On very rare occasions something profound happens to me.
When I say rare, I mean rare. Such as the stars spelling out my name or when snow fell in the Sahara. In fact, even more rare than that. Perhaps when that room full of monkeys finally finishes the complete works of Shakespeare or when the last few turkeys actually organise a ballot and vote in favour of Christmas and Thanksgiving.
On such days as these, I miss my homeworld.
Earth ceased to be such a long time ago that I don’t remember actually seeing it. But I know from the genetic memory I inherited that humanity has lost something completely essential to our existence. Had it been a natural disaster, we may have coped much better than we did. If the dying sun had swallowed our motherworld or even if we had not avoided stripping her of any and all resources, we may have had enough warning to do something to prevent it. We may have simply found comfort in its inevitability.
That’s not how it happened, though. In fact, we had just reached a point where we had rescued ourselves from the short-sightedness of our ancestors, and the sun had billions of years left in her.
This only made our loss so much more heartbreaking. We had won, conquered our destructive past. And then we lost. Big.
The last people to see the Earth whole never quite recovered from the sight of her destruction. Even their descendants, to this day, suffer the torment of visions of the plates being forced apart in a final act of planetary, and racial, torture.
Those of us unburdened by this recurring horror have fared no better among the stars. We became nomads, pirates and outcastes among the other inhabitants of the galaxy.
It is as one of these “pirates” – albeit a much higher class of “pirate” – that I have made a small fortune. I left Earth with my family when I was young and was fortunate enough to meet a gang who could teach me hoe to make my own way in the galaxy. Since then, in my own little way, I’ve lived quite easily. But lately, things have changed.
I’m a wanted man.
Not by the authorities – well, no more than usual – or the people I do “business” with. These would be easily dealt with.
Now, it’s my own kind after me. And they want me dead. Why?
Well, apparently I’m responsible for the death of Earth. How, I’ve got no idea. But I intend to find out.