RE: The Heat Death of the Sun

Reality was having a Monday, with a capital M.

Never mind that it was Thursday. Or that Monday always began with a capitalized M. Or that both Mondays and Thursdays only existed on Earth. That was all beside the point.

Ron liked that about Earth, though: the calendars. Really, humans had something special going on with them. They were great with organizational skills, and he appreciated that, given his role as Manager of Accounts Payable. 

He was just one cog in the Existence machine, but lately Ron felt he might be the only one to really give a hoot about the overall health of the industry. The atmosphere of the Division of Material Validity office was drab, sure, but he found his job of keeping Existence running to be interesting. There were an infinite amount of vendors that manufactured the various components of reality, and he enjoyed his role of ensuring that those accounts all got paid for their hard work.

Ron’s day started off fine enough. His boss, Mike, prattled through the morning meeting with his usual ennui before giving him a checklist of urgent tasks. Ron spent his pre-lunch hours ticking off boxes:

• Pay the universe’s monthly Time invoice, to keep months a Thing
• Contact maintenance re: overdue spacetime fabric repair on collapsing wormholes in Sector 12B
• Review discrepancy in Inertia report on galactic planetary rotation
• Forward any Earth RFPs titled “OH GOD, PLEASE SAVE US!” or similar to upper management

He got through the first two in record time, considering he paid Time ahead of schedule—but the Monday-ish nature of the Thursday kicked into high gear as he scrolled through an inbox full of dismally-titled RFPs.

He’d always thought the D.M.V. overpaid Reality’s freelancers, so he was perplexed as to why there seemed to be so many slackers recently. Humans weren’t the only ones having issues—the Fluxers on Xemulus 237 were freaking out about Xemulus 237 suddenly rotating backwards—but, given their sheer amount of messages, humans were definitely making the biggest fuss. He’d been scrolling for the past fifteen minutes, and he still hadn’t reached the end of this morning’s RFPs to the Savior department alone.

Ron glanced across the aisle at Florence’s cubicle, and saw that she wore a similarly exasperated expression as she looked through them all. It would seem that endless Earthen pleas to the heavens were clogging up everyone’s inboxes.

Ron, frankly, was at his wit’s end.

He dialed Mike’s office phone extension.

“Why is Earth spewing out so many Salvation proposals all of the sudden?”

“Sun’s getting too big and hot. They’re having a rough go of things.”

Ron blinked and scrubbed at his forehead. “That’s odd. I paid Fusion’s invoice.”

“I know. They got upper level orders to churn out more energy, though. Kicked it up yesterday.”

He sank back into his office chair and rolled his eyes to the ceiling. “And upper management didn’t communicate that with the rest of us, because…”

Mike snorted. “It was just a little tweak to Fusion’s workload. Not a big issue in the overall grand scheme of things.”

Ron sighed. “Okay, thanks. Forwarding now.”

“Yep.”

He set the phone back on the receiver and began forwarding messages up the chain of command, but paused at one rather offensive title. He read the message, feeling a bit nosy as he did so.

———————

From: alicekincaid@earth.universe

To: all@dmv.universe

Subject: [RFP] We’re Dying Down Here, Asshole

Hey, God?

CNN just announced we have about six months before we’re cooked. The sun’s getting hotter by the day. I can’t go outside anymore. I thought we had like, a billion-ish years left? At least, that’s what the science museum exhibit said when I went as a kid. Scared the hell out of me, always has, but a billion years is a damn long time. Six months is absolutely NOT.

I would love it if you could make the sun go back to normal. I haven’t done everything I wanted to do, yet.

Please. It’s too hot. It hurts. My skin is…

Please.

More sincerely than I’ve ever been about anything, ever,

Alice Kincaid

———————

Scowling, Ron called Deity.

The line rang for a few long moments, but he was pleasantly surprised when the CEO answered. “Hello?” 

“Hi, D. How’s it going?”

“Hey man. Same old. What’s up?”

