Keepsake 纪念品
By Gary Cuba
Translated by Noc
2014-12
彗星科幻
"The house looks like it's falling apart," Becky said.
Sam maneuvered their car into the driveway and crunched to a stop in the snow. "I haven't been here in, oh, ten years or more," he said. "It's gone downhill fast since then. No surprise, really. My Grandmom couldn't keep up with the required maintenance. Entropy's taken over now. Sad. It used to be such a cheery place, as I remember it."
Sam's grandmother had died from cancer the week before. His father gave him a key to the house and told him to remove any personal articles he wanted to keep. The rest was destined to be cleaned out by the estate auction people the next week, then the old homestead would go up for sale. Not that anyone would want to buy such a run-down place, Sam thought.
They stomped their icy boots on the front porch and entered the house. It was dark and cold inside, and smelled strongly of mold. Worse, one of the water pipes had apparently burst before the water had been cut off, drenching the parlor.
"Good Lord!" Becky said. "Your Granny certainly had a thing for glassware, didn't she?" She swept her arms toward the many shelves and showcases that lined the walls.
"It was the one thing that made her happy. She cherished these objects."
Becky walked through the parlor, looking at the expansive collection of glass vases, bowls, pitchers and figurines. "It's all kind of . . . kitschy. Old-fashioned stuff. Now I understand why you see so much of it at estate sales outlets. This junk must have been considered pretty by women of your Grandmom's era. Ye gods, look at this horror!"
Becky took an ornamental glass teacup off a shelf and held it up for Sam's inspection. It had delicate, intertwining glass filigrees around the base, rim and handle. She blew on it to clear off some of the accumulated dust.
"Stop! Don't do that!" Sam said. He grabbed the cup from her hands and backed away.
"What's the matter? It's just an old--"
"I remember something my grandmother told me, last time I visited her. When I said to her that her glassware could use some dusting, she replied, 'Dust is like memories, dear. If you whisk it away, the memories disappear.'"
"Sam, I'm sorry. I didn't know how deeply you felt about this stuff."
"Grandmom's mind had started to go by that time. She'd been losing beloved memories. I . . . I guess she transferred her fear of losing them into her glassware. Old people get crazy ideas like that. Still . . ."
#
Still.
The glass cup survived, and accumulated more dust. At first, the dust from Sam and Becky's failing marriage. Then, after Sam died, the cup was bequeathed to his son, who didn't let very much dust fall onto it before he sold it to an antique dealer. There, it picked up more dust. And even more, as the cup exchanged owners.
By that time, the teacup had gained significant value as an example of exquisitely handcrafted early 20th Century glassware. Not many people could understand what a handcrafted article even was anymore, and what made it more valuable than a machine-made one. But a few still did.
Eventually, the cup found itself in a museum. And then another, bigger museum. And then another. At times, the glass teacup was hidden to save it from destruction by wars. Ironically, thermonuclear weapons created glass themselves--but only in the form of amorphous, unaesthetic slag. Grandmother's cup survived it all--although, not without picking up a different sort of dust from the bombings.
The world fell into ruin, picked itself back up and tried again. And again, and again. Through it all, grandmother's teacup was kept safe. The few people who survived the pinchpoints of human evolution recognized it as an icon of their former glory, and it inspired them to rise up from their degenerated state. Try. Try. Try again. Don't let the memories die.
In the end, their trials yielded success.
There came a time when a grandmother took her grandson to the museum to view the historical articles on display there. They floated through the galleries, and came upon the glass cup. Grandmother remarked, "Such fine handcrafting." Her grandson replied: "What is a hand?"
#
Glass is an interesting material. It is not considered a solid, but rather a super-cooled liquid. It slumps, over time--over a long, long time. It is as a clock, geared to represent the slowest of time passages, well beyond a single lifetime's cognizance. Medieval glass windows are slightly thicker at their base than their top. They've slumped a tiny bit over a few hundred years. What happens over thousands, millions, billions of years?
