Red Shift
The Observer of Endworld watches and waits and, once daily, pushes a button. It does not matter to the Observer what the button does or that a single day can last a month on Endworld, last planet of the farthest system, where time is pulled and pressed like toffee. Whenever he sleeps, he is woken again by artificial daylight and the song of extinct birds. He eats in the mess hall, defecates in the bathroom and exercises in the gym. He cannot remember how long he has been on Endworld or why he was sent there.
There is only one thing which troubles the Observer, and this is the fact that Endworld appears to be dying.
The station computer advises him daily of its decline, of the fact that each day a little more of the planet has gone, disappeared into nothingness. He has visited the sites where it happens, but found nothing; only the sensors indicate that there was once a lake there, or a mountain, or a petrified forest; only the maps confirm that there is simply less of the planet each day. He has sent back messages about the phenomenon, because he seems to recall that it was for just such an eventuality that he and his predecessors were sent to Endworld. But no response ever came.
Now he stares upwards. Above him a supernova reforms into a star, a marvel so common as to be banal. There is no sound except the rattle of his own breathing through the respirator. Then a crackle of static and a voice calibrated to induce feelings of trust and security manifests itself inside the Observer’s head.
‘Sir?’
‘Computer,’ the Observer responds.
‘There is a message, Sir.’
‘A message?’
The Observer hesitates, uncertain what to do.
‘For me?’
‘Perhaps, Sir. It is somewhat unclear.’
‘Patch it through,’ he says at last.
A hiss of dead air and then a second, unfamiliar voice speaks, echoing metallically, affecting joy: ‘Congratulations! You’re a winner in this week’s triple rollover jackpot! Call 0800 242 6862 to claim your prize. Callers must be 18 or over. Calls cost £3.50 per minute. Terms and restrictions apply.’
How many millions of miles? How many millions of years? For a message which meant nothing, solved nothing. The Observer looked up at the entirety of existence spiralling out behind him, shook his head and walked on.
