Stephen Baxter - Time

The wall blew across the sun, a tornado engulfing a brightly lit farmhouse. But the sun, a million miles across, was no mere mote of rock and water and life, like Earth. The wall took three, four, five seconds to overwhelm the sun’s glowing mass. Right to the end the surviving sector of the sun kept its spherical shape, kept shining, emitting photons generated by a fusion core that had vanished into unreality seconds before.

Still, it took just heartbeats.

When the sun was gone it grew darker. A final nightfall, Malenfant thought.

And now there was only the sphere of unreality, growing ferociously and unevenly, sparkling, clumpy blisters bursting from its sides, stars curdling around its edge. Soon, he realized, it would become a wall, blanketing the universe.

There will be little to see for a while, Michael said. It will sweep across Mars, the asteroid belt.

“Cruithne?”

Gone already. Then, in half an hour, it will reach us.

The bubble continued to swell visibly, its light glaring.

“It’s never going to stop,” Malenfant whispered. “It will consume the Solar System, the stars—”

This isn ‘t some local phenomenon, Malenfant. This is a fundamental change in the structure of the universe. It will never stop. It will sweep on, growing at light speed, a runaway feedback fueled by the collapse of the vacuum itself. The Galaxy will be gone in a hundred thousand years, Andromeda, the nearest large galaxy, in a couple of million years. It will take time, but eventually —

“The future has gone,” Malenfant said. “My God. That’s what this means, isn’t it? The downstream can’t happen now. All of it is gone. The colonization of the Galaxy; the settlement of the universe; the long, patient fight against entropy … ” That immense future had been cut off to die, like a tree chopped through at the root. “Why, Michael? Why have the children done this? Burned the house down, destroyed the future—”

Because it was the wrongfuture. Michael looked around the sky. He pointed to the lumpy, spreading edge of the unreality bubble. There. Can you see that? It’s already starting…

“What is?”

The budding. . . The growth of the true vacuum region is not even. There will be pockets of the false vacuum — remnants of our universe — isolated by the spreading true vacuum. The fragments of false vacuum will collapse. Like —

“Like black holes.” And in that instant, Malenfant understood. “That’s what this is for. This is just a better way of making black holes, and budding off new universes. Better than stars, even.”

Much better. Much. The black holes created as the vacuum decay proceeds will overwhelm by many orders of magnitude the mere billion billion that our universe might have created through its stars and galaxy cores.

“And the long, slow evolution of the universes, the branching tree of cosmoses?…”

We have changed everything, Malenfant. Mind has assumed responsibility for the evolution of the cosmos. There will be many daughter universes — universes too many to count, universes exotic beyond our imagining — and many, many of them will harbor life and mind.

“But we were the first.”

Now he understood. This was the purpose. Not the long survival of humankind into a dismal future of decay and shadows, the final retreat into the lossless substrate, where nothing ever changed or grew. The purpose of humankind — the first intelligence of all — had been to reshape the universe in order to bud others and create a storm of mind.

We got it wrong, he thought. By striving for a meaningless eternity, humans denied true infinity. But we reached back, back in time, back to the far upstream, and spoke to our last children — the maligned Blues — and we put it right.

This is what it meant to be alone in the universe, to be the first. We had all of infinite time and space in our hands. We had ultimate responsibility. And we discharged it.

We were parents of the universe, not its children.

Michael said softly, Isn’t this why you came to Cruithne, Malenfant? To discover purpose? And you had a role to play.

“I never understood. Not until now.”

Nevertheless you were a catalyst.

Malenfant found he was bleakly exhilarated. “Life is no accident,” he said. “No second-order effect, no marginal creation. We — small, insignificant creatures scurrying over our fragile planet, lost in the Galaxy — we were, after all, the center of the universe.” It was, in its extraordinary way, an affirmation of all he had ever believed. “Hah,” he barked. “Copernicus, blow it out your ass!”

Malenfant? I think I’m scared.

Malenfant pulled the boy to him, wrapped his arms around this complex creature, the ten-year-old boy, the superbeing stranded here from a vanished future.

“Will they remember us? The children. In the new universes.”

Oh, yes, Michael said, and he smiled. He waved a hand at the bubble. This couldn ‘t have happened without mind. Without intelligence. Who knows? They might be able to reconstruct what we were like, how we lived our lives.

“I hope they forgive us,” Malenfant whispered.

Sheena 47:

It was the hour.

Sheena 47 prowled through the heart of the lens-ship. On every hierarchical level mind-shoals formed, merged, fragmented, combining restlessly, shimmers of group consciousness that pulsed through the trillion-strong cephalopod community as sunlight glimmers on water. The great shoals had abandoned their song-dreams of Earth, of the deep past, and sang instead of the huge, deep future that lay ahead.

The diamond machines — transformed asteroid hulks — had worked without fault. Now the starbow arced around the lens-ship, complete and beautiful: the universe relativity-compressed to a rainbow that shone on the rippling water.

The helium-3 store, laboriously mined from the great cloud ocean of Jupiter, was all but exhausted. Sheena 47 paid a final farewell to the brave communities who had colonized those pink seas and delivered the fuel for the exodus. Those cousins had stayed behind and would soon be overwhelmed by the anomaly, but they had gone to nonexistence proudly.

Now was the time. Excitement crossed the great cephalopod communities in waves, and they crowded to the huge lenticular walls to see.

And, just as they were designed to, the magnetic arms of the ramscoop opened, like the arms of a giant cephalopod itself. The intangible limbs sparkled as thin matter was hauled into its maw, to be compressed and collapsed and burned.

It was working. The lens-ship was cut loose at last of the system that had birthed it. Now its ocean was the thin, rich inter stellar medium that drifted between the stars. The fuel was limitless, and the cephalopods could run forever…

Well, not forever, Sheena 47 knew. The great ship could approach but never exceed light speed; slowly, inexorably, the unreality tide must outrun the lens and wash over them all.

But, so stretched was time by their great speed, that hour was many, many generations away.

She felt a stab of regret for humanity: the flawed creatures who had given mind to the cephalopods, and who had now, it seemed, been consumed by the fire. But the cephalopods were young, hungry for time, and for them, the future was not done yet.

The ramscoop was working perfectly. The future was long and assured. The great hierarchies of mind collapsed as the cephalopods gave themselves over to a joyous riot of celebration, of talk and love and war and hunting: Court me. Court me. See my weapons! I am strong and fierce. Stay away! Stay away! She is mine!…