Time Travel Omnibus, page 1052
“Oh, it worked,” Racoczky turned back to him with a somber face. “Our stem cells constantly replenish themselves, forever turned on. The body does not die, does not age. But let me ask you this: once every cell in your body is replaced, are you really the same person, or are you something different altogether?”
Matheson listened as Racoczky went on. He had heard his argument before, and had never been able to answer it.
“Do you stop being yourself? And if you are not yourself, has the old “you” ceased to exist? Each day, your body sheds thousands of skin cells to make way for new ones. Do you not then continually die each day? Can you say with certainty that you are that same Arthur Matheson who stepped out of that ship several minutes ago?”
“I—I don’t know,” he replied truthfully.
“I have had time to ponder these questions.” Racoczky said with an enigmatic frown.
“Where are the others of your race?” Matheson asked.
“As I said, I am the last,” Racoczky answered. “Those that went to the stars did not return. I think they have merged with the universe, which has become their final resting place. Perhaps they are at peace. Who knows? They may still exist in one form or another.”
“But you didn’t go?”
“I like my body. I enjoy the immediacy of physical experience. Every thousand years or so I download my memories into this ship—so that I do not forget anything when my brain reaches its maximum biological capacity. Would you like to see?”
He waved his hand over one of the glowing lights inside the walls. An instant later, a three-dimensional image flashed before Matheson’s mind’s eye. Another thought transmission.
Suddenly he thought he saw vast cityscapes—the like of which no mortal man had ever seen—huge boiling oceans of metal churning across distant planets. And men and women, reduced to a pre-Eden-like state, scampering through unruly jungles populated by gigantic fruits and vines.
It resembled Paradise.
It made him sad. Sad in a way he could not describe. He missed all the people he had known who had now died. All the girlfriends who had perished, all the relatives now turned to dust. It made him think of the cruelty of Time. He resolved that when he returned, he would give away his invention for free, to everyone who needed it. They would seed the stars of the future and the past.
One last question bothered him.
“How do you know that galaxy is the last, Racoczky? The universe is infinite. There could be more star systems, more planets out there.”
“My ship detects no more,” Racoczky laughed. “Our instruments are limitless in scope. Our wormholes can take us anywhere. Distance is no object. Yet now all my devices tell me there simply is nowhere else. The universe may be infinite—but its infinity is simply the absence of matter. Matter itself can have an end. And in seven hundred billion years, you’d be surprised how many planets you can explore.”
Seven hundred billion. So that was how far he’d come—to the end of it all.
It seemed so final, that he could put a figure on the end of time.
“Excuse me,” said Racoczky, “I must feed.”
He waved his hand over the console. The wall warped open to reveal a thin, transparent tumbler. Dark red liquid splashed into it from a faucet hidden in the ship’s mechanism.
“An unfortunate side-effect of the treatment is that I can no longer imbibe drink or food. I must have the raw nutrients direct from source.”
Racoczky took a sip.
Matheson felt his stomach drop. “That’s blood,” he said.
“A synthetic compound, yes. Cloned from my existing supply based on the DNA pattern of a human being.”
Realization rocked Matheson. He took a startled step away from his host.
“My god, you’re a vampire.”
Racoczky smiled, surprised. “In your terminology.”
Appalled, Matheson backed up toward the pod. But he knew it was futile; Saint-Germain could cross the distance between them in an instant. He knew it from the man’s mind. Unpleasant thoughts were creeping to its surface. The inheritors of man’s empire were its destroyers—these evil things had become the rulers of the universe!
“Be not afraid. I am no creature of superstition,” Racoczky laughed. “I cast a shadow, just like you. Once I was even human. True, in the first few centuries we did feed on your kind. We preyed on them wherever we could. But we were many and you were few. Out of necessity, we learned to manufacture what we required. Soon afterwards, all those who refused the Treatment gladly accepted it. That was how humanity perished.”
Matheson’s mind reeled. All the horrors he had witnessed, all the endlessly futile wars, all had been for nothing. Humanity had perished. It had not died out. It had simply been transformed—into what? Into monsters?
“You are undoubtedly in shock,” Racoczky said. “But in time you will accept the destiny of humankind is to shed what is human. Stay with me awhile. You have travelled so far. Now let us watch the end of the universe. We are a speck in God’s eye, about to witness the destruction of his creation. And I for one am happy to see it end. I have found there are no more mysteries to explore. I long for change. Now, this is that change. Watch!”
Matheson stared into the view screen.
Two massive black holes, simply fuzzy vortices of light within the blackness of collapsed stars, began to churn more fiercely. As he watched, the lightless chasms converged into one yawning vortex of darkness. Several small constellations of stars erupted at the rim of the scything hole. Fear seized his stomach. This was it—the final supermassive vortex into which all other galaxies had been sucked.
“Behold!” Saint-Germain announced. “Charybdis!”
The rim of the black hole—if it could be called such—suddenly blazed with light. Thousands of star systems imploded under its tremendous gravity. The resulting cosmic windstorm disappeared like celestial confetti into the gaping maw. Matheson watched with awe as the colossal black mass consumed the entire, swirling nebulae. Then even the dust was gone. The black hole swept the last dying sun into itself with a faint glimmer of a nuclear explosion, viewed from hundreds of light years away. All light vanished.
