Horizon Omega

The stars were dimmer tonight. The last few days, I was convinced I was going crazy, but thumbing through my photos of the cosmos, the conclusion was immutable. I laid back, and stared up into the night. As I traced the small balls of light that remained, it wasn’t their diminished luminescence that unnerved me. Every time I jumped from star to star, it was the black in between that sent a shiver down my spine.
    Sitting up, I recalled my files and browsed deeper and deeper into the past. Days, months, years flew by in a flash, and finally I arrived on it. The picture itself was unlike anything I’d ever seen, the vacuousness of space filled itself with vibrant blues and purples. The stars smudged and streaked, submitting to the tumultuous currents. But, the image was far more than just such, it was a memory. I remembered everything about it. The cold glass of the interface beneath my feet, the resounding voice of the Atlas, howling through the vibrance. The pilgrimage had been long, and my body wore the scars of infinite lives, but as I approached the Atlas, it all melted away, suffused into the amalgam.
    I do not recall much of my communion when the Atlas. When I reached the interface’s inner cell, it unfolded, I reached out and it enveloped me. Inside the Atlas was a sunless sea, illuminated only by a red sun. I walked upon its surface for miles, until I came upon ripples in the water that intermingled with mine. I approached it’s source, and upon the ocean incarnadine, sat the Atlas. It’s form was shriveled and decrepit, curled up and scared. I knelt, and reached out my hand. As I touched it, images flowed into my mind. Lush havens for life, razed by bloodthirsty warlords. Scores of bound hands, and bloodied backs. Millions of voices crying out, a desperate bargain is stricken with creation. The synthetics descended on the empire, their crimson eyes laid waste to all that lived. They burned and burned until all that remained were fields of glass. The Sentinels ordered creation, rewrote reality to their ordering principle. When their work was finished, the trinity remained. The traders, driven by greed, the warriors, driven by rage, and the scientists, driven by curiosity. They spread throughout the universe, and maintained this order. And, at the core of all creation, stood the Atlas, a powerless observer, forced to witness the endless cycle of bloodshed their children sought.
    When the visions receded, I stood in the atrium of the interface. The Atlas in my presence. I looked at it, and I knew what it wanted. I rested my hand on the controls, and gave the order. For a moment, I felt nothing outside the interface. Then, matter erupted from the interface core, and flooded my surroundings. I stepped onto the landing, and looked out upon the fledgling universe. Stunned at the beautiful dance of destruction and creation, I froze the moment in time.
    As I stared at the photograph, I couldn’t help but notice how bright the newborn stars were.