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  “I’m a bit slow, remember? You’ve often told me that.”

  “No, I haven’t. I can prove—”

  “Don’t worry about calling up the relevant recordings. Even if you haven’t said it, I feel it from you sometimes.”

  “Do you really?”

  “Never mind, tell me again how this is going to work.”

  “Could you keep massaging my scalp while I do?”

  “All right.”

  “I mean sometimes you stop massaging when you’re thinking.”

  “I promise I won’t think.”

  “Very amusing.”

  “Can you start explaining?”

  “It’s all about uncertainty.”

  “Mmm, all right, go on.”

  “You’ve switched off already, haven’t you?”

  “No, but I know you’re using the word uncertainty in that way you always use words. I’ll bet it’s not the way most of us use the word.”

  “OK … think of it like a bet. You know how, in a horse race, you can never be absolutely certain of what horse will win?”

  “Unless the race is fixed and I’m in on the fix.”

  “OK, unless the race is fixed. Can we assume it’s not fixed?”

  “Of course, it’s your race. So we can’t be sure of what horse will win?”

  “Yes, we don’t know anything for certain, but people who know what they’re doing assign odds of winning to each horse.”

  “So do people who don’t know what they’re doing.”

  “Are you going to let me continue?”

  “You’re not telling me anything I don’t know, Daniel.”

  “I’m trying to simplify it.”

  “For my slow brain.”

  “I told you I’ve never said you have a slow—”

  “Look, Daniel, just go on.”

  “Well, the escape-time algorithm I’ve been working on comes down to writing a computer program into my chair that uses the uncertainty in the four-dimensional extension to the Mandelbrot set principle I’ve been extrapolating.”

  “I see.”

  “A horse race is based on mild randomness. Things like height and weight also have a mild random distribution. You’re not going to come across a twenty-meter-tall person all of a sudden, for example. Mandelbrot set–like behavior is based on wild randomness.”

  “So in the Mandelbrot world twenty-meter-tall people are common?”

  “Not exactly, but there are lots of examples of Mandelbrot set–like distributions in the real world. Nearly all human-made variables are wild. Wealth, for example, is a wild variable. We have a number of individuals that have millions of times more wealth than the average person. We live in a winner-take-all world of extremes.”

  “See, this is why I like hearing about your work, Daniel.”

  “Can you keep massaging?”

  “Sorry, you caught me thinking.”

  “Look at Babble, it controls ninety percent of the cloud traffic. And who’s the latest best-selling enhanced fiction author?”

  “It’s probably—”

  “Never mind, it was a rhetorical question. I’ll guarantee you that whoever she is, she earns millions more than the vast majority of enhanced fiction authors. And she won’t be millions times better than those other authors.”

  “No, but she’s pretty good.”

  “Are you deliberately sidetracking me?”

  “Yes, sorry.”

  “Anyway, what I’m doing is using wild randomness to accelerate myself into an extreme future time period. And because of the wildness, I can’t be absolutely certain what the Mandelbrot set–like variables will do to me.”

  “So, it’s sort of like a Mandelbrot bet?”

  * * *

  Voice notes to self on the development of the escape-time algorithm—Daniel Rostrom

  I’ve found what I’ve been overlooking. Possibility theory. It describes the uncertainty that I’ve been missing. It’s the only way to deal with extreme probabilities and partial ignorance. I need to look at both the possibility and necessity of the event. If the universe is finite (which we know it is) and every subset of it is measurable (which is what everything we do in science is based on), then the universe describes all possible future states of the world. Obvious now. Outcomes aren’t self-dual. I need to stop thinking with two-valued logic and start thinking with multivalued logic.

  “Nǐ tīngdǒng ma?”

  “What?”

  “We’re sorry, our records say Mandarin Chinese was the most common language in your space-time period. It was a statistical guess that you would understand it. Shall we proceed with mid-twenty-first-century English? Is that convenient for you, doctor?”

  “Doctor?”

  “That is the correct form of address, is it not, for a scientist from your space-time period?”

  “I don’t have a doctorate. My name is Daniel Rostrom. What … what space-time period am I in?”

  “It depends what scale you use. Allow me to elucidate, Mr. Rostrom.”

  “Please do.”

  “You understand something of the life cycle of stars?”

  “Yes, of course. It’s not my major interest, but I know my cosmology.”

  “Do you see—we use the word see as an approximation, of course—do you see the white light in your vision?”

  “Yes, in fact, that’s all I can see.”

  “You would be aware that neutron stars, black holes, and black dwarfs are dead stars. What you see here is a white dwarf, a star that, although still alive, is dying. This low-mass white dwarf will become dimmer and dimmer until it fades into a black dwarf. Do you know what a black dwarf is?”

  “Yes. It’s a white dwarf, a star that’s run out of fuel, that’s finally cooled off and isn’t radiating any visible light. Black dwarfs were only theoretical in the mid-twenty-first century. They couldn’t exist because the time taken for a white dwarf to cool to such a degree was longer than the life span of the universe up to my time period.”