Yes, and that's when the sun will have turned into a red giant star, having depleted its store of precious helium. It will expand and liquefy the Earth. The planet will turn into glass--given that its most prevalent element is silicon. It will be a dark glass, to be sure. And it will contain much dust and many memories within it . . .
But this was not to be the fate of Grandmother's teacup. It had been transported on one of the evacuating colony ships to a younger planet, orbiting a younger star. By this time, it had slumped significantly, incorporating much of its surface dust into its amorphous interior. Indeed, one would be hard-pressed to recognize its original shape or function. But all who viewed it considered it precious beyond value, a symbol of times when artisans would put the thought of all they loved into all they made.
Some might declare that the object's entropy had risen, since its original form had degenerated so much. But that would be wrong. It would discount the organized value of the dust inside, embodying the memories, the intelligence, the love, the hate, the entirety of human emotions embedded within it.
#
More time passed. Grandmother's cup now floated through empty space, after having somehow survived intact from the destruction of the last planet it had called home.
Much of the matter of the universe had disappeared in these late times, flowing back into the universal Planck foam from which it had originated, trillions of years before. Protons were disintegrating rapidly now, everywhere. If it'd had cognizance, the teacup would be worried for its continued existence. It would be thinking about Grandmother, Sam, and all the other people who had touched it and imbued it with a vital part of themselves.
But glass teacups don't think.
#
Sentient beings were once prevalent in the universe. They lived and died, many billions of them, according to their fates. No one now can number their pathetic ambitions, their will to power, their ineffective efforts to achieve immortality.
But at the end of time, one of those races survived, and successfully defied its own extinction.
It called itself the Entropy Warrior.
It began life as a gaseous entity, a Boltzman Brain, formed from random movements of atoms that, given sufficient time, were guaranteed to find a physical arrangement that echoed the pattern of consciousness.
To be sure, many such Boltzman Brains had formed throughout the course of universal history. They flickered into existence for a few Plank moments, then were extinguished as their constituent parts swirled apart again. This one was different, however. In the instant of its formation, it had managed to project its consciousness throughout its nebulous birth-cloud, which stabilized its continuing existence.
The Entropy Warrior's singular motivation was to preserve and promulgate anything containing order, against a universe that had other plans for itself.
It was only a matter of astronomical time before Grandmother's teacup, now a nondescript, round lump of clouded glass, passed into the Brain's grasp. The object was fully interrogated, its entrained memories recognized at last.
Yes, the Entropy Warrior thought, this is a worthy object to pass on to the adjacent universal brane, where it can be manifested again in all its original glory. It will act as a seed, bringing its racial memories to whatever sentient beings might evolve in its presence.
#
"Okay, then take the teacup, Sam," Becky said. "I don't see anything I want here."
Sam stared at the glass object in his hands. His eyes began to water, and a single tear fell into the cup.
"Yes," he said. "This is all I need."
They exited the house and got into their car. Sam cranked it to life, and backed it down the driveway. He paused before continuing.
"Are you okay, Sam?"
"Just tired, I guess. Too many memories to process all at once. Do you think anyone will remember us when we're gone?"
"Probably not. But why does that even matter? We won't be around to fret about it."
Sam grunted, put the car in gear and headed home.
###
“这房子看着都快散架了,”贝琪说。
萨姆拐进房子旁边的车道,车子嘎吱一声停在雪地里。“我上次来……喔,还是十多年前,”他说。“之后它更是一天不如一天。这不奇怪,真的。奶奶搞不来那些该有的养护。现在这儿已经完全是熵的地盘了。真悲哀。这地方以前多让人高兴啊,我还记着呢。”
萨姆的祖母上周死于癌症。他父亲给了他一把房子的钥匙,让他把想要保留的私人物品都拿走。资产拍卖处的人下周过来,剩下的东西肯定会被他们清干净,然后这座老宅子就会被挂牌出售。没什么人会想要这么破败的房子吧,萨姆暗想。
他们在前廊上跺掉靴子上的冰渣,走了进去。里面又黑又暗,霉味很重。更糟的是,有根水管明显在断水之前爆裂了,客厅湿了一大片。
“老天!”贝琪说。“你奶奶可真喜欢玻璃制品啊!”她朝着墙上一排排的架子和陈列柜挥了下手臂。
“这能让她高兴。这些东西就是她的宝贝。”
贝琪穿过客厅,看着那些数量可观的玻璃器皿——花瓶、碗、水罐还有小雕像。“它们都有点……俗气。过时的玩意。现在我算明白了,为什么资产拍卖处的店里有那么多这种东西。你祖母那个年代的女人肯定觉得这些破烂挺漂亮。天哪,瞧瞧这个!”
