The book was old, beyond old, really. It had been passed down from parent to child for a millennia. It was, now, so thick and large it was carried in a careful satchel and, due to being so ancient, the oldest of the pages yellowing, only carefully opened with gloves. The newest pages, however, were much fresher and had been added to the book almost weekly over the past hundred years. But now, the owner, dying gracefully of old age, called to the Archivaas. They wished to donate this relic to their care. A diary that had been written in by the members of their family for too many generations to count. From time time the first humans went to colonize the stars. They figured, when they were gone, at least these words would live on with these renown librarians. -- Anon Guest
It was, as the Descriptii called it, a Generation book. It, like Wels, was dying. It had been written in by firstborn after firstborn, passed down to each first child for generations. It had within its pages life from the perspective of the Diarykeepers from the time of landing. It described the breaking of first camp, births, deaths, personal drama, and even weather.
Archivaas Leif almost drooled. Hir gloved fingers twitched just to peek. A single perspective archive of an entire colony... it was priceless. An heirloom, of course. Stupidly, ze said, "Are you sure?"
"I gave my children the choice... and they chose not to add. They're... free..." Wels smiled as they struggled for breath. "My ancestors and I devoted themselves to documenting everything. Everything. It's a miracle we got anything done at all. We had to reserve two hours a day for journaling. Like it was sacred." Wils struggled to smile. "I always found it a pain in the butt."
"But... this is invaluable. It's priceless."
"Yes... completely worthless. A waste of my time. If I collected all the time I spent writing in that thing, I would have a good lifetime to live again."
Archivaas Leif did the math... two hours a day for one hundred and ten years... Two hundred and twenty hours, nine days and four hours. Not a long life. "That would be nine days and four hours."
"Time I wouldn't have to spend writing in a damn book." Wils gasped. Their time alive was coming to a close. "I've already written my last words. Take them. Hoard them. Analyse them to dust. Do what you do with books. I'm done."
Without any further fuss and bother, Wels died. So, officially, did the Generation book.
Leif forced hirself to remain still for a minute of silence before gently cradling the journal of some thousands of years. Now was not the time to be greedy. Now was the time to act with respect for the last author as ze placed it on the padded cart. The family would be notified and allowed to say their goodbyes to their forebear. Leif would thank them for the journal afterwards.
Preferably at the memorial service. Now was the time to see to the longevity of the piece. Carefully turning pages and scanning them for digital posterity before time could turn those delicate pages into crumbling dust. Time to take it to an atmosphere that would not harm it, and then work to preserve it in good condition.
Leif tried to push the cart at a respectful pace, but hir eagerness had hir skipping and rushing whenever ze wasn't in view of anyone else.
The journal of an entire world! This was a treasure beyond measuring.
Leif was a little out of breath when ze reached the document pod, and hurried into hir livesuit. Eager to be the first to begin the process. Eager to take careful impressions of the condition of the entire document and actually handle history.
Out of respect for Wils, she began with their last words.
I'm dying today, and I know it won't hurt. Finally, I will be free of this paper anchor.
Oh. That was disturbing.
Carefully, ze went back to Wils' first entry, where the careful, round letters of the newly literate said, Mom said I have to write every day. I hate this. I could be doing better stuff than this.
The previous generation had the same initial thoughts. The Generation book was not a fine tradition, but a burden that was a weight on every inheritor's shoulders.
Even the first entry had the same philosophy, They keep telling me that documenting everything is important for history. How important can it be if literally everyone is doing it? But... since everyone is doing it, then I have to. Ugh. Why did my parents drag me here if all our history is done by everyone?
[Image (c) Can Stock Photo / scis65]
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