Only a void remained.
The way station lights flickered, reduced to ambient red, presumably in accordance with Racoczky’s telepathic wishes.
“In a few moments, the black hole will collapse upon itself. Then perhaps a new universe will be born like a phoenix from the ashes of the old one,” Racoczky mumbled, dreamlike. “Of course, the explosion might disintegrate us, protected as we are. This new universe will contain a new sort of matter—one totally unprecedented. In any case it will be billions of years before the first life forms evolve, if indeed this universe is capable of supporting any life at all. I have theorized that perhaps there have been many universes with no life of any kind. Those universes simply were—then over countless eons they also vanished without a trace.”
“I can’t believe this is all there is,” Matheson said.
“What more can there be?” Racoczky asked. “My world ended thousands of years after I should have died. Everything became so different. It was no longer the place I had known. And I too am different. I feel things and have thoughts I never would have as a mortal man. Whether I still exist as Racoczky Saint-Germain or as some cursed immortal being, I shall never know. And now, watching it all disappear, and knowing it may never repeat itself, I only feel isolated from every other living thing in the universe.”
He turned back to Matheson, “Except you.”
His hand crept onto Matheson’s shoulder. It was cold and hard. He realized how close he had been standing next to Racoczky in his desire to see more of the end of the universe. Had his immortal thirst truly abated? Was he satisfied with synthetic liquid?
“I envy your mortal span. The urgency it brings. But perhaps this new universe will rekindle my curiosity. For it is all I have now.”
Racoczky’s hand grew tense on his shoulder.
“The rush of energy will destabilize the way station,” he said. “You may not be able to leave for some time, so I urge you to leave now, while you can.”
He gulped. Some time, in Racoczky’s terms could mean forever.
“Do you have a sample of the Treatment I could take back?” he said, impulsively. “I could save unknown numbers of human lives with it.”
Racoczky shook his head. “All things in their own time. In your lifetime, there will be huge developments in medical gerontological treatments. You may even live to see the Treatment itself being used. But I am unwilling to alter what is your future—but which would be my past.”
He turned back to the screen. “I have been thinking. I have made some experiments of my own and I am rather confident I can create new life. I may even populate a few planets and watch them grow.”
“Wait,” Matheson said. He had almost forgotten, in meeting this singularly remarkable being, why he had journeyed this far at all—the whole reason for his many time-traveling forays into the distant future. “I have a wife, children. You must give me the treatment—”
“I can see you are determined,” Racoczky smiled. “Very well. I have a sample here—”
He reached toward another console, which lifted up to reveal a second thin vial of green liquid. Matheson stepped forward.
And with that, the universe ended.
A great pulse of light shot out from the center of darkness where what had been a visible black hole was now a seething, invisible mass of superdense matter. The gravitational vortex had collapsed under the strength of its own inner forces. Now particles collided, creating massive energy waves. The quantum building blocks of all matter imploded—creating new forms—forms beyond the understanding of any physicist—simply because they were creating their own physical dynamic laws even by coming into existence.
The shock tore through the way station. What were formed were not new stars or even galaxies, but something altogether unexpected and different—a new kind of universe—one that took on a shape unknown to anything that had gone before.
Racoczky’s eyes glittered with anticipation as some kind of semi-gaseous cloud rushed toward the ship.
“Please,” he cried out to his host. “I have to know!”
Suddenly Matheson felt himself pushed back toward his ship by the force of Racoczky’s mind. He was powerless to resist as he was lifted off the floor and flung inside. The oculus closed before him.
“No, Racoczky, I want to know!”
Racoczky’s final thought accompanied him inside the orb.
“Live your life as it was meant to be,” he said.
His screams were drowned out by the deafening cacophony of whatever was coming toward them. Would the ships defenses hold? The time capsule rattled around him.
Matheson focused on survival. He strapped himself down as the outer sphere started to spin. Racoczky’s mental powers were obviously working the controls. Again he felt awe for this creature who could so effortlessly pluck thoughts from his mind.
His chair rose into the air as the pod suspended its own gravity. The walls spun faster and faster—
He felt something in the pocket of his jumpsuit. It was the vial Racoczky had given him. The thin soup contained all the power of creation—or all the artificial means to deny it. A final joke, a reprieve for humanity, or a vile temptation?
He held out the vial, his hand suspended over the edge of the chair, just inside the unified field.
What would he do with the contents?
ONE ONE THOUSAND
William Wood
“Do you read me?”
Aaron heard the voice but his thoughts were muddy, mired in something thick and still. Sleep maybe. Attempts to stretch his arms and legs, to roll . . . pointless. Like there was nothing to move.
“Come on, answer me, Aaron.”
Static popped in his ear. “Brad?”
“Yes, finally. What’s your status?”
“My . . . status . . .”
“Start simple. Harry said there would be some disorientation. Take a minute but not too long. CNN just said the last of the stars winked out. I’m not sure how long that gives us.”
