Sun Damage

I think once today’s work is done, I’ll have my first and last look at the surface of my planet with naked eyes and then let the sun claim me.

Now a red dwarf, it looms large in the jaundiced sky over scrubland the color of ancient rust. I curse the swollen star; no longer a giver of life, its mortal expansion has perverted it into a growing tumor, spreading its disease over the remains of the planet. I avert my eyes from its baleful glare and trudge onward through the steaming ashen landscape.

I’m inclined to this dark form of reflection when I’m up here, seeing firsthand what the planet has become. According to the Minister of History, it came gradually — a slow burn rather than a single dramatic flash of atomic fire and poisoned wind, or what ancient zealots had called an “Antichrist.” Climate change eons ago had killed off about half the population, and ensuing nuclear conflict between the surviving nations over the world’s dwindling resources had killed off even more. But like viruses and cockroaches, our species had persisted, albeit in smaller numbers, in a handful of Factions — mere husks of what were once states and societies.

Alas, no one can outlive the sun. Having run out of hydrogen, it sounded its death rattle, its helium core collapsing, bloating like an aging corpse. Its increasing light and heat seared the world, its increasing size filled more of the sky with each passing year. The Factions found ways to survive, developing heat-resistant dwellings and hydroponic farms, but once the seas boiled away, every human who hadn’t died of dehydration or sun poisoning had retreated underground, the Factions insular in their own quadrants of the world. I’m just glad I won’t be around to see the mountains melt; the Minister of Science says that’s coming next.

At nearly fifty, I’m close to the end of life expectancy, and while my body still mostly works, my mind has had enough. Enough of the sickness, the famine, the drought, the premature deaths, our ever-shrinking supplies and our ever-increasing anxiety.

I know my decision won’t go over well with the other Ministers. Underminister Uri is the next-most skilled member of the Ministry of Resettlement, and he’s a journeyman at best. His predictions are not nearly as reliable as mine, and reliability is the mother of resettlement, and hence survival. He’d better improve quickly; maybe some pressure will light a fire under the Minister’s robes he’ll inherit.

My surfacesuit sags on my diminishing frame, now a size too big. My ventilator filters whir and the hose connecting my helmet to my O2-pack swings like the trunk of one of those huge mythological gray land mammals. Coolant mists my body and the outer heat shield plating keeps the murderous UV rays at bay. My heavy boots thud, dull in the audio receivers of my helmet, and I leave oversize footprints in the long-dead soil, kicking up a fog the color of dried blood.

My headset crackles sharp static and I flinch out of my miserable reverie. “Otto? Have you found it yet?” a deep voice rasps like someone threw a handful of rocks into my cochlea. It’s Ernst, the Minister of Communication. My closest friend since childhood and my brother-in-law, we rose through the ranks of East Faction together, and he’s always in my ear when I’m topside.

“Not yet,” I grunt into my mic, “I’ve only been out here an hour. I’m good but I’m not a miracle worker.”

“Come on, hurry it up, the last of our supply in this cavern is already gone,” Ernst groans.

I clear my sore parched throat. “I’m painfully aware, Ernst. You know, this job would be much easier if any water-detection tech had survived the last couple of apocalypses.”

“Play the hand you’re dealt, pal,” Ernst responds. “Be thankful we still have a couple of working surfacesuits and an increased aptitude for parlor tricks.”

I snort out a humorless laugh at the notion of being thankful for any of this abject horror, reach into my suit’s side pouch and fish around until I find what I need. Small and smooth, its metal would be cool if not for my padded glove. I withdraw it with practiced precision, and the gold heart-shaped locket drops down and bounces on the end of the chain held between my thumb and forefinger. It dangles, spinning in lazy circles, oblivious to the destruction reflected in its surface. I can see the reddish sunlight glint off the locket even through my polarized and heavily tinted faceplate. It never fails to calm me, even if just slightly.

I take a deep breath and close my eyes. I can sense the locket swinging to and fro, side to side, rhythmic and mesmerizing. I reach out with my mind, extending my thoughts through the chain and into the swaying heart.

The locket had belonged to my wife Klara, Ernst’s sister. Gone three years now, taken by rabid cancers spawned by this dying planet, she’d been a beacon of love and laughter and true human warmth. I’ve used the gold heart as my weapon of choice in divining for longer than I care to remember; its connection to her always gave me focus. Shortly before she died, Klara had inscribed something inside, but I’ve never opened it. Better that I don’t know; less distraction that way. It’s just me, this heart on a chain, the ground below, and hopefully a new groundwater source.

I don’t need rods, or Y-shaped tools; never did no matter what the old texts say. Much of our ancestors’ technology may be gone, but their pseudo-sciences haven’t let us down yet, and something about the destruction of the world brought to the surface some of mankind’s more arcane latent abilities. Some can move things with their minds. Others are natural alchemists. I’m a diviner. Klara had been a gifted empath, and her brother just a gifted pain in the ass.