  “We will talk about time in a moment. The important thing to appreciate is that a white dwarf can sustain life, a black dwarf can’t.”

  “But some white dwarfs could also evolve into supernovae.”

  “Very high mass white dwarfs, or those with orbiting companions, can in some cases become supernovae and the expanding shock waves from these explosions form new stars. This is how the life-cycle of the universe functions. Death. Life. Death. Life.”

  “But you said this white dwarf is small mass, so it’s going to die and become a black dwarf.”

  “Precisely, Mr. Rostrom, but there is something you must understand now. What you have seen here is the last star of its kind.”

  “The last white dwarf?”

  “Yes, the last white dwarf in a universe, which for billions upon billions of years has contained only white dwarfs and dead stars.”

  “Now, you are telling me something I don’t understand. There are countless yellow dwarfs, red giants, and brown dwarfs in our universe.”

  “There were. A long time ago. For eons the only stars in the universe still clinging onto life have been white dwarfs. And now there is only one remaining.”

  “What?”

  “I believe we began our conversation with that question.”

  * * *

  Voice notes to self on the development of the escape-time algorithm—Daniel Rostrom

  It’s just a matter of applying the right iterative algorithm to time travel. Quantum computers are powerful enough to do it and quantum computers don’t get much more powerful than my chair. I just have to get the sequence of qubits right. Of course I don’t know for certain what will happen, but possibility theory tells me the likelihood.

  “I think I understand. The escape-time algorithm has inevitably brought me here to the end of the universe as limiting asymptote. I’m here, so close to the end. The last white star about to go black. The last skerrick of life about to be extinguished, but I will never quite reach
it.”

  “Not quite. That would be true if your quantum leaps were still occurring, but they’re not. You’re now in real-time, and the end is imminent.”

  “So I’m going to see the universe end?”

  “Technically, your mind will be extinguished a nanosecond before it happens, but yes, unless we can find a solution, you will see the universe die.”

  “A solution?”

  “Sentient beings, no matter how advanced, never want to be extinguished. We will continue striving for an escape solution until the very end.”

  “You keep saying we. Who are the others?”

  “We are speaking to you in what you would call one voice, but there are countless beings here. We have unified. There are no individuals anymore. There haven’t been any for several million years. We’ve evolved into a single entity. Our knowledge is shared.”

  “One entity. That’s all that’s left?”

  “Yes. At a point in our universes’ history a sentient race evolved to achieve unity, to become a single sentient being, possessing the sum total of knowledge and understanding that each individual had.”

  “What happened to the other races?”

  “As eons passed, other sentient races came to the same point in their evolution and first unified as a race and then joined us. As it became clear that the universe was dying, the main aim of sentient beings was to find ways to prolong its life, or at least to find a way of prolonging sentient life. Those beings that had not joined us, knew that they now had no choice. The only hope for us all was to collectively put all our knowledge into solving the ultimate problem. That is what we have been doing for millions of years. And it is what we continue to do even now.”

  “But there must be others here now, if what you say about the escape-time algorithm is correct. It’s impossible that no one else ever discovered what I discovered. In the billions of years of the history of the universe and the countless sentient beings, there must be other time travelers who found their way here to the end of the universe?”

  “There have been others that have arrived here through the process you discovered. Many others. They are already here with us as part of the unified entity.”

  “You have … assimilated them?”

  “Of course.”

  “And you think you’re going to assimilate me as well?”

  “Our last best hope is that assimilating your mind will enable us to devise a solution to stop the last white dwarf turning black. You are the last time traveler. No one will arrive after you. There is no time anymore.”

  “I … don’t want to be assimilated. I’ve always worked alone. My thoughts are my own.”

  “You have no choice, Mr. Rostrom.”

  “You can’t take my mind. It’s all I have.”

  “It’s all we have.”

  “Let me stay separate. Please, I can solve the problem myself. Just give me the knowledge you have. I came here to the end of the universe without anyone’s help. I can get us out of this.”

  “There is no form of logic that would suggest that is true. We calculate that the possibility quotient of us finding a way to escape our fate, although extremely low, is higher if your mind is assimilated with ours.”

  “No, wait, you said I’m the last to arrive—true?”

  “Yes.”

  “The escape-time algorithm produces iterations in inverse proportion to the start time period. If I’m the last to arrive, then I must have been the first in the history of the universe to discover the escape-time algorithm.”

  “Yes, you are very astute, but—”

  “So, there is something special about me. Others had more advanced knowledge to work with than I did. What I have done is the least possible of all time travel events.”

  “Correct, but—”

  “I think I have argued a strong case for remaining an individual. Please give me everything you know and maybe I’ll help us escape the end of the universe.”

  * * *

  Voice notes to self on the development of the escape-end-universe algorithm—Daniel Rostrom

  The universe is dying. The entity has enabled sense simulation for me. I asked for a simulated body while I worked on the new algorithm, and I look like an Adonis. For the first time in my life I can feel what it’s like to be physically powerful. I flex my muscles and can’t stop laughing as I sift through the information and threads of reasoning the entity is feeding me. If only I had more time. I know I can find a solution. Or is that just idiotic arrogance? There’s a thought I’ve never had before. Maybe with the freedom of my new body I’ve finally become aware of my limitations. Wouldn’t that be ironic? Helen, you’ve probably noticed these aren’t proper voice notes anymore. I’m really talking to you—you know that, don’t you?

