The Black Hole

We don’t know much about black holes. A vacuum-void of darkness that swallows everything around it. And nothing that has crossed the dreaded event horizon has ever come back as far as we know.

So when I was offered the chance to study the leftover corpse of a star, I nearly went supernova myself.

We’d discovered one close by. Close enough to get to via a year of quantum jumps. There was a small planetoid on the outskirts of the gravitational field.

We were only supposed to be there a year Earth-time. Not very long as far as research missions go, but it was the only safe window before the planetoid reached its Roche Limit.

It was risky, sure. A suicide mission. But if the great scientists of history had balked at the risk, they wouldn’t have been remembered. We were willing to sacrifice ourselves in the name of science, or at least I was, and for that, we would be remembered.

That’s why I had been out in my space suit with my team, recording our observations via an electronic link back to the ship. The sound of my breathing apparatus rushed in my ears and my hands felt clumsy in the large gloves. Though I felt the gravity of the planetoid pulling at my feet, the gravity of the black hole pulling on my head was slightly larger, making my jumps far longer than normal.

I knew it was dangerous, leaping forward like that, but I had confidence in the strength of my tether.

My mistake.

They cried for me over the radio. I told them to shut up. They were taking up the precious data storage I needed to record my findings.

Second went by. Minutes. Hours. Every change I recorded verbally, just in case the computer didn’t. Not just in the environment, but in myself. Temperature. Pressure. Velocity. Any objects that entered my vision, real or not. The blackness was absolute and I’m fairly certain I began hallucinating at some point.

The longer I was out here, the more I realized that time was a construct of man. The human race has an incessant need to quantify and analyze and categorize everything. Anything that can’t fit into a little compartment is attempted to be forced into it. In doing so, many pegs are rejected, or broken, or ground down until they do fit. It’s only just recently that we began to learn to reshape the hole itself.

But the unknown? To the unknown we approach armed with many sizes and shapes of pegs and any holes we suspect may fit.

When we find a match it’s wonderful, for a time. Soon though, it becomes just another part of the puzzle and loses its novelty. Like a new baby growing up to be just another member of society.

And then when we don’t find a match, it’s frustrating. It’s infuriating and fascinating and time-consuming and it makes a person throw their research against the wall, resulting in chaos once again.

Though, in retrospect, in re-ordering those masses of chaos I have made a few of my most profound discoveries, so that was good, I guess. Only this time, I threw my whole self into the chaos. I can only hope that through the monotony of my data and odd rantings that somewhere someone will find a little nugget of genius.

Or maybe not.

Maybe I’ll just be another soul lost to the ravages of time. Certainly to the ravages of space.

Eventually the gravity will get me. As a lifeless pulp, I’d be too big to cross the event horizon. Even as individual molecules I’d be too big. And the longer I floated there, the more I could feel the pressure increase.

All of my senses went numb. My heartbeat pounded in my head, only complemented by the sound of my breathing apparatus. I stopped talking. I don’t know when, but there was nothing else to record, so why bother?

I don’t know how long I drifted. Time was a worthless constant in this state.

The pressure around me pulsed suddenly and I jerked. That was different. After so long, my mind scrambled with what to do but before I could record anything it pulsed again. I thought my head was going to explode from the pressure. I only had room for one thought, “So this is what death feels like,” before I suddenly popped free.

Clean air choked into my lungs and I screamed from the pain. Bright lights flared and I was forced to close my eyes. Still too bright, I raised my atrophied arms in front of my face to try to block it.

I felt myself being passed around by what felt like giant hands. Someone shoved something in my mouth, pulled it out and suddenly I could breathe better. Then the cold air was replaced by warm water as it ran over my body. Rude, but effective.

A soft blanket was wrapped tightly around me, restricting my movements. Annoying after so long, but it was warm, so I didn’t object. My breathing became more regular and I stopped screaming. I was laid in what felt like a hammock against a soft wall and I instantly felt better. Comfortable now, I risked opening my eyes.

My ability to see must have atrophied as well. I was still used to darkness, so even though there was light, the majority of my vision was blurry. All I could make out in front of me were two big, brown eyes. They were shadowed by exhaustion and wet with tears, but they smiled down at me and I thought, “This must be what was on the other side.”

Ten years later, I sat in class taking notes on an astronaut who had given us the most information to date on black holes by foolishly launching themselves into one. I don’t know why, but a small, quiet voice in the back of my mind laughed triumphantly.