David shivered. He wondered if he should turn up the humming heater, but he didn't want to move. He rolled himself closer into his coarse and faded couch. The couch had been threadbare when he had first bought it at a garage sale. That was a long time ago. David glanced at the digital clock sitting on the mantelpiece. It read 10¹² years. That is one with twelve zeros after it—a thousand billion years.

“I am lying on a couch in my favourite room,” Davis said to himself. He closed his eyes and drifted through intra-galactic space, feeling the flow of electrons through his body. He liked to recollect about the long time past when he was of organic form, with straight back, thick hair and clear eyes. His experiences from those times were embedded in his vast memory banks. He could recall ideas with absolute fidelity, recreating taste, sound, sight and feelings.

The door opened and David’s galactic neighbour, wearing a turtleneck sweater and sports coat, walked into the room. He was one of countless sentient entities; some of organic form, others electronic or a combination of both, changing, combining and adapting to suit their purposes. “Shut the door,” growled David.

“How are you, David?” The neighbour settled in to an overstuffed recliner across from the couch.

David sat up on the couch. He adjusted antenna arrays, opening up multiple communication links.  “I’m well. Can I get you anything―coffee, tea?”

“Yes, tea,” came the response across thousands of light years.

David got up and went into the kitchen. “I have Monk or Earl Grey,” he called out.

“Monk, Thanks.”

“I’m concerned about the Galaxy,” said David as he returned, carrying a tray with a pot of tea and some biscuits.  

The neighbour straightened and cleared a space on the coffee table. “Why are you concerned?”

“The Universe is expanding, getting colder. Do you want milk, sugar?” David placed the tray down.

“None.”

“The galaxies are further away from each other,” continued David as he sat on the couch.

“I’ve not particularly noticed.”

David poured a cup of coffee. “Look at the galaxies. Their light is red-shifted.”  

“You’re talking about the Doppler effect, the way the sound of a train whistle changes as it passes you. With receding sources of light, the spectrum shifts to red.” The neighbour picked up the cup and took a sip.

“Yes, but the galaxies are moving faster, spreading out further.”

“Hasn’t it always been this way, since the Big Bang?” The neighbour put down the cup and pulled out a pipe and tobacco pouch. He scooped the pipe to fill it.

“The stars are running out of hydrogen. They are burning out.”

The neighbour struck a match and lit his pipe. “There do seem to be fewer stars.”

David winced at the acrid smell. He picked up an ashtray and passed it across. “We need energy to survive.”

“I guess so.”

“We need to concentrate our resources, conserve.”

The neighbour exhaled and his image distorted. “Perhaps we could create some long-lived stars.

“We could surround them with a Dyson sphere to capture all their heat.”

The neighbour’s image flickered, then blanked out. David guessed that with stars becoming spread out, sentient entities in the Galaxy were having difficulty communicating with each other. He ran his hand through his hair; it felt thinner.

The neighbour’s image returned. “What were you saying?”

“A Dyson sphere, with a sun inside, the interior provides maximum surface area, with minimal heat loss into space.”

“I’ll ponder it some,” said the neighbour as he tapped out his pipe on the ashtray.  “Prends sion de toi.” The image faded.

David grabbed a biscuit and nibbled at it. He began to flit through a photo-album. Since he had journeyed from Earth, he had seen much change. He had watched the Sun balloon up and scorch the Earth into molten rock before shrinking to a dim white dwarf, Stars, nebulae of gas and dust had drifted to form clusters, then superclusters. Remnants from supernova explosions mixed with stellar gas and condensed to form new stars, new red giants and new supernovae, starting the process all over again. David had enjoyed lying with lovers as they watched the Milky Way merging with Andromeda, then with the Magellanic Clouds creating one huge Galaxy.  

x  x  x  x  x

“I’m still cold,” thought David. He got up to adjust the gas heater. At another level of his consciousness, he made subtle changes to the orbit of an asteroid, so that over a long period of time it would combine with stellar dust and help bring a fledgling star to fusion. 10¹³ years, read the clock on the wall. Time had advanced by a factor of ten since he last looked at the clock—another cosmological decade. He caught sight of himself in a mirror, grey tints to his hair. He sat down and reached over and turned on a CD player. Somewhere in his disembodied memory a connection was made to a recording of Pachelbel’s Canon in D along with the background hash that he was so familiar with. David looked at the photographs of family and friends on the mantelpiece. One was of himself, with his arm across the shoulders of his son, Stephen. This image, along with every other cherished memory of Stephen, was always at the top of his consciousness. He remembered the day Stephen was born, messy nappies, crying at night, first steps, going to school and playing in the backyard. David wanted to hold on to these memories; both the joy and pain. He did not want to forget, ever.