Aaron opened his eyes, blinking repeatedly. Nothing to see. Only darkness.
“Talk to me, buddy.”
“Stars . . . wha—” He could feel his hands now. Air blew against his skin. His legs ached and his stomach hurt. He lay face down on something cold and spongy. Moving his hands along the surface, they seemed to catch and jump like balloons being rubbed together. “Where . . . am I, Brad?”
White noise flooded his ears in the absence of Brad’s hoarse Carolina drawl. “I was beginning to think I’d lost you, man. Just a second while I get these notes together.”
Aaron pushed himself into a squat, feet wide and arms out. The floor was soft and slick and, in the darkness, the lack of true up and down played with his balance. He worked to steady his footing and three wavering attempts later, he succeeded. The floor firmed beneath his feet, less slippery and more like a big magnet repelling smaller magnets in his shoes. Uncertain but navigable. The impression of blowing air was wrong too. His skin felt tingly, lit up with static electricity causing every hair on his body to stand on end. Even under his clothes. Like touching a Van de Graaf generator.
The machine.
A quick pat down confirmed that he still wore the survey rig across his chest and the headset that went with it.
It worked. It really worked.
“Why can’t I see, Brad?” His own voice sounded muted, dampened by the headset or the surrounding emptiness. Without waiting for the reply, he took the Maglite from his belt loop and twisted the cap one way, then the other.
Nothing. He hadn’t taken time to test it before leaving. Crap.
“Uh . . . not sure. I don’t see that here,” said Brad. The crinkle of papers shuffling prevented squelch from kicking in. “This stuff reads like DVR instructions—here we go. On the rig, upper right side, is a big round indentation. It’s a touchscreen key, so just stick your finger in the hole and it should switch on . . . says you should close your eyes for sixty seconds, then reopen.”
Aaron felt the soft plastic give slightly under his fingertip, followed by an artificial click. He quickly squeezed his eyes shut.
Shifting his weight, he tested his balance. “How long was I out?”
“Ten—twelve minutes, maybe. Seemed like forever. Power blinked out a couple of times. I don’t know if that’s because of us or not, but I heard you cry out both times.”
Aaron realized he was nodding in agreement and stopped. “What’s happening in the news?”
“Same only worse. People are losing it bad . . . everywhere.”
“What if this doesn’t work? Or what if it works and then undoes itself? We could be trapped—”
“I know, I know.” Brad was silent for long seconds. “That machine works by playing hell with causality, so . . . honesty, I just don’t know. If we don’t do anything, though, the world falls apart—that we do know. We’ve got to make this work.”
Aaron sighed and tugged at the straps holding the rig on his chest. “Harry said he’d already tried earlier tonight, twice.”
“That’s what he said, but maybe he’d lost it already. Maybe he just thought he did.”
“Way to encourage the blind time-traveler, buddy.”
Brad’s chuckle across the tinny connection sounded forced. “Yeah. I got your back. In a few seconds we’ll see where you came through and you can find Doctor Heller and end this.”
“I know the plan. My idea, remember?”
“This may be the only chance we get and power coming and going is not a good thing. Besides, taking more than one trip may be what finally did Harry in.”
“Has it been a minute yet?”
“Close enough.”
Aaron eased his eyes open. An icy blue light filled the room, dim but even, leaving no shadows. He was in a relatively small space full of boxes, chairs and an unused metal desk. The extra office being used as a storage room. Everything in the room appeared wispy, unfocused. Edges shimmered and flat surfaces rippled like grassy meadows in a windstorm.
At first the effort to move strained his muscles, but once in motion, walking became easier, reminding him of pushing along chest deep in a swimming pool. Stopping required effort and forethought as well. He felt like a baby learning to walk all over again.
“I’m in the office storeroom. Pretty weird.”
He pressed his hip against the fire exit-style safety bar on the door. It wouldn’t budge. Grabbing the bar tightly with both hands, he pushed with all the strength and weight he could muster. The bar inched downward until bottoming out, where it stayed without a hint of recoil. He felt exhausted already. Anticipating the resistance now, he shouldered the door and forced it to swing open bit by bit until he had just enough room to squeeze through.
He took in a lungful of air and leaned against the door frame. “Nothing wants to move.”
“That’s what Harry said. He called it the static past. It doesn’t want to change.”
“I believe it.”
Static past. Unmoving. Like walking around in an old, overexposed photograph.
Aaron’s stomach twisted severely and he doubled, somehow managing to remain standing despite a hammering in his skull. Within seconds the pain subsided, leaving only a dull ache behind his forehead.
“Are you okay?” Brad asked. “Power just dipped again.”
“Fine. Hurt like hell, though. Can we not do that?”
Wiping his mouth and straightening up, he looked around the lab beyond the door. The same blue light that illuminated the office shone everywhere, across the tables and workstations, the machine in the pit. And most disturbing of all, over the motionless statues of people scattered about. Friends and coworkers he’d seen only minutes ago in this very room.
Of course, those he’d seen earlier lay dead in growing pools of blood or ran out screaming into the burning streets. Three or four had even been sitting together near the corner power feeds mumbling crazily to each other, painting something on the floor in their own blood.