贝琪从架子上取下一个观赏用的玻璃茶杯,举起来让萨姆观察。它的底部、杯口和把手上镶着精美而交织的玻璃花纹。她吹了口气,想吹掉杯子上积的灰尘。
“别!别那么做!”萨姆说。他从她手中夺过杯子,后退几步。
“怎么了?不就是个旧……”
“我想起了上次去看她时,她跟我说过的话。我对她说,她那些玻璃制品可以除除尘了,她回答,‘灰尘就像记忆,亲爱的。如果你把它们掸干净了,记忆也就消失了。’”
“萨姆,我很抱歉。我不知道你对这些东西的感情那么深。”
“从那时起,祖母的脑子就开始慢慢糊涂了。她不断失去自己珍爱的回忆。我觉得……她把对丧失记忆的恐惧转移到了玻璃制品上。老人家经常会有这种疯狂的念头。然而……”
#
然而。
那只玻璃杯被保留了下来,而且积了更多灰。起初,那些积尘来自于萨姆和贝琪失败的婚姻。接着,当萨姆死后,杯子传给了他儿子,没等杯子覆上多少灰尘,他就把它卖给了一位古董商。杯子在古董商那儿积攒了更多尘埃。然后它屡经转手,积了愈加多的灰尘。
那个时候,这只茶杯已成为二十世纪早期精美的手工玻璃制品的代表,身价不菲。很多人甚至已经不知道什么是手工制品了,也不知道它们为什么比机械制品更值钱。不过,少数人依然了解它们的价值。
最终,这只杯子发现自己来到了博物馆。接着是另一家,更大的博物馆。接着又换了一家。偶尔它会被藏起来,以免受到战争的破坏。讽刺的是,热核武器本身就会制造出玻璃——不过那只是些不规则的、毫无美感的玻璃渣。祖母的杯子经历了这一切,完好无损——只不过,核爆炸给它披上了另一种尘埃。
世界毁灭,又重振旗鼓,重新开始。一次,又一次。自始至终,祖母的杯子安然无恙。历经人类演化的危急之秋而幸存下来的人们,将这只杯子视作昔日荣耀的象征,它激励着他们重建衰败的国家,从废墟上东山再起。努力。努力。再努力。别让那些记忆死去。
最后,他们的努力成功了。
一次,一位祖母带着她的孙子去博物馆观看在展文物。他们飘浮着穿过长廊,偶然看见了那只玻璃杯。祖母评论道,“多精美的手工艺品啊。”孙子问:“手是什么?”
#
玻璃是种有趣的物质。它被看作是一种过冷液体,而不是固体。随着时间流逝,玻璃会向下沉积——那是很长、很长的时间。玻璃就像是某种用来描述时间流逝的最最缓慢的钟表,人即便穷其一生也无法察觉它的变化。中世纪玻璃窗的底部比顶部要稍稍厚一些。它们在几百年中向下沉积了一点点。而当时间过去数千年、数百万年、数亿年,又会发生什么呢?
