“She waited up for you.”

Bhara’s voice gave Pyrish a start. He should have known she was there, in the doorway, as she was whenever he returned late. Which was . . . every night now. Since the latest incident, all he’d had time to do was change his clothing and convey a word or two of kindness to Celi, and then it was back to the Facility with him.

That word or two of kindness was usually conveyed to a sleeping child.

“I’m sorry,” Pyrish said. “For the time.”

He passed Bhara to get to the liquor cabinet in the living pod, and went straight for the bog-aged Daranian whisky. The bottle was a gift from the chancellery from back when Pyrish was installed and was meant to be opened either for an exceptional situation or not at all.

He unsealed the bottle and filled a glass meant for sweeter drinks.

“I’m not the one owed an apology,” Bhara said, watching him sully the most expensive thing in the house without comment.

Bhara was Celi’s third caretaker. She was kind and patient with children, firm with adults, and left Pyrish with a vague sense that she would absolutely kill a man with an axe if that became necessary. It was the last one that made her the perfect companion for his headstrong daughter.

“I think you are,” he said. “I know I’ve been away more often than usual.”

“. . . Will it be done soon?” she asked, with some hesitation. “The additional work, I mean. I have . . . we’ve all heard the noises.”

“Soon, yes,” Pyrish said.

He tried the whisky. Exceedingly rare and very old, it was the sort of bottle about which was written paeans espousing its singular virtue. He found it smoky and smooth and good, but it was also still just whisky. No matter the praise it was never going to amount to more.

“I’m glad to hear that,” Bhara said. She yawned gently. “Are you out before sunrise again?”

“Possibly.”

“Then I will possibly see you. Good night.”

She left him alone with his thoughts and his whisky. He had plenty of both, and would have been content remaining in the half-light of the living pod to ruminate over them at length. But Celi was waiting.

Her light was on and she was wide awake and sitting up in bed, despite the hour, reading a mathematical textbook that had no place in a seven-year-old’s room, save perhaps to level an uneven table.

Celi had always possessed a bespoke precocity that left most people confused regarding where the child ended and the adult began. She was simultaneously wise beyond her years and alarmingly naïve, depending on the subject at hand, and it was impossible to know when to expect wisdom or naïveté. Figuring out how to navigate this was important because Celi hated when adults spoke about things she didn’t understand but also hated being treated like a seven-year-old, and was willing to subject anyone who didn’t strike the right balance between those two extremes to withering degrees of sarcasm. This was why she was on her third caretaker.

“You should be asleep,” he said.

“Daddy!”

Pyrish leaned in for hugs and kisses, taking the book from her hands as he did so.

“You also shouldn’t be reading algebra books after bedtime,” he added. “What happened to all your storybooks?”

“They’re silly; I like yours better. And math is neat.” Her eyes fell to the glass of whisky still in his hand. “Ew.”

“Ew yourself. Now lie down so I can tuck you in.”

“Noooooo I’m not tired.”

“How can you not be tired?”

“I’m not. Are you tired?”

Pyrish had never felt more tired in his entire life. “No,” he said. “But I’m not a little girl with school in the morning.”

She crossed her arms, which signaled that this was not going to be an argument Pyrish would be winning. “I want a story.”

“Celi . . .”

“Stor-rry! Stor-rry!”

This used to be their bedtime ritual. Pyrish had a small collection of stories to choose from, either made up entirely or repurposed from half-remembered tales from his own childhood, and he used to tell her one every night before bed. But it had been some time since Celi had insisted on one; he’d assumed she had outgrown them.

“All right, all right,” he said. “What do you want to hear? The Princess and the Talking Sunset? The Whispering Mug?”

“A new one!”

He sighed. You don’t understand how long this day has been, he thought, and how long the next is going to be. But she didn’t need to know these things.

“Fine,” he said. “One story.”

“Yaaay.”

“But I’m keeping my stinky drink.”

“Ew.”

“Now, let’s see . . .”

He stopped to gather his thoughts, which only meant lunging around in his head for something with a beginning, middle, and end that would entertain a seven-year-old and hopefully not take too long to tell.