“I just had a question about Salvation RFPs.”

Ron could hear Deity typing something as he responded blandly, “Shoot.”

“Are you guys doing anything about ‘em? I’ve forwarded several to you and the Board, but they just keep coming. I was going to mark them as spam, and wanted to check if you’re receiving them without me forwarding.”

“Yeah. Spam ‘em.”

“Got it.” Ron considered whether it was professional to ask further questions, but his curiosity outweighed his propriety. “Are you…going to respond to them? Take any of Earth’s projects on, I mean?”

Deity laughed in an offhand way. “Nah, I’m phasing out the planet. Humans are too destructive. Tarsonis’s jebulons have their act together a lot better, so the Board voted to sell off Earth and invest over there instead. It’s a stabler market.”

He felt a hot stab of dismay at the news, and swallowed thickly. “Understandable. But can I say,” he gave a little laugh. “I mean, I know it’s way above my pay grade, but…”

“But?”

Ron chose his words carefully as he said, “Humans have been our top client for a few hundred thousand years. They’ve had some centuries of poor performance every now and then, sure, but we’ve always kept an overall mutually beneficial relationship. It’s unfortunate we’re ending it on a bad note.”

Deity clicked his tongue. “Speak more freely, Ron. I don’t mind hearing your opinion.”

Ron huffed a chuckle. “Don’t write them off our books. I like what they put out. Would be a shame to not be able to get their stuff anymore.”

“What sort of stuff?”

Ron thought for a moment. “Well, I enjoy all the love stories. They’ve got some great food, too—I tried a sandwich, once. Phenomenal. And I owe them a debt for coming up with calendars.”

Deity deliberated silently before replying, “Jebulons just created a far superior timekeeping system, and it didn’t take them almost three hundred thousand years to do it. Switch to using theirs. The market’s moving on, Ron—progress with it. I appreciate your input, though. Tell you what, I’ll bring up your notes to the Board at the next meeting. We may be able to work something out.”

Ron’s shoulders relaxed. “Thanks, D. Appreciate it.”

“Yep. Have a good one.” The line went dead.

Ron turned his attention back to Alice’s message, his cursor hovering over the Mark As Spam button. He decided to archive it, instead.

***

Ron brooded the entire commute home, and concluded that he found the D.M.V.’s culture and overall philanthropic approach to be increasingly lackluster. Phasing out Earth was a bad move, plain and simple. He didn’t understand the decision, even after hearing Deity’s explanation.

Jebulons had exited the primitive stage of existence far quicker than humans had, true, but their demeanor was overzealous. The D.M.V.’s mail room was constantly overwhelmed with fanatic offerings, and their adoration always felt just a tad too desperate to be authentic.

Humans showed their appreciation for reality in subtler ways. They were intentional with it, more honest: A message of gratitude at receiving a tight embrace from a missed loved one. A whispered I.O.U. when swimming through crystal water. A salute when a sore knot is worked out of a long-aching muscle.

Deity was a great guy, a fantastic CEO, but he had a distinct flair for the dramatic that often left Ron dealing with a nightmare at the office. For instance, around six thousand years ago Deity hedged a bet that Chemistry wouldn’t be able to synthesize enough water for quarter three on their current budget, so he’d ordered Ron to increase their payment. Mike had warned the CEO that doing so would generate far more water than could be tolerated by planets with life forms, but Deity had simply responded that those life forms were under-performing. He’d ordered that a handful of profitable creatures be retained for improved reproduction, and the task fell to Ron to proceed with the higher payment.

To this day, Ron felt terrible about flooding every planet across four galaxies.

He settled into his nightly routine, but he couldn’t get Alice’s message out of his mind. He pulled up the archived message as he ate his supper. After a stiff drink, he forwarded the correspondence to his personal account, then forwarded it to Alice again with an attached reply.