David picked up the TV remote control and flicked to a program showing a pinkish ball embedded in a sparse haze. “The Galaxy in ruins,” said the announcer. The picture zoomed in to show gas streamers, speckled with yellow dots, twirling towards the huge black hole at the centre. David was distracted by noise behind him. He looked over his shoulder at two teenage girls chatting about the latest fashions. “Shussh,” he said. The two girls smirked, then cooed as two far-off, white dwarf stars collided to sparkle as a supernova. “According to the Second Law of Thermodynamics all closed systems must run down,” stated the announcer. David pondered farming new stars by combining stellar gas and heavy particles. He noticed a woman sitting across from him. She is mature and handsome with a rounded figure and an attentive smile.

“Jayn, isn’t it?” asked David.

“Yes, Jayn. You came to see me for counselling. You were suffering from delusions.”

“Is it really you?”

“I suppose so. I’m an amalgam of many, but I’ve memories going back as long as your own. You cancelled your last appointment and I didn’t see you after that.”

“I was going to come back, but there were things to do.”

Jayn looked at the clock. 10¹⁴ years. You certainly took your time. You look well, a little more grey in your hair. Anyway, how can I help you?”

“I’m not sure. I can’t remember things. Important things.”

David gestured to the photo of Stephen on the mantelpiece. “I have to really look at that photograph to remember what Stephen’s face looked like.”  

“He was a charming boy. Look, it’s just the age of the Universe. It’s to be expected.”

“I speak with others sometimes. They seem to remember less than I do. They only care about today.”  

“Everything is spreading out, connections lost, disorder. The Universe is 10,000 trillion times its size when you were born. I’m not surprised that memory is failing. There might come a time when everything is forgotten.”

“I can’t forget Stephen. Never!”

“Why can’t you forget him?

David opened his mouth, but said nothing.

“I know you love him.” Jayn reached out and placed her hand on David’s shoulder. “It must hurt that you can’t cuddle him.”

A tear formed in David’s eye. “I don’t want to talk about this anymore. Maybe later.” He shoved a couple of brown dwarf stars together so they’d burn their unspent hydrogen.”

“When you’re ready, David.”

The room was very quiet. David walked to the window and watched as planets detached from stars and stars evaporated out of the galaxy. 

x  x  x  x  x

David made elaborate calculations regarding the density and size of a star so as to ensure adequate energy outflow while optimising its endurance. He turned a page of a tattered paperback novel, Fisherman’s Hope, which had been one of Stephen’s favourites. He recalled them both sitting together while he read it aloud of an evening. He took millions, billions, or trillions of years to complete a single paragraph. There was plenty of time. He strained to read as the cosmos darkened. David thought he heard a noise at the door—It had been a long time since any visitors had called. He got up to look out the window. He noticed the faint haze of distant galaxies in the sky disappear from view, one by one. With the accelerated expansion of the Universe, galaxies were moving away at close to the speed of light. The clock chimed 10¹⁶ years. David pulled the curtains across to keep in the heat.

“You’re growing bald, Dad.”

David looked around and saw a tall young man with firm angular features and wavy brown hair standing in the lounge room. He was not the child of David’s memories, but it was clear that this was Stephen.

Stephen sat alongside David on the couch. “I guess your memory of me has transcended into your higher levels of consciousness.”

“I don’t understand” responded David.

“No, I guess not. That’s the problem. You have survived all this time, obsessed about remembering me. There was no need.”

“I had to remember you. If I didn’t, who else would?” He drew himself around a giant black hole; draping a blanket over his shoulder for warmth.

“You only feel you have to remember me. It is a compulsion, a defect in your personality. You were offered help. Jayn could have helped you to deal with your grief.”

“If I’d had therapy, I’d have lost focus. I might have forgotten you.”

“Others knew me too. Mum, grandma and grandpa, my mates at school.” Stephen picked up some CDs and started flipping through them.

“They’ve all died. Who else would have cherished you?”

“Maybe it was a genetic imperative. You were frustrated that you would not have children to pass on your heritage. You could have remarried after divorcing Mum and had other children.” Opening up the CD player, Stephen put on a Jimmy Barns compilation.  