“All right,” he said. “I have it.”

He sipped his whisky and cleared his throat and began.

“Let’s call this one The Hole in the Garden. Not so long ago and not so far away there lived a man named Gangle . . .”

• • • •

Gangle had a small home with a small yard, and in that small yard he kept a garden, which was his favorite thing to do. He grew all sorts of flowers: from white bumblebrights and yellow cormins to blue bonners and purple fickles. If it flowered, Gangle wanted to grow it.

Gangle’s fondness for gardening was how he came to notice a peculiarity that might have otherwise gone unobserved. It seemed that one day, for no obvious reason, all of his flowers began to tilt in a wrong direction.

[plants turn to face the sun, daddy. everybody knows that.]

[do you want me to tell the story or not?]

[. . .]

What was wrong about this direction was that it was not toward the sun.

[okay?]

[fine.]

But it was toward the same thing. Only there was no thing there. The flowers on the left side of the yard tilted rightward, and the right-side plants slanted leftward. The ones in the front of the yard turned to the back and the ones in the back leaned toward the front. If they were facing a sun, it wasn’t the one in the sky; it was one somewhere in the middle of Gangle’s yard.

Only there was no sun in Gangle’s yard, as it was entirely too small to accommodate an entire sun.

The issue only worsened over time. In another week all of the grass in the yard had committed to the same random coordinate, all except for the grass at the epicenter, which died entirely, leaving behind a perfect thumbnail-sized brown circle.

Then one night Gangle heard a terrible, terrible cry from the garden. He told himself it was just a howlet snatching up a bodger in the yard, as howlets sometimes do . . .

[. . . are you all right?]

[I don’t like stories where bodgers die. bodgers are cute.]

[how do you feel about razers?]

[okay, razers.]

. . . told himself it was just a howlet snatching up a razer in the yard, as howlets sometimes do, and so he went to bed.

The next morning, he found razer fur in a neat circle around the epicenter. The rest of the razer was gone. A howlet could have done that, he supposed, but it looked like the circle with nothing in it had eaten the bodger.

[razer!]

. . . had eaten the razer.

Gangle decided to conduct some experiments. First, he found a nice round rock and placed it near the circle. And then he waited. Nothing happened to the rock for the rest of the day, but the next day the rock was gone.

He found a second rock and put it much closer to the ring, right on top of the razer fur.

He waited again. This time, the rock moved, gently at first before rolling steadily toward the epicenter.

Then the rock disappeared.

Was it magic? Gangle had lived his entire life in a world where there was no such thing as magic, and felt strongly that if that fact were to change, the change would come in a more compelling form than disintegrating rocks, skinned razers, and confused plants. Therefore, he did not think it was magic.

However, he was unable to imagine an alternative explanation.

Possessed as he was of a mind that—while short on advanced scientific knowledge—had a basic grasp of the scientific method, Gangle decided to conduct further experiments.

His next test was to poke the epicenter with a long twig. He considered this to be a modest risk as compared to the rock test because he would be holding onto the other end of the stick, and so he took the precaution of wearing a rubber glove on his hand. This would protect him if whatever was eating rocks and razers was electrical in nature, he reasoned. He didn’t think it was but he also couldn’t rule it out.

What happened next was . . . nothing. At first. Gangle ran the tip of the stick through the middle and out the other side. The twig was neither devoured nor stripped of its outer layer or otherwise damaged.

Gangle pulled the stick back and tried again, only more slowly. This time, when the tip of the twig came close to the ring of dead grass, Gangle felt an ever-so-slight rightward tug. Loosening his grip, he allowed the twig to get pulled in that direction until it ran into . . . Gangle had no word for what it ran into. Something small but irrevocable. Something that atomized the twig at the intersection point, with the destruction causing a slight tremble down the length of the wood.

[atomized?]

[destroyed. ate.]

With some time and effort, he was able to relocate the precise point at which the twig met its doom, aimed the new tip at that point, and pushed forward until the only part of the twig remaining was what was in Gangle’s hand.

Gangle tried it again with another twig and achieved the same result. Then he went inside and spent the rest of the day conducting research.