———————

From: ron@personal.universe

To: alicekincaid@earth.universe

Subject: Fw: Fw: [RFP] We’re Dying Down Here, Asshole

Hello Alice,

Strictly speaking, it goes against protocol for me to send this message—and you are the first life form to receive such a communication from me, so my apologies for any disruption to your evening. Admittedly, I’m unsure how this message might be received by a human.

The purpose of this correspondence is to extend my sincere condolences for your current situation, and assure you that your concerns regarding your imminent demise will be thoroughly discussed at the next meeting of our Board.

Please note, however, that this does not guarantee immediate action. We appreciate your patience during this time.

All the best,

Ron

Manager, Accounts Payable

Division of Material Validity

———————

Ron sipped on his second drink, feeling a bit more at ease with the situation. His satisfaction dissipated when she returned a response in seconds.

———————

From: alicekincaid@earth.universe

To: ron@personal.universe

Subject: Indistinct Shriek of Terror

WHAT THE EVER-LOVING FU—AGH

———————

Ron set down his glass and frowned as he replied.

———————

From: ron@personal.universe

To: alicekincaid@earth.universe

Subject: RE: Indistinct Shriek of Terror

Hello Alice,

Your quick response is appreciated, but I am confused as to your meaning.

Best,

Ron

———————

Alice’s reply was instantaneous.

———————

From: alicekincaid@earth.universe

To: ron@personal.universe

Subject: RE: RE: Indistinct Shriek of Terror

GET OUT OF MY HEAD, GET OUT, GET OUT—

ARE YOU READING A BLOODY EMAIL?

God, it hurts, it HURTS—

———————

Ron winced, pulled out his phone, and found Alice’s alternate contact in the D.M.V. database. He dialed the number for a video call.

The image of a hyperventilating woman curled into the fetal position on a dirty floor appeared on the screen. She was covered in patches of charred skin, and her hair was matted with blood in some places.

“Ah, hello. This is Ron. Please forgive me for calling you at this hour, and for the pain you experienced receiving my initial messages. I wasn’t aware my previous form of communication would be painful for a human.”

She let out a shriek upon seeing him appear in what looked to be her kitchen. Her hands tore at her hair as she mumbled incoherently.

“Are you alright? It wasn’t my intention to startle you.”

Alice shot to her feet and tugged a large chopping knife from its holder, brandishing it in his face. “Who—what are you?”

Ron’s brow furrowed. He’d always assumed humans would recognize a D.M.V. agent, considering all the mail they sent. “As I said in my earlier message, I’m the—”

“What the hell—”

“…Manager of Accounts Payable at the D.M.V.,” he continued as she panted a string of vile curses. “I read your RFP meant for the Savior department, and I felt just awful about what’s happening to your sun. I thought I’d give you an update personally, maybe alleviate your fears a bit.”

Her subsequent screech was nearly unintelligible, but Ron deduced through the wailed expletives that she was confused about the nature of the D.M.V. “Please, miss, calm yourself—I’m not technically in the room with you.” Alice’s eyes bulged, but she stilled, and the knife clattered against the tile floor. “The Division is quite hard to explain to a life form on your plane of existence, but the short answer is that we manage and regulate that plane.”

She jabbed a finger in his direction. “So you’re the one responsible for making the sun about to explode?”

Ron’s teeth tugged at his bottom lip. “It’s a bit more complicated than that.” He lost the battle against his better judgment and gave the terrified woman a simplified explanation of Deity’s decision.

When he finished, she sank to the floor in a heap and put her filthy head in her hands.

“It…will be alright. The Board will—”

Alice breathed a raw laugh. Ron looked at her with concern as the sound grew in broken intensity.

“Miss?”

“Angels,” she choked out between gasping fits of laughter, “and God, and reality itself, are all just a bunch of corporate goons, and I’m nothing more than an underwhelming employee, and…” Her laughter morphed into weeping. “Oh, that is cruel.”

She was an underwhelming client, technically, but Ron didn’t correct her. “Is there anything more I can do to help you at the moment?”