是的,那时太阳将耗尽它宝贵的氦储量,变成一颗红巨星。它会向外扩张,将地球融化。由于硅是地球上最丰富的元素,整颗星球都会变成玻璃。它会变成一坨黑乎乎的玻璃,肯定的。里面还将包含着许多尘埃和回忆……
不过,祖母那只杯子的命运却并非如此。它被运到了一艘疏散用殖民船上,这些殖民船会驶向一颗更年轻的行星,而这颗行星绕着一颗更年轻的恒星旋转。到那个时候,这只杯子已经向下沉积得很明显了,许多表面的尘埃被吸收进了其形状混沌的内部。真的,它原本的形状和功能已经没有办法辨认了。不过所有看过它的人都认为它是一件无价之宝,是时代的标志——在那些时代,匠人们会将他们喜爱的一切灌注到作品之中。
有些人也许会断言,这件东西里的熵增加了,因为杯子的原始形态早已大大退化。但这种说法是错误的。它没有把杯子中那些灰尘的有序价值计算在内——这些灰尘包含着记忆、智慧、爱、还有恨,人类的所有情感都深深嵌入其中。
#
又过了很久。
最后一个被称作家园的行星也毁灭了,祖母的杯子不知怎的幸存了下来,现在它飘浮在空空荡荡的宇宙里。
在这世界的暮年,宇宙中大部分的物质都消失了,它们朝着无所不在的普朗克泡沫回流而去——亿万年前它们就是从那里诞生的。质子正快速衰变,到处都是如此。如果这只茶杯拥有知觉,它会担心自己还能不能继续存在下去。它会思考着祖母、萨姆,还有所有触碰过它、并将自己的一部分生命赋予给它的人。
但是,玻璃杯是不会思考的。
#
智慧生物曾在宇宙中盛极一时。他们活着,死去,数量达到数十亿,命运各不相同。如今没有人能历数他们可悲的壮志雄心,他们对权力的渴望,他们为实现不朽而做过多少徒劳无功的尝试。
不过在时间的终点,有一个种族活了下来,成功扭转了灭绝的命运。
他们称自己为熵武士。
他们的初始生命形态是一种气态实体,一颗玻尔兹曼大脑,产生于原子的随机运动——只要时间足够长,原子必定会形成某种类似于意识结构的物理排列。
当然了,宇宙的历史长河中出现过许多这样的玻尔兹曼大脑。它们倏忽而现,维持几个普朗克时间,接着便再次消散于无形。然而这颗大脑不一样。在形成的瞬间,它便成功将自己的意识投射了出去,遍布孕育了它的星云,确保了它的持续存在。
熵武士的唯一目标就是保护任何具备秩序的东西,并将之传播出去,尽管宇宙自身另有打算。
祖母的杯子经过熵武士的意识领域只是时间问题——虽然这时间是个天文数字。这时,杯子已经成了一团难以描述的粗糙玻璃块。熵武士对它进行了彻底审视,最终识别出了玻璃中夹杂的记忆。
恩,熵武士想着,这是件了不起的东西,值得把它传送到相邻的膜宇宙去,它将在那儿重现最初的荣耀。它会充当一颗种子,将它的种族记忆带给所有或许会在演化之路上遇见它的智慧生命。
#
“好了,就拿那只杯子吧,萨姆,”贝琪说。“我没看到什么想要的东西。”
萨姆盯着手中的玻璃杯。他的眼睛慢慢湿润,一滴眼泪坠入杯中。
“是的,”他说。“我只需要这个。”
他们离开房子,钻进汽车。萨姆发动车子,把它倒出车道。出发前他停顿了一下。
“你还好吗,萨姆?”
“只是有点累,我猜。突然有那么多回忆涌上来。你觉得我们死了以后,会有人记得我们吗?”
“大概不会。不过那有什么关系?到时候我们都不在了,不会为这事烦心。”
萨姆咕哝了一声,随即挂上档,朝家驶去。
「完」
—————————————————————————--
彗星科幻:每月举办的国际短篇科幻赛事,展现地球上最好最高水平的科幻短篇创作。
每月从全世界范围邀请5名优秀科幻作者命题创作,字数3000-4500,获胜者奖金3000元(海外作者500美金)。
投稿、合作请联系:sfcomet@qq.com
官网:www.SFComet.com
微信号:SFComet
By Gary Cuba
Translated by Noc
2014-12
彗星科幻
"The house looks like it's falling apart," Becky said.
