Prophecies
I am alone in the dark.
Some time earlier, I am standing on a planet called Mars, though that name is only applied to it for a brief period of its existence. The people who gave Mars its name refer to the moment when I am living there as 1985, for reasons that cease being relevant almost as soon as they are applied. 1985 is one of the earliest moments of my existence, and also one of the more significant; it is the only one that I do not experience with clarity. This is because a man named Adrian Veidt believes that the continued existence of his species is dependent on his ability to surprise me, and so I am surprised. It is also Veidt and his associates who convince me that I must leave the planet of my birth, and that is another reason why 1985 is significant.
Several thousand moments after the one called 1985, I create life. Having found an empty planet upon which the necessary pre-conditions are present, I go to work. A fraction of a second later, my work is done: A single being, from which countless billions will emerge. I begin watching intently, and do not stop until their last descendants finally exhaust themselves in a futile war. It is a disappointing conclusion and I cannot help but wonder if I shouldn't have given them their own Adrian Veidt. I am relieved by the knowledge that I shall never discover how long my former species lasted in his care. By this time, the planet I once knew as Earth has been rendered uninhabitable by the star that once gave it life. I have no desire to see either again.
That planet has circled its sun three-billion times since 1985. I have begun to reveal myself to sentient species in the galaxy where I was born. Almost invariably, they accuse me of being God, and my attempts to warn them of the impending cataclysm are lost amongst the other matters which they insist are more deserving of my attention. The same is happening in the other galaxy that is to be part of the disaster. Even the ones that comprehend the danger are too short-lived to care. It is regrettable, but, as I have always been aware, there is nothing I can do for them.
I am watching the light from one-centillion deaths. At this distance from the collision, that light is already far older than any of the lifeforms whose extinction it heralds. Some of them are being replaced, and there is a later moment where I am returning to this new galaxy in order to observe them. Over the course of many other moments, even later than that, I watch as the process repeats itself on a larger scale, and four dozen galaxies become one.
Parts of the universe are becoming inaccessible to me. I am sure that they must still exist, but they have moved so far away from the area I inhabit that the radiation they emit is no longer observable. I cannot locate them, and so I cannot accurately teleport to them. I consider the possibility of seeking them by trial and error, but I already know that I will dismiss this idea for fear of losing my current supergalaxy. An enjoyable moment passes, in which I note that I am still capable of sentiment.
Many trillions of moments have passed since 1985, and I am still capable of sentiment and sadness. I feel sadness because my supergalaxy is dying, and so is everything else. My capacity for sentiment shows itself in my attempts to postpone what I know is an unstoppable process. The old stars are burning out, and there are fewer and fewer new ones forming to replace them. I have begun making replacements of my own, collecting whatever hydrogen I can find in my collapsing supergalaxy and forcing it to coalesce and ignite.
The supergalaxy is no longer viable, but I can still nurture enough new stars to constitute a modest dwarf galaxy. None of these stars are very bright, but they can survive for a long time, and I am able to support life on some of their planets. Looking outside of my last galaxy I can see no visible light, but inside it is still sometimes possible to see several stars at the same time with the naked eye.
My galaxy is no longer viable, but I am still able to hold a collection of dim solar systems together, and in each one I encourage the growth of life wherever possible. I am no longer experimenting for the sake of science; I simply do not want to be alone.
I have run out of material with which to build new stars, and in my desperation I have begun to fuse stellar remnants together until they have enough mass to start shining; first helium stars, then carbon. Around them, I coalesce mass from my stars into the heavier elements needed to form small planets, and onto these I synthesise fully-formed intelligent organisms. In 1985, I am content to be alone with chaotic terrain because the affairs of life-forms seem pointless and irrelevant. Here, I seek the companionship of life-forms because the universe is no longer producing chaotic terrain, and I am hoping that a sufficiently pointless sequence of affairs will enable me to avoid thinking about that.
There are no stellar remnants left. Everything has either collapsed into the black holes that were once galaxies, or been flung out into the empty void between them, beyond even my ability to detect them. I move around the void now with a small habitat in which I cultivate my last organisms. They do not know what is happening outside, or even that there is such a thing as outside, and I see no reason to enlighten them. In 1985, I am telling Adrian Veidt that nothing ever ends. Here, I am struggling to appreciate the companions I have left because I shall soon see that statement disproved.
The habitat is no longer viable. Atoms are no longer viable. The black holes remain, and so I use the opportunity to study them in detail.
It takes an immense amount of time for the black holes to evaporate, during which I drift and contemplate some of the things that are happening in earlier moments. Occasionally, I relieve the monotony by finding an electron and a positron with which to form a positronium atom. These inevitably annihilate themselves, and while that is happening the universe is exciting again.
Only photons remain; despite this there is no light. I am alone in the dark.
In 1985, human scientists are theorising a concept called heat death. In 10500, I am revising my previous statement: "Everything ends, with one exception."