He cringed at the utter devastation on the woman’s face as she turned to nod at him. She was silent for a long moment, staring blankly at the heat-yellowed paint of the wall, before she muttered, “Take me back to that museum, all those years ago, so I can tell my ten-year-old self to write a lot of books. To read a lot more of them. To learn the guitar. To become a rock star, like I always wanted. Or maybe an author.”

Her voice broke as she slowly stood back up. “To hurry up and find the love of my life, because I’ve spent it entirely alone. To quit my soul-sucking office job, or to not even take it in the first place. To hug my mom long and hard every chance I get. To tell my dad I forgive him. To make peace, right then and there, with how insignificant I am, because I am.”

Ron ground his teeth at the volume of her final sentence, shocked at how viscerally uncomfortable the word insignificant made him feel. “I’ll be sure to speak to Deity tomorrow at—”

Alice threw the knife with all her strength at his projection, ending the call.

***

“I’m sorry, Ron, I am, but there’s nothing I can do. We don’t undo what’s already been done.”

Chris, the head honcho over at Time, was being irksomely dense. Ron grumbled, gesticulating at the big machine before them, “I know that. Nothing needs to be undone, just…done over again. Run Earth’s clock backward a bit, only twenty years. Come on, I’ll owe you one. Memory’s on board. They already primed the woman. We’re just waiting on you.”

Chris ran a hand through his silvering hair. “Deity approved this?”

Not…as such. “Sure did.”

“For one human woman?”

“Consider it an experiment. You’ve ran back Time before, for far duller reasons.”

“I don’t know if I’d consider what we needed done with that woman in the Chaplin film to be—”

Ron waved a dismissive hand. “Chris, seriously.”

The Time boss rolled his eyes. “Fine. Who, when, and where am I sending her?”

Ron explained Alice’s plight, and Chris pushed various buttons on the machine. “Just send back her present consciousness into her childhood self. That’s it.”  

“You do realize that this might kill the woman? We’ve never reversed Memory back into Time before.”

He shrugged and scratched his nose, looking at a sleeping Alice on the screen in front of them. “Mmph. It’s an experiment.”

Chris nodded, then cranked a few more dials. Adult Alice didn’t move, but the Child Alice on the adjacent screen…

Ron cringed as the child screamed, and screamed, and screamed. Chris sucked in air through his teeth.

Child Alice drew frightened looks from the other science museum patrons, until finally being subdued by her mother.

Ron scratched his temple, chewed the inside of his cheek.

The girl screeched, over and over again in her mother's arms, “What's the POINT?”

Chris shut the machine off, locking adult Alice into her child body forever—or, at least, until the sun exploded. He clapped Ron on the shoulder. “Call that a success?”

Ron was silent for a beat, then muttered, “Seems like the quick death of the sun might be preferable to the existential crisis brought on by simply thinking about the slow death of it.”

“Think she’ll appreciate her life more, this time around?”

“Dunno. Sun’s still going to explode on schedule. Board’s not budging on it.” He sighed. “No one will remember her, in the end, even if she does make something out of her life. Or maybe they will for a little while, now that she can change some things. That’s all most of us can hope for, really. To not be insignificant. To do something important with our lives.” He shot a triumphant smile at Chris, feeling overall very pleased with himself. At least he was able to do this. Change this small thing, to help such a lovely planet.

Chris shot him a confused look. “Oh, no—she can’t change anything, man. She did all this screaming the first time ‘round when she learned the sun was going to explode in a billion years, too. I told you, nothing can be undone, but she will be able to watch it happen all over again with her adult memories and reasoning. Maybe she’ll just learn to be grateful. Humans struggle with that. If you asked me, that’s why Deity’s blowing ‘em up.”

Ron paled, his grin evaporating.

The Time boss stretched his arms and cracked his back, and didn’t notice the color drain from Ron’s face. “Anyway, let’s get lunch. You’re buying.”