A girl travels to the end of the Universe

Captain’s log: Year 486 of the Interstellar Era, Terran Universal Time estimated to be 3 April, 4:22 p.m.

My attempt to study a binary pair of supermassive black holes theorized to form the centre of the Morellian galaxy has gone astray, with a sequence of unlikely interstellar phenomena, beginning with a gravitational eddy, resulting in my ship being thrown millions of light years to what can be described only as the End of the Universe — the unstable barrier between everything and nothing, presence and absence, life and death. Humanity has long wondered what might be out here in the farthest reaches of space, and I’m here to tell you: I found a puppy.

Not a typical puppy, of course, and not even a dog in the sense of Canis familiaris; rather, a kind of creature about the size of a one-year-old golden retriever with a dense, cloudlike fur that sheds all over Cargo Bay 3. If left to its own devices, the wisps and tufts of shed fur accrete into stormy patches, like miniature stellar nurseries, and must be contained in force fields or tossed out of the nearest airlock to prevent damage to the structural integrity of the ship. I have found no evidence whatsoever that the creature intends to harm either me or the ship, or that it is aware of the danger its shedding poses.

Since boarding the ship, it has done nothing but toddle about, roll around and cuddle into my lap like a dog. Its legs, such as they are, appear unaccustomed to gravity beyond that found, say, on a comet or a large asteroid. But the limbs, being made of some accretive substance unlike bone and tissue, have proved highly adaptable to simulated terran gravity and atmosphere, and the creature has been able to snuffle across Cargo Bay 3, though not without a few adorable stumbles. Note: I use the word ‘snuffle’ here not because I have confirmed the presence of an olfactory system but because the sound it makes is exactly like a dog exploring its surroundings, sneezing at each new discovery.

Upon scouring the ship’s (admittedly limited) database, I could find no known lifeform matching the creature’s size and description. However, there was one report from a starship exploring deep in the Omega Cluster that encountered a being capable of spontaneously generating proto-nebula (apparently, when startled or passing gas), as well as rumours of purported space eagles capable of siphoning diatomic hydrogen from dense nebulas and halting the production of new stars. In both cases, the creatures were described as too large and bird-like to be a good match. So it seems that I’ve stumbled across the unknown.

5 April, 2:46 a.m.

After failing to regulate the creature’s waking and restfulness periods for two consecutive days, I have renewed sympathy for the parents of infants and young animals. How my mothers managed to birth me, alternate feeding and changing responsibilities, and maintain their own senses of self while operating a repair station in orbit over Jupiter is beyond me. Then again, what other option did they have? If I wanted to, I could simply shoo the little creature out of the airlock, and within a minute or two its limbs would desolidify and adapt back to the void so it could go snuffle about the Cosmos, like before our encounter; but for some reason I can’t. Every time I let it out to do its business, I tell myself I’ll go to warp and start searching for spatial phenomena that can transport me back to the Milky Way, or at least a few hundred light years closer, but then I look into its big shimmering eyes, that glittering mix of guilt and mischief on its face every time it barfs up all the raw materials of a star, and I just can’t bring myself to leave.

11 April, 8:39 p.m.

Let it be known I have spent all day repairing the ship after an unexpected attack this morning and now I’m officially too exhausted to move and am recording this log from bed, where the creature (which I’ve nicknamed Cumulus) is sleeping beside me. They’ve proved to be a very valuable companion in the wake of the attack, which was perpetrated by a group that calls itself the Guardians of the Garden, where ‘garden’ is a poetic euphemism for the fertile bed of life that is the ever-expanding edge of the Universe, with its freshly formed stellar nurseries. In being here, I had unknowingly violated the Decree of Universal Protection that, despite its name, is not at all universal, because it seems that only those civilizations closest to the edge were made aware of it or the consequences of breaking it. I didn’t even have time to explain that my presence here was the result of an accident before the Guardians fired. When I make it to one of their worlds, I’ll have to have a talk with them about what a mistake is and how to react to one accordingly. In the meantime, I’m just glad Cumulus was here. Without them, I don’t know that I would’ve been able to repair the ship’s hull. Every time I needed a new tool, it seemed, Cumulus was right there, barfing it up. First, a laser drill, then a tub of sealant, then a kilometre-long cable of plated wiring for the damaged interior. What could’ve taken six weeks to replicate, repair and install took all of six hours. In light of this, I think it would be prudent to allow Cumulus to travel with me for as long as they care to. Who knows? Maybe they’ll follow me all the way home.