“I didn’t want other children. I wanted you.”

“Look at yourself. What you put yourself through, cryogenics, replication, mind downloads.” Stephen started nodding to the beat of Working Class Man – “He ain’t worried about tomorrow ¼“

“I have to give purpose to your existence.”

Stephen snapped off the CD player and got up in a huff. “This isn’t purpose! You’re a twirl of gas and stuff out in space.”

Stephen turned towards the mantelpiece. On it was a model train. He picked it up to examine it closely.

“An F class loco. My first one.”

“You loved your train-set. You used to play with it for hours.”

“I’m glad you kept it. Well, at least kept this simulation in a prime position in your consciousness.” Stephen carefully replaced the model train.

“Can you stay awhile?”

“Sure, Dad.”

The light in the room flickered. Dead stars withered into white dwarfs, giant stars collapsed into neutron stars. David got up and placed a few drops of Brazilian rosewood in an oil burner. Quickly the balmy aroma flooded the room. Along the expanse of David’s complex whole, he mustered black holes together to siphon off their gravitational energy. The clock read 10²⁴ years.  

Stephen started looking over the bookshelf and picked out a leather-bound volume of Shakespeare’s Hamlet.

“Dad, your problem was that you thought Horatio was more heroic because he had to endure, but it was Laertes who had cause, a purpose.”

“So what was your purpose?” said David as he stood and walked over to the window. He peered between the curtains and tried to discern the charcoal-grey patterns that spanned the cosmos, channelling stellar remnants into black holes to ward off complete decay.

Stephen smiled and sat down again. “I liked our evenings at home together, watching football, playing computer games and drinking hot chocolate.”

“I love you Stephen.”

“I know Dad. I love you too. I just wish you could understand that I existed. I had a purpose.”

“It doesn’t feel enough.” David turned off the light to conserve energy and returned to the couch.

“I guess that is it. You can’t feel it.”

The heater flared. Giant event horizons, light years across, emitted soft pink light. Ninety percent of objects in the universe had evaporated away. David noticed the clock had advanced to 10³² years. The history of the Universe to the time when he was born was the equivalent of fleeting atto-seconds compared with the Universe’s current age.

“Can you do anything about the heater?” asked Stephen.

David got up and fiddled with the knob. He could not get the heater to relight, but there was still warmth radiating from it. He and Stephen sat together on the floor next to the heater. David brought together ever-larger black holes, which emitted feeble Hawking radiation. The digital clock dimmed. David could scarcely make out 10⁴⁵ years.

“Have some blanket,” David said.

“Thanks.”

David and Stephen huddled together. They watched as ordinary matter behaved as if it were liquefied and the last of the giant black holes decayed away. David shed his redundant functions and reduced his energy needs to near zero, just enough to hold onto his consciousness. The clock no longer showed the time. David estimated it to be 10⁶⁵ years.  

David reached over to hold Stephen’s shoulder. His eyes felt heavy. He dozed, woke and dozed some more. He embodied a vast cloud where electrons and positrons occasionally met and formed atoms larger than the Universe of David’s birth time. 10¹¹⁷ years. Stephen held David’s hand. The Universe was cold, dark and eternal. David was content.

Authors notes: In 1929 Edwin Hubble announced that spectral analyse of galaxies showed they are red-shifted, from which he deduced the Universe has been expanding since the big bang. This is about 15 billion years ago. There has been much speculation as to whether the Universe would eventually contract under the force of gravity into a big crunch, perhaps in 50 billion years time. Theorists have speculated about the presence of dark matter, which makes up the bulk of the matter in the universe. A crucial question has been how much dark matter is there in the Universe. In April 2001, the Sloan Digital Sky Survey gave firm indication that there is too little dark matter to break the Universe’s expansion. While the Universe will expand forever, the relentless effects of time will eventually see all energy dissipated and matter decay. The range of estimates on this is between 10⁸⁰ and 10 to 10⁷⁶ years, depending on the stability of protons. Regardless, these are ludicrously large numbers for which we can have no real reference point.

References: Fred Adams and Greg Laughlin’s The Five Ages of the Universe, John Gribbin’s In Search of the edge of time and Paul Davis’ The Last Three Minutes. With acknowledgment to Stephen Baxter’s novel Time and Charles Sheffield’s Tomorrow and Tomorrow.

Initially published Aphelion Webzine - March 2003

Republished in Albedo One, October 2004

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