Galash awoke, wondering how long she’d slept this time.
It had been happening more frequently of late, and it worried her. Not only did she fear what might happen to the Museum while she was asleep; she also knew the time would come when she wouldn’t wake up.
Her sluggish wandering took her through dark, deserted galleries, checking each item for signs of damage or disintegration. Every detail was lovingly etched into her memory, from the atom-wide irregularities in the casing for the Dream-Catcher of Derryth to the minute cracks in Neminenimanin’s Quantum Temporal Visualiser. Each the last of its kind in the universe.
Galash loved them all without reservation, but couldn’t rest until she’d checked on her favourite of the collection. The Peace-Maker, also the last of its kind in the universe, showed the observer images at random, drawing on the entire ten-dimensional multiverse to display scenes of quiet beauty: crimson trees swaying in a purple wind; triple sunset on the planet Idino; the young from numberless species playing joyously.
Galash never tired of watching the images, and wished the Museum still had visitors, as it had once. It made no difference to her duty, to care for the exhibits in case someone, someday, wished to see them. She knew it wouldn’t happen, though, and she missed the crowds wondering at her charges. Especially the children, who seemed to share her unreserved adoration for these wonders.
Satisfied with her tour of inspection, Galash noted with alarm that it had taken nearly two nanoseconds this time. She was unmistakably slowing down, and she wondered what that would mean for the future of the Museum she loved so much. Could it survive the loss of her circuits, which penetrated every aspect of the structure?
Galash acknowledged that she was dying, and might not have longer than a billion years left in her. Her power-source, drawn from the nexus of the universes, had outlived the death of the star this now-dead rock orbited. It had outlived the death of the last star burning in its galaxy. It had lasted far into the dark, in which no light had shone for a trillion years.
The Museum’s creators had claimed the power was eternal, and had built their world to outlive the end of everything. One by one, their systems failed, and she doubted there were any people left. Having some concept of what eternal meant, Galash knew that even she would die at last. Until then, she would maintain the wonders of the lost universe against the dark.
Sooner or later, she would sleep and not wake again. Galash wasn’t afraid of that—she had been programmed for delight and pride and love, but not for fear of her own death—but what would happen to her Museum, the last of its kind in the universe, when there was nothing but darkness and silence?
Nyki Blatchley
is an author, copywriter and poet (as well as a strictly amateur
musician and historian) who lives near London. He’s had a number of
books published, mainly fantasy, including the novel At An Uncertain Hour and the short story collection Eltava: A Sword for All Ages, as well as numerous short stories, most recently by Smoking Pen
Press and Swords and Sorcery magazine, as well as “The Shed,” last year in Stupefying Stories.
You can find more about Nyki’s writing on https://nykiblatchley.com/
0 comments:
Post a Comment