Once he’d finished his research he arrived at a conclusion that was a very good conclusion, except that it was obviously impossible. However, it was slightly less impossible than the notion that this was a magical event and so he decided it must be correct.

That conclusion was this: He had a tiny quantum singularity in his garden.

[did you make that up?]

[did I make what up?]

[quantum singularity.]

[no.]

[that sounds like something you made up.]

[I didn’t make it up.]

[okay.]

Gangle knew he had to tell somebody about this problem but wasn’t sure who. There were well-established channels available for reporting things like downed trees and dead animals, but there was no municipal department in charge of rogue singularities. Still, he felt certain someone in City Hall would know what to do, and so he went there to ask. This did not go well.

The first person he spoke to didn’t know what a quantum singularity was. She transferred him to her supervisor who also didn’t know what a quantum singularity was but was certain if Gangle had one it was definitely a zoning violation. Gangle asked him to identify what law the private ownership of a quantum singularity was breaking, and after the better part of an afternoon’s worth of searching, the man agreed that there was no such law on the books. He then added that there should be, and vowed to ensure one would be there in the future.

Once that was settled, Gangle returned to the question of what he should do about the singularity. The official sent him to the waste disposal department. They were not helpful.

Gangle concluded that City Hall was not where to go to find someone who knew what to do about a singularity in a garden. He would try the university instead.

After a little work, he managed to find a physics professor named Cole. She did know what a singularity was, but also asserted—with great conviction—that he couldn’t possibly have one in his yard.

“Micro singularities are possible,” she explained, “but they are unstable. It would blink out of existence in a fraction of a second.”

“What if they were not?” Gangle asked. “What if we were wrong about that? What if there is one in my garden?”

Cole laughed. “Then we will all be in great trouble because the only thing a stable singularity can do is grow into a black hole. This would ultimately consume the planet, for black holes will always eat.”

[ohhhhh.]

[what is it?]

[singularities are black holes. I’ve heard of black holes.]

Not laughing at all, Gangle asked, “How long do you think we have? Before that happens?”

“There is no telling, because nobody has ever created a micro singularity that lasted long enough to measure such a thing, nor would anyone want to do so. But it is an interesting question, and now I would like to know the answer to this as well. I will do the calculations. Come back in a month and I will tell you.”

“Does this mean you believe me?” he asked hopefully.

“Absolutely not, but it is an interesting thought experiment.”

In the month that followed the singularity did indeed grow, if only a little. More of the grass was dying around the epicenter, there was now a visible depression in the middle, and when Gangle stood nearby he could feel a gentle sideways tug. Also—and this may have been a coincidence—it seemed as if there was a marked increase in the number of missing pets in the neighborhood.

Gangle tried new experiments.

• He put a clock on the ground next to the singularity to see if it ran more slowly. He saw no change, but the clock only counted down to seconds, whereas any difference would probably have to be measured in microseconds. He declared this test inconclusive.
• He poured fine-grained sand over the epicenter to see if that helped pinpoint the singularity, thinking it reasonable to expect a few of the grains to enter into a tiny orbit. This was a qualified success, because while he failed to add a satellite to the miniature black hole he did see a spark of light from when some of the grains touched the singularity’s event horizon.
• He took a large metal can and put it over the singularity. This was in part for the benefit of the neighborhood pets who had not yet gone missing and in part because he wanted to see what would happen to the can. What happened was: The can began to dent slightly. It made loud noises when the dents formed, at all hours, so he removed the can after a few days rather than see the experiment to its conclusion.

At the end of the month, as Gangle prepared to travel back to the university to once again try convincing Professor Cole that he really did have a singularity in his garden, she showed up at his front door, along with a man Gangle did not know.

After apologizing for the unannounced visit, Cole introduced the man as an industrialist named Xybax.

“I finished my calculations two weeks ago,” Cole said, in what sounded like an explanation for the two of them being there, but which was not. “This is only a rough estimate, because I lack adequate numbers on initial conditions, but assuming the singularity was just created we have anywhere between seven and a hundred years.”

“That is indeed a rough estimate,” Gangle said.

