Heat Death

They never ask the little folk what they think before doing something drastic. Or rather, they pretend to listen to them, pretend to give them a say, and then continue with their plans regardless of their thoughts. The common man must make way for the extraordinary people.  

We had not felt the sun’s warmth on our skin in eons. Generations before us had only known the sun and its partner as Old Tom, the devil’s lazy red eyes glaring at us, huge in the sky. An annoyance more than anything. How can a thing so big, so red, so angry, be so cold and indifferent? Just like the man upstairs, he didn’t care for us. He only glared down at us in disapproval, before sinking into the inky blackness of night.  

We knew we were not long for this world. The crops needed a stronger sun than Old Tom, the greenhouses needed more energy than he could provide. More energy than he deigned to give. He was Old Tom too. Thomas Ryker, executive to the stars, acting CEO of Actaeon.  

How they allowed one man, one executive board, one corporation to manage an entire planet is beyond me. The greybeards in their rocking chairs would sit in the rest area of the refinery and say profound nothings. 

“These are unprecedented times,” one would say, stroking his beard sagely. 

“That’s the way of the future. Up, up, up!” said the other, nodding wisely, the apex of his head warding off sleep. 

“Soon we’ll be rocking in the stars,” the first replied, optimistically.  

I’d wrinkle my nose at that. You’d think age would bring wisdom, but it only seemed to bring foolishness and naiveté round these parts.  

Thomas Ryker smiled in his speeches about a bright tomorrow for Actaeon, while elaborating on his magnificent plan to leave the barren rock to rot in a shiny, beautiful spaceship, vanishing into the sky towards tomorrow.  

“Are there enough ships for everyone?” a reporter asked, bright eyed. 

“Naturally,” Ryker said, smiling for the camera. 

“Is there enough fuel to extradite the entire planet?” a working mother asked anxiously. 

“Of course,” Tom replied, a twinkle in his eye. 

“Will there be work for everyone on the new planet?’ a union rep asked irritably. 

“Those who haven’t been given work orders for the ships will of course find a bevy of work opportunities on our next planet in terraforming, facility construction, and the like. And where there’s new colonies?” 

“Finding work is a breeze!” the crowd roars, cheering Old Tom like he’d saved them all. 

Many believed the things that Ryker told them. They hadn’t sent out the work orders. They believed in him, and why shouldn’t they? The ships were all visible, shiny and new on every residential block. Of course it seemed like they would be saved. They weren’t me.  

I am Lyssa Blackfoot, secretary to my father, Hunter Blackfoot. I sat in the board meetings with the endless list of silly board member names. Towser Quicksight, Hamon Babbler, Ladon Woodranger, Melanie Surefoot, Tiger Racer.  

I shouldn’t be the way I am. I never was before I came here. I was always obedient, deferring to my father in all things, never asking for anything. In return, my father provided everything I could ever need. The best upbringing, the best training, the best education, the best prospects, the best opportunities. Everything but... 

I was a good child. An obedient daughter. What else could I be? What else was possible? 

Something strange happened when I landed on Actaeon, and I saw the suns. Seeing those twin red giants, feeling the cold gaze of Old Tom, I felt like this planet could see me.  

A world just as cold as the one I’d left. A gaze just as disapproving as my father’s. Did I expect a warmth I had never known I could feel? Did something stir deep within me?  

How could I possibly desire a warmth I had never felt? 

The first hint of warmth I had felt was on a planet that had never felt the warmth of the sun. I was alone, in the cafeteria, staring into my empty bowl, wondering what I was doing there. At the time, I felt nothing. I wanted for nothing but I also wanted nothing. I wanted to cry, but I didn’t have any sadness within me to produce tears. A sanitation worker smiled at me, and offered to get me more food. I was surprised. I told her no thank you. She nodded, took my bowl for me, and began to clean around me, humming a song. Instead of looking at the ceiling, I looked at her. I smiled. 

Ever since then, I began to look at the workers on Actaeon.  

As the executives brunched, they swept and sewed.  

As the CEO golfed, they refined, they reaped and sowed. 

As my father sat bored in his meetings, they made life possible.  

I began to feel something. A deep, intense sense of loathing. They knew how to care for each other. They picked each other up when they fell, they held up the sky.  

If Peter wasn’t there to maintain the terraforming machine, where would we be? 

If Marsha wasn’t there to make the meager crops into meals, where would we be? 

If Marshall wasn’t there to sweep our streets, where would we be? 

If the workers were gone, Actaeon was gone. 

They knew that. You could hear it in their songs, in the speeches at the union meetings, in the wise sayings they’d say.  

They knew their value. 

They knew each others’ worth. 

They knew warmth, despite the fact that the sun had never warmed them a day in their lives.  

They knew so much more than I. But there were many things they didn’t know. 

The executive board was a cruel place. People were hired and fired without their say so, without a second thought.  

What happened to the men and women who were fired? What became of their children? They had to hope there was room in the union, or it was the barren wasteland outside the terraformers for them.  

What if the company went under? They had to hope the lights stayed on long enough to extradite. No one sends fuel to abandoned refineries, unprofitable greenhouses, unemployed workers.  

The workers had no idea what went down in the board room.  

They didn’t hear the execs’ belly laughs and condescending words for the workers.  

They didn’t know that there weren’t enough work orders for all the ships they put up. 

They didn’t know that there were only enough fuel reserves for five rockets to launch. 

They don’t know that the executives will be riding the Artemis, the beautiful golden ship with an open bar and live music played by the most advanced androids on the market, every luxury you can imagine is available. 

They don’t know that the Artemis needs five ships worth of fuel to power on those amenities.  

They don’t know that Old Tom is on his last legs, that it’s only a matter of time before the two eyes meet, collapse, and swallow the world whole.  

They don’t know that I’ve boarded the Artemis, my final gift in hand, or that I’ve arranged it in the grand ballroom, central to the ship.  

They don’t know that I’ve set the timer, that I’m waiting in the captain’s chair, staring up at the stars.  

I found the worker that cleared my bowl all that time ago, and sat down and spoke with her for some time. I told her about the Artemis, about Ryker’s duplicitous nature, about my father’s indifference. It all came rushing out of me like a river. A surging outpour that I couldn’t control. She was silent for quite some time before patting my hand and smiling at me.  

“There ain’t nothing in this world that we can’t handle together,” she’d said. 

For the second time in my life, I spoke my mind. 

“If there wasn’t any Artemis, there’d be no problem.” 

I smiled. 

We haven’t felt the sun’s warmth in so long. Eons, in fact.  

As the twin suns crawled slowly up the horizon, I walked away from the ship which stood between us and the future, and towards the fuel stores. I look back at the Artemis, that golden idol, that false ark, and the fruits of my labor shakes it to its foundations, ripples the metal of its flesh and blooms out of the gaps, a glorious revolutionary flame. 

I’ve never felt warmth before. 

But in these final moments before dawn, I am so warm.