The Burning Planet

Chapter 1: The Last Christmas

Nobody can hear a scream in the vacuum of space, or so they say. So I convinced myself I must be slowly losing my mind because I hear the screams every night.

12/25/2199

Merry Christmas. I read once in a book that people used to gather together on this day. They would sing songs and have a grand feast. It was a popular tradition with many smaller ones wrapped up within it. In more primitive times, they would sacrifice a tree and decorate it. That must have been before the 21st century. They knew better then.

Admittedly it may have continued until the 2010s, but I couldn't see it going much further. The globe had begun showing the effects of climate change, or so Chris had told me. I think this all took place when humanity dwelled in houses. Really they were just wooden shacks with a bunch of extra resources needed to keep them going, but they called them houses. I knew a professor once who blamed the houses. He said Earth couldn't reclaim them peacefully, so she chose fire. I don't think he was a very good professor. Chris said it was actually the energy companies. There were countless Christmases with no problems. It was the energy companies that fried the earth.

Now, floating in this part of the solar system, it's hard to imagine any of it. Christmas, houses, it all seems unlikely. Earth, in its current form, most closely resembles the sun, not even a planet, just a great burning star. I often think-

The dark graphite tip of Tom's pencil snapped as he tensed. The screaming was back.

Deftly Tom reached onto the stand beside him and with two swift motions he put in the earplugs that would drown out the wrenching wails. He ran a wrinkled hand through his salt and pepper freckled mop of shaggy hair and let his face relax from his suddenly clenched jaw. Frowning, he turned his attention back to the pencil. He knew he shouldn't be using it. It was an heirloom, maybe even the last of its kind.

Slapping both of his palms down to his thighs, he pushed off with a great sigh, hauling his aching frame to standing.

“Did I mess up the gravity settings in here?” he mused to himself. Sadly a quick glance showed what he already knew. The gravity was lower than “Earth Normal” already. It was his years beginning to weigh him down. He shuffled over to a small plastic cabinet and removed a brush and tiny glass jar containing a thin layer of dark dust. Returning to his chair, he took a deep breath to steel himself for the task at hand. The consequences of his indulgence.

Tom gingerly picked up the broken piece of graphite and dropped it into the jar. Then in the practiced and calculated method he had devised to keep the impact of his wasteful hobby in check, he lowered the gravity of his chamber a little more. He had taught himself to write in such a way that the pencil barely made its presence known to paper. Still, small slivers broke off, and he had to recover them.

The lowered gravity oh-so-slightly separated the black dust from the paper allowing him to sweep every fleck into his jar.

He hated this part because he needed to focus. But shifting his focus meant his earplugs only stopped the sound, and with his attention split, the feeling of the agonised shrieks crept their way into his brain. He finished and hurriedly went to put the jar away, brainstorming what he could do to busy himself. He knew he needed to stop using the pencil, but surely some small sacrifices could be made for his own enjoyment.

Before deciding how to occupy his mind, the room was flooded with red light.

“Shit.” Tom muttered, removing his earplugs and cringing from the auditory assault. A clunky siren overlapped with unending screams and his alert system declaring:

“Emergency Team Boarding, Please Respond.”

“Emergency Team Boarding, Please Respond.”

“One second!” Tom hollered as he snatched up his pencil and journal, shoving them both into the cushion of his chair before fumbling to return the gravity to its regular setting.

His eyes swept the chamber for anything else that might be considered contraband. Fortunately, it was a small room, he quickly appraised his chair, his couch, and the bookshelf tucked behind it. To the left of his chair was his table with his storage and computer, all clear there. The waste room next to the clean room he knew had nothing questionable in it. Though under this more intense than usual scrutiny, he did notice the stainless steel accents of his furniture and walls were dull, and a thin layer of recycled oxygen seemed to have settled onto all the surfaces. Nevertheless, Tom moved to the airlock door of his lived-in room and made his way to the ship entrance lock, admitting his less than welcome guests.