Sam maneuvered their car into the driveway and crunched to a stop in the snow. "I haven't been here in, oh, ten years or more," he said. "It's gone downhill fast since then. No surprise, really. My Grandmom couldn't keep up with the required maintenance. Entropy's taken over now. Sad. It used to be such a cheery place, as I remember it."
Sam's grandmother had died from cancer the week before. His father gave him a key to the house and told him to remove any personal articles he wanted to keep. The rest was destined to be cleaned out by the estate auction people the next week, then the old homestead would go up for sale. Not that anyone would want to buy such a run-down place, Sam thought.
They stomped their icy boots on the front porch and entered the house. It was dark and cold inside, and smelled strongly of mold. Worse, one of the water pipes had apparently burst before the water had been cut off, drenching the parlor.
"Good Lord!" Becky said. "Your Granny certainly had a thing for glassware, didn't she?" She swept her arms toward the many shelves and showcases that lined the walls.
"It was the one thing that made her happy. She cherished these objects."
Becky walked through the parlor, looking at the expansive collection of glass vases, bowls, pitchers and figurines. "It's all kind of . . . kitschy. Old-fashioned stuff. Now I understand why you see so much of it at estate sales outlets. This junk must have been considered pretty by women of your Grandmom's era. Ye gods, look at this horror!"
Becky took an ornamental glass teacup off a shelf and held it up for Sam's inspection. It had delicate, intertwining glass filigrees around the base, rim and handle. She blew on it to clear off some of the accumulated dust.
"Stop! Don't do that!" Sam said. He grabbed the cup from her hands and backed away.
"What's the matter? It's just an old--"
"I remember something my grandmother told me, last time I visited her. When I said to her that her glassware could use some dusting, she replied, 'Dust is like memories, dear. If you whisk it away, the memories disappear.'"
"Sam, I'm sorry. I didn't know how deeply you felt about this stuff."
"Grandmom's mind had started to go by that time. She'd been losing beloved memories. I . . . I guess she transferred her fear of losing them into her glassware. Old people get crazy ideas like that. Still . . ."
#
Still.
The glass cup survived, and accumulated more dust. At first, the dust from Sam and Becky's failing marriage. Then, after Sam died, the cup was bequeathed to his son, who didn't let very much dust fall onto it before he sold it to an antique dealer. There, it picked up more dust. And even more, as the cup exchanged owners.
By that time, the teacup had gained significant value as an example of exquisitely handcrafted early 20th Century glassware. Not many people could understand what a handcrafted article even was anymore, and what made it more valuable than a machine-made one. But a few still did.
Eventually, the cup found itself in a museum. And then another, bigger museum. And then another. At times, the glass teacup was hidden to save it from destruction by wars. Ironically, thermonuclear weapons created glass themselves--but only in the form of amorphous, unaesthetic slag. Grandmother's cup survived it all--although, not without picking up a different sort of dust from the bombings.
The world fell into ruin, picked itself back up and tried again. And again, and again. Through it all, grandmother's teacup was kept safe. The few people who survived the pinchpoints of human evolution recognized it as an icon of their former glory, and it inspired them to rise up from their degenerated state. Try. Try. Try again. Don't let the memories die.
In the end, their trials yielded success.
There came a time when a grandmother took her grandson to the museum to view the historical articles on display there. They floated through the galleries, and came upon the glass cup. Grandmother remarked, "Such fine handcrafting." Her grandson replied: "What is a hand?"
#
Glass is an interesting material. It is not considered a solid, but rather a super-cooled liquid. It slumps, over time--over a long, long time. It is as a clock, geared to represent the slowest of time passages, well beyond a single lifetime's cognizance. Medieval glass windows are slightly thicker at their base than their top. They've slumped a tiny bit over a few hundred years. What happens over thousands, millions, billions of years?