Some time earlier, I am standing on a planet called Mars, though that name is only applied to it for a brief period of its existence. The people who gave Mars its name refer to the moment when I am living there as 1985, for reasons that cease being relevant almost as soon as they are applied. 1985 is one of the earliest moments of my existence, and also one of the more significant; it is the only one that I do not experience with clarity. This is because a man named Adrian Veidt believes that the continued existence of his species is dependent on his ability to surprise me, and so I am surprised. It is also Veidt and his associates who convince me that I must leave the planet of my birth, and that is another reason why 1985 is significant.
Several thousand moments after the one called 1985, I create life. Having found an empty planet upon which the necessary pre-conditions are present, I go to work. A fraction of a second later, my work is done: A single being, from which countless billions will emerge. I begin watching intently, and do not stop until their last descendants finally exhaust themselves in a futile war. It is a disappointing conclusion and I cannot help but wonder if I shouldn't have given them their own Adrian Veidt. I am relieved by the knowledge that I shall never discover how long my former species lasted in his care. By this time, the planet I once knew as Earth has been rendered uninhabitable by the star that once gave it life. I have no desire to see either again.
That planet has circled its sun three-billion times since 1985. I have begun to reveal myself to sentient species in the galaxy where I was born. Almost invariably, they accuse me of being God, and my attempts to warn them of the impending cataclysm are lost amongst the other matters which they insist are more deserving of my attention. The same is happening in the other galaxy that is to be part of the disaster. Even the ones that comprehend the danger are too short-lived to care. It is regrettable, but, as I have always been aware, there is nothing I can do for them.
I am watching the light from one-centillion deaths. At this distance from the collision, that light is already far older than any of the lifeforms whose extinction it heralds. Some of them are being replaced, and there is a later moment where I am returning to this new galaxy in order to observe them. Over the course of many other moments, even later than that, I watch as the process repeats itself on a larger scale, and four dozen galaxies become one.
Parts of the universe are becoming inaccessible to me. I am sure that they must still exist, but they have moved so far away from the area I inhabit that the radiation they emit is no longer observable. I cannot locate them, and so I cannot accurately teleport to them. I consider the possibility of seeking them by trial and error, but I already know that I will dismiss this idea for fear of losing my current supergalaxy. An enjoyable moment passes, in which I note that I am still capable of sentiment.
Many trillions of moments have passed since 1985, and I am still capable of sentiment and sadness. I feel sadness because my supergalaxy is dying, and so is everything else. My capacity for sentiment shows itself in my attempts to postpone what I know is an unstoppable process. The old stars are burning out, and there are fewer and fewer new ones forming to replace them. I have begun making replacements of my own, collecting whatever hydrogen I can find in my collapsing supergalaxy and forcing it to coalesce and ignite.
The supergalaxy is no longer viable, but I can still nurture enough new stars to constitute a modest dwarf galaxy. None of these stars are very bright, but they can survive for a long time, and I am able to support life on some of their planets. Looking outside of my last galaxy I can see no visible light, but inside it is still sometimes possible to see several stars at the same time with the naked eye.
My galaxy is no longer viable, but I am still able to hold a collection of dim solar systems together, and in each one I encourage the growth of life wherever possible. I am no longer experimenting for the sake of science; I simply do not want to be alone.
I have run out of material with which to build new stars, and in my desperation I have begun to fuse stellar remnants together until they have enough mass to start shining; first helium stars, then carbon. Around them, I coalesce mass from my stars into the heavier elements needed to form small planets, and onto these I synthesise fully-formed intelligent organisms. In 1985, I am content to be alone with chaotic terrain because the affairs of life-forms seem pointless and irrelevant. Here, I seek the companionship of life-forms because the universe is no longer producing chaotic terrain, and I am hoping that a sufficiently pointless sequence of affairs will enable me to avoid thinking about that.
There are no stellar remnants left. Everything has either collapsed into the black holes that were once galaxies, or been flung out into the empty void between them, beyond even my ability to detect them. I move around the void now with a small habitat in which I cultivate my last organisms. They do not know what is happening outside, or even that there is such a thing as outside, and I see no reason to enlighten them. In 1985, I am telling Adrian Veidt that nothing ever ends. Here, I am struggling to appreciate the companions I have left because I shall soon see that statement disproved.
The habitat is no longer viable. Atoms are no longer viable. The black holes remain, and so I use the opportunity to study them in detail.
It takes an immense amount of time for the black holes to evaporate, during which I drift and contemplate some of the things that are happening in earlier moments. Occasionally, I relieve the monotony by finding an electron and a positron with which to form a positronium atom. These inevitably annihilate themselves, and while that is happening the universe is exciting again.
Only photons remain; despite this there is no light. I am alone in the dark.
In 1985, human scientists are theorising a concept called heat death. In 10500, I am revising my previous statement: "Everything ends, with one exception."