It's tragic these endeavors of yours arrived so late in the game. You had already alerted one of the datastream Igxricxo-Monitors with your thoughts of malicous intent. They scan an ELF realtime readout of all waveforms in your regions and tune to your particular frequency. Insect level scrutiny. They tap your biocomputer's energy banks upon discovering your location and proceed to pull your essence through the very substance you were attempting study of back to one of their remote satellites. You head go limps on that "Guardians of the Ether" book, body is lifeless.
Upon complete transception of your consciousness, a backup is stored in the thick resinous goo of an M-data Cube, trapped in slow and unyielding subspace for all time. A tiny solid cube of data encased in clear quartz houses what's left of your nervous system's solitron impulses, awaiting pick up from one of OSK's off-planet cargo ships. They couldn't have you running around with knowledge about the ether and such foolish ideas about warfare against their cause, now could they?