Yes, and that's when the sun will have turned into a red giant star, having depleted its store of precious helium. It will expand and liquefy the Earth. The planet will turn into glass--given that its most prevalent element is silicon. It will be a dark glass, to be sure. And it will contain much dust and many memories within it . . .
But this was not to be the fate of Grandmother's teacup. It had been transported on one of the evacuating colony ships to a younger planet, orbiting a younger star. By this time, it had slumped significantly, incorporating much of its surface dust into its amorphous interior. Indeed, one would be hard-pressed to recognize its original shape or function. But all who viewed it considered it precious beyond value, a symbol of times when artisans would put the thought of all they loved into all they made.
Some might declare that the object's entropy had risen, since its original form had degenerated so much. But that would be wrong. It would discount the organized value of the dust inside, embodying the memories, the intelligence, the love, the hate, the entirety of human emotions embedded within it.
#
More time passed. Grandmother's cup now floated through empty space, after having somehow survived intact from the destruction of the last planet it had called home.
Much of the matter of the universe had disappeared in these late times, flowing back into the universal Planck foam from which it had originated, trillions of years before. Protons were disintegrating rapidly now, everywhere. If it'd had cognizance, the teacup would be worried for its continued existence. It would be thinking about Grandmother, Sam, and all the other people who had touched it and imbued it with a vital part of themselves.
But glass teacups don't think.
#
Sentient beings were once prevalent in the universe. They lived and died, many billions of them, according to their fates. No one now can number their pathetic ambitions, their will to power, their ineffective efforts to achieve immortality.
But at the end of time, one of those races survived, and successfully defied its own extinction.
It called itself the Entropy Warrior.
It began life as a gaseous entity, a Boltzman Brain, formed from random movements of atoms that, given sufficient time, were guaranteed to find a physical arrangement that echoed the pattern of consciousness.
To be sure, many such Boltzman Brains had formed throughout the course of universal history. They flickered into existence for a few Plank moments, then were extinguished as their constituent parts swirled apart again. This one was different, however. In the instant of its formation, it had managed to project its consciousness throughout its nebulous birth-cloud, which stabilized its continuing existence.
The Entropy Warrior's singular motivation was to preserve and promulgate anything containing order, against a universe that had other plans for itself.
It was only a matter of astronomical time before Grandmother's teacup, now a nondescript, round lump of clouded glass, passed into the Brain's grasp. The object was fully interrogated, its entrained memories recognized at last.
Yes, the Entropy Warrior thought, this is a worthy object to pass on to the adjacent universal brane, where it can be manifested again in all its original glory. It will act as a seed, bringing its racial memories to whatever sentient beings might evolve in its presence.
#
"Okay, then take the teacup, Sam," Becky said. "I don't see anything I want here."
Sam stared at the glass object in his hands. His eyes began to water, and a single tear fell into the cup.
"Yes," he said. "This is all I need."
They exited the house and got into their car. Sam cranked it to life, and backed it down the driveway. He paused before continuing.
"Are you okay, Sam?"
"Just tired, I guess. Too many memories to process all at once. Do you think anyone will remember us when we're gone?"
"Probably not. But why does that even matter? We won't be around to fret about it."
Sam grunted, put the car in gear and headed home.
###
“这房子看着都快散架了,”贝琪说。
萨姆拐进房子旁边的车道,车子嘎吱一声停在雪地里。“我上次来……喔,还是十多年前,”他说。“之后它更是一天不如一天。这不奇怪,真的。奶奶搞不来那些该有的养护。现在这儿已经完全是熵的地盘了。真悲哀。这地方以前多让人高兴啊,我还记着呢。”
萨姆的祖母上周死于癌症。他父亲给了他一把房子的钥匙,让他把想要保留的私人物品都拿走。资产拍卖处的人下周过来,剩下的东西肯定会被他们清干净,然后这座老宅子就会被挂牌出售。没什么人会想要这么破败的房子吧,萨姆暗想。
他们在前廊上跺掉靴子上的冰渣,走了进去。里面又黑又暗,霉味很重。更糟的是,有根水管明显在断水之前爆裂了,客厅湿了一大片。
“老天!”贝琪说。“你奶奶可真喜欢玻璃制品啊!”她朝着墙上一排排的架子和陈列柜挥了下手臂。
“这能让她高兴。这些东西就是她的宝贝。”
贝琪穿过客厅,看着那些数量可观的玻璃器皿——花瓶、碗、水罐还有小雕像。“它们都有点……俗气。过时的玩意。现在我算明白了,为什么资产拍卖处的店里有那么多这种东西。你祖母那个年代的女人肯定觉得这些破烂挺漂亮。天哪,瞧瞧这个!”
