Memory Hole

by johnnedwill

There are only a few of us at the ceremony. I look along the funeral terrace, noting how empty it is; then my thoughts turn to the ceremonies I remember from when I was younger. The terraces would be thronged with those who had come to pay their respects to the dead and to remember them. It is not that we have become any less reverential. It is just that there are fewer of us to come, to remember the departed.

The light touch of a sympathetic hand rings me back to the here and now. I turn to see the psychopomp standing beside me. "It is your turn to speak," she says. "Please."

I take my place at the podium beside the coffin, and I gather my thoughts. It is important to choose my words carefully. They will colour our memories of the deceased. I glance down at the body in the coffin - the body of my friend Rhea - and try to find something to say. Rhea's body has been swathed in the winding sheet, leaving only her beautiful face and long hair visible. I take a deep breath and calm myself. Then I look up and towards the gathered mourners.

"I remember Rhea." The words are formulaic, but comforting. "I remember when we first met." Now that the silence has been broken, the rest is easy. The words come quickly. At times I think that I am babbling, unable to control what I am saying; but I know that if I stop to think, the emotions will overwhelm me. It is a relief when I feel the psychopomp's touch once again.

"Thank you," she murmurs. "You can step down now."

I do as I am told, stepping away from the podium to join the others. The psychopomp takes her place before us. "Thank you." Her voice is calm and confident. "Thank you all. We shall not forget Rhea. We have told our stories of her and shared them with all who knew her. Now she will live on forever in our hearts and minds." She raises her hand in a gesture of farewell, and we - the mourners - follow suit.

As if in response to our salute, the protective field around the funeral terrace depolarises. Our heads turn upwards. Although I have been to many funerals, this sight never fails to fill me with awe. Around us, the lights of the World Within shine like the stars of the World Without. Some, the stationary lights, mark the cities of our world. Others, the moving lights, are the chains of vessels that move between the cities. And, at the centre of the darkness, lies the thing that is the heart of our world - the Singularity!

Together we stare into the heart of the dark star. It was placed here by the long-ago creators of the World Within, to provide power four our civilisation until the end of time. We feed it mass and, in return, harvest the energy from it.

Silently, almost unnoticed, the catafalque supporting Rhea's coffin slides back into the stone of the terrace, leaving her casket suspended in mid-air. Then the coffin begins to rise, pulled into the dark sky by invisible forces. It crosses the boundary of the protective field, and there is a flash of light. Rhea and her coffin accelerate towards the Singularity. We stand and watch them shrink until they disappear from sight, lost amongst the lights in the void.

The psychopomp lowers her gaze towards us. "Rhea has gone. Her physicality is no more. Only the memories remain. Go - and remember her."

I return to the rooms that Rhea and I shared. The rooms are too big and too quiet. Everywhere I turn there are memories. They grow to fill the rooms, and then they start to press down on me, suffocating me. I fall to the floor, weeping from the pressure, sobbing until I cannot catch my breath. Then I take a gulp of air and begin again. That is how I am when the psychopomp finds me.

"What is it, child?" Her voice is quiet, but clear. It cuts through the fog of my grief. "share your thoughts with me."

I struggle to my feet, wiping the tears from my eyes and the mucus from my nose. "I'm sorry," I say. "It's just ... ."

The psychopomp takes my hand, holding it tight in hers. "It is the memories, isn't it?"

"Yes. I know that Rhea is gone. I know that she exists only in my mind."

"But the burden is too much?" The psychopomp nods and smiles in sympathy. "That is why we share. By strengthening the memories of others, we give them the strength to support us through the times of grief."

I swallow to dislodge the lump in my throat. "I wish I did not have to remember."

The psychopomp shakes her head. "My child, you know why you must. In the end, we must all give of ourselves so that the others - those we leave behind - can go on. You cannot forget. But I know someone who can help you with your grief."

"But - ." My protest is silenced before I can give voice to it.

"It is natural to feel this way. There is no need to be ashamed of needing help." Once more, the psychopomp takes my hand. "Please. Do not let your memories of Rhea become tainted. If not for your sake, then for hers?"

"Very well." I take a deep breath and stand up straight and proud. "I will do as you ask."

"Thank you." And the psychopomp kisses me lightly upon my forehead.

In the morning I go to see the counsellor. His office is small and intimate. We sit close by one another, in egg-shaped chairs that envelop us in soft fabric. The counsellor peers at me through thick glasses, red streams of data reflected in the lenses. "Why are you here?"

"The psychopomp said I should see you."

"Of course." The counsellor leans forward. "But why are you here?"

"My partner died recently. We sent her body to the Singularity. Now all I have of her are the memories I shared at the funeral."

"Are these good memories?" the counsellor asks. "Good and bad," I tell him.

"Of course."

We talk. Or - to be precise - I talk while the counsellor listens to me and watches the stream of data from the sensors in my chair. Sometimes he prompts my thoughts and guides them into areas he wants me to explore. So I talk to him about Rhea and my feelings for her. The more I talk, the more the words need to be said. After an eternity, the counsellor stops me.

"It is hard to let go of someone," the counsellor tells me. "Especially someone you have loved for so long and so deeply. There is no tidy schedule for your emotions. There is no timetable for your grief. Over time you will adapt; and as you adapt - ."

"I don't want to forget Rhea," I say, trying to hold back my anguish.

"And you will never forget her. But your memories of Rhea will change." The counsellor sits in silence for a minute, giving time for his words to sink in. "Do you know what happens when something is consumed by the Singularity?"

"Of course." I am on familiar ground with this. "The mass enters the Singularity, where it is converted into gravitational fluctuations."

"But what happens to the thing itself?"

I think about this. "I ... I don't know," I say at last.

"It ceases to exist. The physical structure becomes energy, which is released by the Singularity. We then harvest that energy to power all this." The counsellor gestures at his office. "But that energy is randomised. Once it was thought that any object that fell into the Singularity could be reconstructed using information buried in the Singularity's emissions. But now we know better. Anything that enters the Singularity is destroyed - completely and utterly. All that remains are our memories."

"But our memories are fallible?"

The counsellor nods. "Indeed. Your memories of Rhea will never be any better than they are now."

The counselling session comes to an end. I thank the counsellor for his time and his advice, and I tell him that I will think about what he has told me. In return, he tells me to come back and talk with him whenever I need.

Then I leave.

I fully intend togo back to my rooms, but instead I find myself back at the funeral terrace where I last saw Rhea. The protective field is in place, but it does not take me long to find the controls and depolarise the screen. Above me, amongst the lights, is the black eye of the Singularity, staring down at me.

Your memories of Rhea will never be any better than they are now.

And I know what I must do.