Two men in white uniformed space suits stepped inside. As the lock resealed, Tom gestured to the helmet rack, but the two figures shook their heads, their facial expressions obscured by a tint so dark Tom was positive it was not within regulations. As he lowered his arm from the rejected hospitality ritual, the two figures simultaneously reached up and flipped on their air intake valves.

Tom clenched his fists. The LYPD was well known throughout the solar system and not for their politeness. Still, Tom felt viscerally about the amount of disrespect it took to use a man’s air without even giving him the courtesy of a face-to-face.

“Tom 4B.” The rightmost said gruffly, not even hinting at it being a question as much as a statement that they knew exactly who Tom was and, most importantly, that he was not supposed to be here.

“Yup, that’s me.” Tom replied dryly, trying to keep any nervous ticks he may have developed since his last interaction with another living human in check. Another sentence hovered on the tip of his tongue. Did they also hear the screaming? Was that why they kept their helmets? He decided, for now, it was better he kept that question to himself. The colony had enough contempt for him without thinking he was losing his marbles out here.

“Confirm your carbon print and lifespan.” The left one said in an equally unfriendly, near-taunting tone.

Tom felt a flash of indignation. He bet they didn’t treat the colony folk this way. Just the Ollie’s like him. He’d bet his boots on it. His indignation burned hot for a few seconds before sheepish embarrassment doused it. Of course, they did. In some ways, they should. Chris had certainly seen it both ways.

“Single human person, well within carbon allowance, born 2167,” Tom said in a monotone.

The figures' heads inclined toward each other, something in his answer had intrigued them.

“You’re not permitted to be here,” Righty said in a tone dripping with mockery that Tom knew was designed to force a betrayal of his pupils to the back of his head, but he held fast. Any sign of disrespect and they would have it written in a report as a justification for a broken knee and confiscated fuel pod.

“I have a mourning permit for Chris G2,” Tom said slowly, trying to keep his temper from flaring again. He hated speaking those words into reality, even in the best of circumstances.

“Your permit expired yesterday. If you wanted more time, your husband should have chosen a more convenient location to be suspended. Earth zone has been condemned since before either of you were even born. There are no excuses.” Each word fell like a sharp point of a knife to Tom’s chest.

“He was an Earth historian,” Tom replied blankly. He regretted it immediately. They didn’t care. He didn't need to bother explaining. Still, he let the words hang there for a beat, pleading for an ounce of humanity to betray either one of them.

Of course, it didn’t. The silence stretched between the three for a few seconds longer before Tom broke it with a nod.

“Right. Must have lost track of time. I’ll go now.”

Without even so much as a “Goodbye”, they stepped back into the airlock and returned to their ship.

Tom moved as quickly as his sore joints permitted him back to his lived-in room. Scooping up and replacing his earplugs, he then peered through the windows. Not seeing their ship, he headed down the sleek, sterile corridor to his slept-in room, and from there, he was able to see the Emergency Response Cruiser.

He reached for the bookshelf above his bed, banking on the near-certain chance they were watching him, and made a show of pulling out coordinate books. The more time of theirs he wasted, the more likely they would need to go back to the colony and refuel rather than try to follow him.

Not that they needed an excuse, the colony was pretty much a utopia, at least as far as the options went. Luckily all of their efforts and resources went to try and replicate Earth as closely as possible, which meant their patrol ships would never outlast his. Tom's ship was made for the vast open emptiness of space, not to explore it but to exist within it. He remembered when he’d inherited it, how excited he’d been to not need the colony. His train of thought faltered. It was naivety, unfortunately. No matter how free, everyone still needed the colony.

Finally, after enough puttering that he suspected they would need that refuel, Tom adjusted the coordinates on his navigation system to take him just outside the forbidden zone.

“I’m so sorry. I’ll see you tomorrow.” Tom thought to himself as he moved away from the burning planet.