贝琪从架子上取下一个观赏用的玻璃茶杯,举起来让萨姆观察。它的底部、杯口和把手上镶着精美而交织的玻璃花纹。她吹了口气,想吹掉杯子上积的灰尘。
“别!别那么做!”萨姆说。他从她手中夺过杯子,后退几步。
“怎么了?不就是个旧……”
“我想起了上次去看她时,她跟我说过的话。我对她说,她那些玻璃制品可以除除尘了,她回答,‘灰尘就像记忆,亲爱的。如果你把它们掸干净了,记忆也就消失了。’”
“萨姆,我很抱歉。我不知道你对这些东西的感情那么深。”
“从那时起,祖母的脑子就开始慢慢糊涂了。她不断失去自己珍爱的回忆。我觉得……她把对丧失记忆的恐惧转移到了玻璃制品上。老人家经常会有这种疯狂的念头。然而……”
#
然而。
那只玻璃杯被保留了下来,而且积了更多灰。起初,那些积尘来自于萨姆和贝琪失败的婚姻。接着,当萨姆死后,杯子传给了他儿子,没等杯子覆上多少灰尘,他就把它卖给了一位古董商。杯子在古董商那儿积攒了更多尘埃。然后它屡经转手,积了愈加多的灰尘。
那个时候,这只茶杯已成为二十世纪早期精美的手工玻璃制品的代表,身价不菲。很多人甚至已经不知道什么是手工制品了,也不知道它们为什么比机械制品更值钱。不过,少数人依然了解它们的价值。
最终,这只杯子发现自己来到了博物馆。接着是另一家,更大的博物馆。接着又换了一家。偶尔它会被藏起来,以免受到战争的破坏。讽刺的是,热核武器本身就会制造出玻璃——不过那只是些不规则的、毫无美感的玻璃渣。祖母的杯子经历了这一切,完好无损——只不过,核爆炸给它披上了另一种尘埃。
世界毁灭,又重振旗鼓,重新开始。一次,又一次。自始至终,祖母的杯子安然无恙。历经人类演化的危急之秋而幸存下来的人们,将这只杯子视作昔日荣耀的象征,它激励着他们重建衰败的国家,从废墟上东山再起。努力。努力。再努力。别让那些记忆死去。
最后,他们的努力成功了。
一次,一位祖母带着她的孙子去博物馆观看在展文物。他们飘浮着穿过长廊,偶然看见了那只玻璃杯。祖母评论道,“多精美的手工艺品啊。”孙子问:“手是什么?”
#
玻璃是种有趣的物质。它被看作是一种过冷液体,而不是固体。随着时间流逝,玻璃会向下沉积——那是很长、很长的时间。玻璃就像是某种用来描述时间流逝的最最缓慢的钟表,人即便穷其一生也无法察觉它的变化。中世纪玻璃窗的底部比顶部要稍稍厚一些。它们在几百年中向下沉积了一点点。而当时间过去数千年、数百万年、数亿年,又会发生什么呢?