“I know. Which is why I reached out to Industrialist Xybax for advice on a more exact estimate.”

“I have a supercollider,” Xybax said, which meant very little to Gangle. “With it I have studied micro singularities.”

“And did you?” Gangle asked. “Get a better number?”

“We did not,” Xybax said. “But then I asked Cole why she wanted one and she told me about you. I agreed with her; micro singularities are rare and unstable and it’s impossible for you to have one in your garden.”

“However,” Cole added, “we believe you do have one.”

Xybax continued. “Since we thought it such a curious question—and since Cole insisted you were in possession of an otherwise sensible demeanor—we decided to conduct an aerial survey. What we learned was that your yard is too massive.”

“Does this prove that I am correct?” Gangle asked.

“It might,” Cole said.

“May we see your garden?” Xybax asked.

Gangle brought them to the garden. As a solitary person, Gangle had always looked forward to the day in which he could bring around important people to have a look at his flowers, as he was quite proud of them. But they weren’t interested in his flowers.

[aww. they should tell him his flowers are nice.]

“What lovely flowers you have,” Cole said, on her way to the singularity.

[thank youuuu.]

After conducting a number of tests to further confirm that, indeed, Gangle had a tiny black hole in his yard, Xybax said, quite unexpectedly, “I would like to purchase your singularity.”

This was an odd thing to say. In approaching Professor Cole—and City Hall before her—Gangle had hoped for a resolution that involved making the singularity go away, i.e., dissolving it somehow. Selling it had never been a consideration.

“I don’t understand,” Gangle said. “Do you mean to purchase my garden as well? And my home?”

“We will extract it from the yard,” Xybax said, “but we have to act quickly before it grows so massive as to make it impossible to move.”

“But you are going to destroy it, yes? My understanding of singularities is not as great as Professor Cole’s but I feel certain keeping one around is dangerous. As she said, black holes will always eat.”

“It cannot be destroyed,” Cole said.

“We mean to study it,” Xybax said. “For you see, it should be impossible; that it is not makes it something worthy of study. And my facility has all the means to conduct such an investigation.”

“And then you will . . . not destroy, but get rid of it? Before it grows too large? You could put it on a rocket and launch it into space, while it is still small enough to fit on a rocket.”

“Yes,” Xybax said. “This is a very good idea. Thank you. We will do exactly that.”

The singularity was removed the following day, as was very nearly the entire garden and most of the soil. Xybax’s team lifted the space surrounding the singularity from the yard and dropped it into a large magnetic containment field that was a section of a supercollider a week earlier. Then they left.

Gangle was well-compensated; so well, he moved to a better house with a larger yard. Then he went to work on a new garden.

And he waited for news. He assumed there would eventually be an announcement of a rocket being sent into space carrying a dangerous payload of some sort. Rockets sent into outer space were uncommon and typically newsworthy, and furthermore impossible to keep a secret.

Yet there was no news. And so, after many months, Gangle contacted Xybax about his concerns. Rather than answer those concerns, the industrialist invited Gangle to come for a visit.

Gangle arrived at Xybax Corporation’s main facility the following morning, where he was met at the door by none other than Xybax himself. He brought Gangle directly into a massive room featuring—to Gangle’s horror—a much larger version of his garden singularity.

“Is it not beautiful?” Xybax asked.

Gangle thought it was not in fact beautiful at all.

“I don’t understand,” Gangle said. “Are you feeding it?”

“Controlled growth. We’re monitoring it carefully.”

“Will you still be able to send it away on a rocket?”

Xybax laughed. “No, why would we ever do that? Gangle, you do not appreciate what we have here. Imagine a future that runs on an inexhaustible supply of clean energy! Energy that’s actually a net positive for the environment!”

“I don’t understand.”

“We are feeding it a strict diet of trash; enormous truckloads of garbage from all over the world. Next month we start work on the stockpiles of nuclear waste. Your singularity is getting rid of all of it for us.”

“But how is this an energy source?”

