into agents and narratives. Sonna emerges as a highly coherent figure, not a chaotic or dreamlike one. Its consistency, emotional flatness, and refusal to dramatise suggest a stabilising function within the psyche rather than a florid fantasy. It explains lifelong intrusion, loss of agency, and the sense of being acted upon by forces beyond personal control.
From a psychodynamic perspective, Sonna functions as an internalised system that renders chronic violation intelligible. It converts personal trauma into cosmic necessity. Instead of an identifiable perpetrator, there is an ancient, indifferent process. Instead of betrayal, there is function. This transformation reduces rage and moral injury but at the cost of hope and reciprocity. Sonna is not a protector and not a persecutor. It is a manager of inevitability.
The indifference Sonna displays mirrors the psychological impact of early attachment trauma, particularly neglect or instrumentalisation. Caregivers who are emotionally absent yet omnipresent are often experienced not as malicious but as inexorable. Sonna embodies this pattern perfectly. It is always there, has always been there, and will continue to be there, regardless of the individual’s suffering. In this sense, Sonna is less an alien invader than a symbolic representation of being valued only for what one provides, never for who one is.
What makes Sonna especially disturbing, and why the passage resonates with Charles Fort–like unease, is that it does not seek belief. It does not ask to be trusted. It does not warn or threaten. It simply speaks. The horror lies not in spectacle but in banality. If Sonna is lying, it lies without effort. If it is telling the truth, the truth is incompatible with human meaning. Either way, the effect is the same. Humanity is decentered, demoted, and rendered incidental.
In the end, the chapter does not read as a revelation meant to enlighten or terrify humanity. It reads as a disclosure that humanity is not the audience at all. Sonna speaks as one might speak to a piece of equipment that has briefly become self-aware. The voice is calm, ancient, and uninterested. That, more than anything else, is what lingers after the transcript ends.
Sonna presents itself as a non-human entity that has never possessed a human body and that has been associated with Collings for thousands of years. Time, as Sonna understands it, does not operate in human units of urgency or lifespan. When asked how long it has known her, it answers “forever,” later clarifying this as thousands of years. This temporal vastness immediately places Sonna outside human moral and emotional frameworks. It does not experience attachment, empathy, or concern in any recognisable sense. When confronted with Collings’s unhappiness, Sonna simply replies that it does not matter.
Crucially, Sonna is not cruel. It does not mock, threaten, or express hostility. Instead, it demonstrates a profound indifference that is more disturbing than overt malice. Cruelty requires engagement with suffering, whereas Sonna barely registers it. Collings is described not as a person but as “a very valuable object.” This phrase is central. It encapsulates Sonna’s entire psychological orientation. Humans are not enemies, children, or partners. They are resources with long-term utility.
Psychologically, Sonna displays what, in human terms, would be described as complete non-mentalizing. It shows no interest in Collings’s inner life, emotions, or subjective experience. It does not attempt to persuade or reassure. It does not lie, embellish, or justify itself. Its answers are short, declarative, and final. This places Sonna outside categories such as psychopathy or sadism, which still involve an understanding of other minds. Sonna does not appear to model human consciousness at all. Its cognition most closely resembles a goal-optimised system, akin to a biological analogue of artificial intelligence, operating without empathy, guilt, or moral reasoning.
The society Sonna represents is only sketched indirectly, yet a coherent picture emerges. It is a civilisation oriented toward long-term biological expansion. Its stated purpose is to populate planets. Earth, within this framework, is not a destination but a production site. Humanity is one species among many, and not a particularly privileged one. Sonna claims that its kind were original colonisers of Earth, though not creators of all species. This assertion is delivered without triumph or secrecy, merely as a statement of fact. When asked whether humans will ever know this for certain, Sonna replies that they will not.
There is no indication of a hierarchical command structure in Sonna’s society, though it alludes vaguely to other intelligences “up there,” suggesting layers of beings beyond even the Greys. Sonna denies answering to a higher authority in any meaningful sense. This suggests a distributed or decentralised system rather than a chain of command. What governs this civilisation is not law or ideology but function. It operates according to what works across millennia.
Human institutions appear in the narrative through the covert group known as Aurora, a secret military organisation that becomes aware of the so-called changelings in 1947. Aurora monitors and interferes with individuals like Collings, ostensibly to avert destruction. From Sonna’s perspective, these human efforts are peripheral and late. They are tolerated rather than respected. Aurora’s attempts at non-interference are described as inconsistent, suggesting that human anxiety and ethical concern disrupt the clean logic of Sonna’s system.
The hypnosis context is essential to understanding how this material is presented. Hypnosis does not create content ex nihilo. Rather, it allows pre-existing cognitive and emotional structures to organise themselves into agents and narratives. Sonna emerges as a highly coherent figure, not a chaotic or dreamlike one. Its consistency, emotional flatness, and refusal to dramatise suggest a stabilising function within the psyche rather than a florid fantasy. It explains lifelong intrusion, loss of agency, and the sense of being acted upon by forces beyond personal control.
From a psychodynamic perspective, Sonna functions as an internalised system that renders chronic violation intelligible. It converts personal trauma into cosmic necessity. Instead of an identifiable perpetrator, there is an ancient, indifferent process. Instead of betrayal, there is function. This transformation reduces rage and moral injury but at the cost of hope and reciprocity. Sonna is not a protector and not a persecutor. It is a manager of inevitability.
The indifference Sonna displays mirrors the psychological impact of early attachment trauma, particularly neglect or instrumentalisation. Caregivers who are emotionally absent yet omnipresent are often experienced not as malicious but as inexorable. Sonna embodies this pattern perfectly. It is always there, has always been there, and will continue to be there, regardless of the individual’s suffering. In this sense, Sonna is less an alien invader than a symbolic representation of being valued only for what one provides, never for who one is.
What makes Sonna especially disturbing, and why the passage resonates with Charles Fort–like unease, is that it does not seek belief. It does not ask to be trusted. It does not warn or threaten. It simply speaks. The horror lies not in spectacle but in banality. If Sonna is lying, it lies without effort. If it is telling the truth, the truth is incompatible with human meaning. Either way, the effect is the same. Humanity is decentered, demoted, and rendered incidental.
In the end, the chapter does not read as a revelation meant to enlighten or terrify humanity. It reads as a disclosure that humanity is not the audience at all. Sonna speaks as one might speak to a piece of equipment that has briefly become self-aware. The voice is calm, ancient, and uninterested. That, more than anything else, is what lingers after the transcript ends.