  “The time has come, Daniel. Everything is now too late. Do you want to join us for the end?”

  “No, I want face it alone.”

  “You continue to surprise us with your choices.”

  “Well, that’s what life is all about, isn’t it? With only one sentient being in the universe, where are the surprises?”

  “There are no more surprises. We’ve both failed.”

  “I’m going to keep reporting what I see.”

  “Of course.”

  “Will anyone hear?”

  “That’s beyond even our abilities to know. Theoretically quantum synapses on your neural link may make it possible. You have been very astute, but the time distortions cannot be mapped by any algorithm.”

  “Not astute enough to come up with a way to stop the universe from ending.”

  “I believe it’s happening now.”

  “What, so soon?”

  “You persist in your time perceptions.”

  Helen, I can feel the wild stellar winds buffet me as a bright shimmer appears in my vision. The white mass of the last living star in the universe is beginning to shed its outer layers. It’s so beautiful. I wish you could see it with me. Inside I can see a crystalline lattice of carbon and oxygen atoms, a diamond-like core glowing with intense light.

  Now it’s all starting to darken.

  Helen, if you can still hear me, I want to say good-bye. I know I didn’t always treat you as well as I should have. I’m … I’m going to say something I thought I would take to my grave. I’m so gutless I can only say it now because possibility theory suggests it’s highly unlikely that you’ll ever hear it. Helen, I’ve always loved you. I know you couldn’t ever love such a twisted cripple as me, so I chose never to say anything. I recorded all our conversations not to trip you up about things you had said in the past, but because I never wanted your voice to leave me. That’s the real truth. Good-bye, my truth.

  * * *

  The loner in physics—Eleanora Schmidt

  Daniel Rostrom’s recordings, therefore, are either delusional flights of fancy which will keep the world’s psychiatrists busy for decades to come or they present the scientific community with unsurpassed information and reasoning about the end of the universe. Who knows, perhaps by giving one sentient race such depth of understanding so early in the life of the universe, perhaps we have the head start we need, and in the billions of years until the end, the sentient beings of the universe will learn enough to stop the death of the last star.

  “Daniel, I guess I’m hoping you’re so brilliant that you’ve somehow engineered it so that you can still hear me. If not, well, I guess I’m just talking to myself here. I have been listening to every word. People think you’re making it all up, but I believe you. I believe everything you’ve said. I do love you too. And I could have loved you more if you’d let me. Believing you, of course, means you’ll never come back. You won the bet. Well done. Good-bye, Daniel.”

  RECOLLECTION

  Nancy Fulda

  * * *

  Despite all the gains science has made, we are still held hostage to the inevitability of death. We can extend our life spans further and further, but eventually, inescapably, death overta
kes us.

  Memory loss is much like death. The body remains, but the person inhabiting that body has lost most of what makes us alive.

  Nancy Fulda’s “Recollection” shows us that science alone is not enough to heal us. There has to be love. We are mammals, after all, and without the warmth and care of other mammals we may be able to exist, but we cannot live.

  * * *

  The dream is always the same. You are a tangled mass of neurons, tumbling through meteors. Flaming impacts pierce your fragile surface, leaving ragged gouges. You writhe, deforming under bombardment, until nothing is left except a translucent tatter, crumbling as it descends. Comets pelt the desiccated fibers. You fall, and keep falling, and cannot escape the feeling that, despite your lack of hands, you are scrabbling desperately at the rim of a shrouded tunnel, unable to halt your descent. Glimmers crawl along the faint remaining strands, blurring as you tumble …

  You awaken to warmth and stillness. Gone are the soulless tiled floors of the seniors’ home. Sterile window drapes have been replaced by sandalwood blinds. Fresh air blows through the vents, overlaying faint sounds from the bathroom and from morning traffic on nearby canyon roads. You clutch the quilted blankets, stomach plummeting. This cozy bedroom, with its sturdy hardwood furnishings, should be familiar to you, but it isn’t. Two days, and still nothing makes sense. You feel as though you’re suffocating. Tumbling …

  Your wife has heard you gasping for air. She comes running, nightgown flapping behind her. Her face is creased in overlapping furrows. Your mirror tells you that the two of you are a match: the same fading hair, the same shrunken hollows along the eyes. Laugh lines, she calls them, but you cannot manage to see them as anything except deformities, in your face and hers both.

  “Elliott?” She grabs your hand and kneels at the bedside to look in your eyes. “It’s me, Elliott. Everything’s fine. Everything’s going to be OK.”

  Her name, you recall, is Grace. She told it to you two days ago, and is irrationally elated that you are able to repeat it to her upon demand, anytime she asks. You feel like a trained puppy, yapping for treats, except there aren’t any treats.