Some time passes, I don’t know how much. I don’t know how far I’ve gone. When I’m dowsing, time becomes meaningless. Without warning, I stop, my boots freezing in place without so much as a suggestion from my conscious mind. My hands are still and my mind is open and blank. And then I hear it. Gentle lapping, falling droplets. It’s here.

I pull back and I’m in my own head again, and I notice Ernst still grumbling over the intercom. I cut him off. “I found it. Not sure how far down, but it’s definitely this spot. Staking the claim now.” I reach into my suit’s backpack and withdraw a short metal rod with a yellow flag at its tip. I plant it in the ground so the Excavation Ministry knows where to drill. And just like that, the job is done, and the 1,000 or so souls of East Faction will live on, at least for a little while longer.

“Nicely done, Otto,” Ernst says, the relief in his voice palpable. “We’ll send up the drilling team with Minister Stamper, pronto. Buzz me when you get here and we’ll de-suit you.”

I don’t answer. My shoulders slump with exhaustion, sweat trickling down my torso despite the coolant. I bought them some more time. I don’t need more time. I don’t want it. I tramp back toward the hatch that leads to our current subterranean dwelling so I can leave them a working surfacesuit. I arrive two hours later and don’t buzz Ernst.

With my free hand, I reach up to the latches of my helmet, my glove hovering by the clips. A half-dozen dexterous flicks and it will be lights up and then lights out. Maybe I’ll get to see Klara again. I don’t know — there’s no longer a Minister of Religion to consult about issues of theology and faith. We gave up on those fruitless practices long ago. Maybe my energy will just become one with the universe or I’ll be reborn as a freewheeling winged creature in a distant galaxy. Maybe it’ll just be eternally black and silent. That would be fine, too.

I pop one of the seals and coolant hisses out in an angry stream. My heart is steady. I don’t fear the pain from what’s outside my helmet. I already felt the greatest pain possible when Klara’s grip on my hand slackened for the last time. I pop another seal, and then a third. Warning bells start to chime in my headset. I wonder, if I do see Klara again, will she think less of me?

And then Ernst is there, rasping in my ear again.

“Otto? What’s going on? I’ve got alarms blaring over here. Are you hurt? Did you sustain damage? Talk to me.” I wish he’d stayed off the comm. My eyes start to cloud and I suppress the lump in my throat.

“I’m not any more hurt or damaged than I ever was. Make sure Uri gets his shit together. He should have a lot of time if my estimate of the water supply in the next cavern is even half accurate. And take care of yourself; give up that stupid pipe, it’ll be the death of you.”

“What’re you talking about? Hey! You’re responsible for a lot of people down here. I know none of them is Klara — believe me, I miss her too — but you can’t just check out. I won’t let you do that.”

“It’s not up to you, Ernst” I say, anger rising. “You know I love you like a brother, but I’m done. Let me go out on my own terms. Everything else was dictated for me. You think I wanted to be Minster of Resettlement? I don’t know why I’m the best diviner. I didn’t ask to be some cut-rate messiah for East Faction. I didn’t ask for Klara to suffer and die while I watched. I didn’t…”

This time Ernst cuts me off. “Open the locket.”

“What?” He catches me off-guard.

“Open the damned locket. I know you never have. Maybe you just couldn’t, and that’s fine. But do it now.” Ernst’s usual gruffness gives way to a quaver. “If you don’t change your mind, you can go ahead and fry if that’s what you really want.”

The locket is still in my right gloved hand. I turn it over in my palm as the coolant continues to seep out and vanish into the dead atmosphere. I pull my left outer glove off, leaving only the protective inner liner and quickly pop the catch and open the gold heart before replacing my gauntlet. I hold the locket close to my visor and squint. Inside is an inscription in Klara’s tight artisan script, carved by hand flawlessly despite her body eating itself alive.

“Read it,” Otto commands. “Out loud.”

I blink back tears. “I am not what has happened to me. I am what I choose to become.”

I can hear the smile in Otto’s voice. “Klara read up on all the ancient scientists, especially the shrinks. One named Carl Jung wrote those lines eons ago. Klara knew better than anyone how dramatic you could get and she thought they might help bring you off the ledge if it came to it. An empath ‘til the very end. Glad she clued me in before she left us.”

“Ernst, I…don’t know what to say,” I stammer.

“Say nothing. Allow the communications maestro to help. You’ve already become something. Many things. A brother. A leader. A lifesaver. An actual miracle worker. We need you, and Klara knew that. Honor your wife and get your ass back underground.”

I look up toward the reddening sun, staring it in the face now. I sigh and pop the leaking seals shut; the alarms go silent. The sun continues to broadcast its death, but I’ll leave mine for another day. Wherever Klara may be out in the brutal cosmos, I wouldn’t want to disappoint her.