He stood there on the edge, in the heavy robes necessitated by the changing climate of his dying world. As far as he knew, he was the last survivor.
Carved on what was once a distinguished face were the effects of these last few years. He was old now, even by the standards of his own society. The weight of his long leadership, his efforts to stop what he saw coming, and the stress created by a final, self-appointed task, had increased the burdens of his almost 2,000 years of life.
As he stood there, mental shadows from the long but distinct past sifted through his mind. No other being could imagine what he had seen or lived through, except those who were now millions of miles away, looking for a new home. None could imagine the futility he had felt in trying to preserve what they had created, believing that the destruction could be reversed. They told him the coming storm was inevitable.
He shook himself, hoping to rid his mind of those haunting thoughts, because as the hour of his departure neared, he knew he could not, and should not, indulge in such thinking. Furthermore, what did it matter now? He summoned consolation from deep within; and a hope that in time a few of the lower life forms might again take hold and life might begin again. But now he had no time to consider the past or its consequences.
He would be leaving soon. That had been planned for almost a century. He would be the last to leave because he had to be. His ship waited for him; a silent friend, hidden in the workshop beneath this castle, a natural cavernous formation that he had used for centuries as his place of creation. He recalled, momentarily, the compulsion he had felt to finish it once he had begun its transformation. He had puzzled, then, over the significance of that feeling. Now, he knew. He would need it, even though that need had been far in the future.
He looked out over this dark and dying world, scorched by the fires of weapons hastily and unconscionably released. They had left as their mark such a dreadful barrenness that the reality of absolute destruction spread throughout his soul like an all-consuming plague.
EVERY LIVING THING HAD CEASED TO BE.
The only good to come from the totality of the destruction, of course, was that THEY were gone also.
The cold began to penetrate his ancient flesh. He knew he should go inside. Yet the urge to linger, along with a weariness in his soul, pulled at him, and he stood there a few moments longer.
Far off in the distance, a light caught his eye, but then just as suddenly was gone. His brow furrowed. How curious.
“GO INSIDE. GO. YOU’LL FREEZE TO DEATH.”
“I’m dying anyway, what difference does it make,” he answered himself.
“GO INSIDE!”
He knew it was time but still he stood there. He stared out across the bareness of his home.
He thought of the heights his race had reached, and now reflecting on the depths to which it had fallen, he shuddered visibly. A feeling of such finality overcame him that a tear, almost imperceptible, formed, but just as quickly, was made to disappear.
Sad; so sad, he thought. Such a waste. But in that sadness was the solace of knowing that his ship would provide a haven for himself, for a while at least, and a safe storage facility for the Knowledge Tapes he had taken so long to collect and preserve. He would see that they were carefully prepared, long before his impending departure and demise. Even if he was to die before reaching the next inhabited world, this ship was totally self-sufficient. It could detect inhabited worlds, land and make contact. Once the next phase was reached and the others were contacted, the tapes began to “speak” and would continue to recycle for at least 10 years before stopping. The others would have to figure out how to re-start them and what they were about.
TO BE CONTINUED