“With a very clever engine that turns the gravitational power into an electrical source. Professor Cole designed it herself. In time, the entire power grid will be supported by what goes on in this room. And that is just the beginning. Once we have built it out the entire planet’s energy can come from right here! This is a very exciting time!”

Gangle thought Xybax was perhaps insane, as this was far too much enthusiasm for someone talking about an object that could devour the planet. Either that, or Gangle was missing something.

“Professor Cole said it was impossible to destroy the singularity,” he said.

“Yes, this is so.”

“And you have no intention of launching it into space.”

“It is already too late to do such a foolish thing. It is too massive now. No rocket on the planet has sufficient thrust to achieve escape velocity with that aboard.”

“And it can only grow, is this not correct? It cannot shrink.”

“Actually, it can,” Xybax said. “But only in the vacuum of space, absent fuel, and over a vast period of time. So yes, for the purposes of our current circumstance, it can only grow.”

“Then will it not eventually consume us all?” Gangle asked. “Or have I overlooked an alternative?”

Xybax smiled. “It will not be a problem for us. Nor for our children, our children’s children, or our children’s children’s children. Our children’s children’s children’s children’s children’s children’s children’s children may have some difficulty but of course by then it will hardly matter.”

“Why is that?”

Xybax put his hand on Gangle’s shoulder and turned him to face the singularity. “Look at it, Gangle. You are focusing on its destructive potential, but that is not what I see at all! I see a utopian future built on the harnessing of this great force. Surely, in that future they will figure out how to resolve a problem that to us, right now, appears impossible to solve. Have faith in the cleverness of our descendants, Gangle.”

[. . .]

[. . . why did you stop?]

[I’m not sure of the ending for this one.]

[stories have happy endings, daddy.]

[Do they? always?]

[daaaaaddy]

[all right.]

Gangle returned home, concerned but also confident that a man as smart as Xybax must surely have superior insight into matters such as this.

And in the years that followed, Xybax’s idealized vision did indeed come true: the planet was cleaner, energy was cheap and plentiful, and everyone was happy.

The end.

• • • •

“No, no, no,” Celi said. “That’s not the right ending at all.”

“What ending were you hoping for?”

“Gangle should have convinced Xybax that he was wrong and to get rid of the singularity like he was supposed to.”

“But it was too late for that,” Pyrish said. “Xybax said it was already too large to send away.”

“Then change that part of the story!”

“Then it would be a different story, wouldn’t it?”

Celi frowned. “But-but-but then what happened? Will their children’s children’s children’s children’s children’s children’s children’s children be all right?”

Pyrish smiled. “I’ll tell their story another time. Now you need to get some sleep.”

“Fine.”

He tucked her in, kissed her forehead and turned off the light.

“Daddy?” Celi said, when he was at the door. “They will be okay, right?”

“Who will?”

“Their children’s children, you know. You don’t have to tell me the whole story. I just want to know.”

“Yes. A great many years in the future, the descendants of Xybax and Gangle work out a way to shrink the singularity so that it will never grow uncontrollably and destroy the planet. And everyone was fine.”

“Okay. Good night, daddy.”

“Good night, Celi.”

Pyrish drifted back into the living pod and refilled his glass of whisky. Then he sat in the dark and stared at the lights of the city in the distance. They had a good view of the downtown from their little home on the hill, a view that included the massive central Facility building.

The launch pad on the far end of the city usually offered a lightshow of rockets at this time of night too—one every few minutes—but those had mostly stopped. They hadn’t run out of rockets; just people who could afford them.

Pyrish sighed. He was expected back at the Facility in a few hours, and it would be better if he arrived sober. Not that it would matter all that much if he was; it wouldn’t change anything. But there was a matter of keeping up appearances, not causing a panic and so forth.

He kept drinking.

There was a great rumble in the distance. It came from the Facility, which had been making alarming noises for months now. Pyrish was one of the only people left who knew why.

The Source had breached containment. Like all the other times this had happened, there was still a chance they’d be able to get it back under control before it reached the absolute point of no return. But they would only be buying themselves a few weeks, because all they had left was short-term solutions and they would eventually run out of those too.

Black holes will always eat. And there was nothing Pyrish could do to change that.