是的,那时太阳将耗尽它宝贵的氦储量,变成一颗红巨星。它会向外扩张,将地球融化。由于硅是地球上最丰富的元素,整颗星球都会变成玻璃。它会变成一坨黑乎乎的玻璃,肯定的。里面还将包含着许多尘埃和回忆……
不过,祖母那只杯子的命运却并非如此。它被运到了一艘疏散用殖民船上,这些殖民船会驶向一颗更年轻的行星,而这颗行星绕着一颗更年轻的恒星旋转。到那个时候,这只杯子已经向下沉积得很明显了,许多表面的尘埃被吸收进了其形状混沌的内部。真的,它原本的形状和功能已经没有办法辨认了。不过所有看过它的人都认为它是一件无价之宝,是时代的标志——在那些时代,匠人们会将他们喜爱的一切灌注到作品之中。
有些人也许会断言,这件东西里的熵增加了,因为杯子的原始形态早已大大退化。但这种说法是错误的。它没有把杯子中那些灰尘的有序价值计算在内——这些灰尘包含着记忆、智慧、爱、还有恨,人类的所有情感都深深嵌入其中。
#
又过了很久。
最后一个被称作家园的行星也毁灭了,祖母的杯子不知怎的幸存了下来,现在它飘浮在空空荡荡的宇宙里。
在这世界的暮年,宇宙中大部分的物质都消失了,它们朝着无所不在的普朗克泡沫回流而去——亿万年前它们就是从那里诞生的。质子正快速衰变,到处都是如此。如果这只茶杯拥有知觉,它会担心自己还能不能继续存在下去。它会思考着祖母、萨姆,还有所有触碰过它、并将自己的一部分生命赋予给它的人。
但是,玻璃杯是不会思考的。
#
智慧生物曾在宇宙中盛极一时。他们活着,死去,数量达到数十亿,命运各不相同。如今没有人能历数他们可悲的壮志雄心,他们对权力的渴望,他们为实现不朽而做过多少徒劳无功的尝试。
不过在时间的终点,有一个种族活了下来,成功扭转了灭绝的命运。
他们称自己为熵武士。
他们的初始生命形态是一种气态实体,一颗玻尔兹曼大脑,产生于原子的随机运动——只要时间足够长,原子必定会形成某种类似于意识结构的物理排列。
当然了,宇宙的历史长河中出现过许多这样的玻尔兹曼大脑。它们倏忽而现,维持几个普朗克时间,接着便再次消散于无形。然而这颗大脑不一样。在形成的瞬间,它便成功将自己的意识投射了出去,遍布孕育了它的星云,确保了它的持续存在。
熵武士的唯一目标就是保护任何具备秩序的东西,并将之传播出去,尽管宇宙自身另有打算。
祖母的杯子经过熵武士的意识领域只是时间问题——虽然这时间是个天文数字。这时,杯子已经成了一团难以描述的粗糙玻璃块。熵武士对它进行了彻底审视,最终识别出了玻璃中夹杂的记忆。
恩,熵武士想着,这是件了不起的东西,值得把它传送到相邻的膜宇宙去,它将在那儿重现最初的荣耀。它会充当一颗种子,将它的种族记忆带给所有或许会在演化之路上遇见它的智慧生命。
#
“好了,就拿那只杯子吧,萨姆,”贝琪说。“我没看到什么想要的东西。”
萨姆盯着手中的玻璃杯。他的眼睛慢慢湿润,一滴眼泪坠入杯中。
“是的,”他说。“我只需要这个。”
他们离开房子,钻进汽车。萨姆发动车子,把它倒出车道。出发前他停顿了一下。
“你还好吗,萨姆?”
“只是有点累,我猜。突然有那么多回忆涌上来。你觉得我们死了以后,会有人记得我们吗?”
“大概不会。不过那有什么关系?到时候我们都不在了,不会为这事烦心。”
萨姆咕哝了一声,随即挂上档,朝家驶去。
「完」
—————————————————————————--
彗星科幻:每月举办的国际短篇科幻赛事,展现地球上最好最高水平的科幻短篇创作。
每月从全世界范围邀请5名优秀科幻作者命题创作,字数3000-4500,获胜者奖金3000元(海外作者500美金)。
投稿、合作请联系:sfcomet@qq.com
官网:www.SFComet.com
微信号:SFComet