Post by redsycorax on Dec 30, 2020 2:58:11 GMT
If anyone had bene left to chronicle the exact date on the desolate world, it would have been January 1, 5,000,000,000 Anno Domini. But there wasn't. The era of the Justice League of America and that of the Legion of Super-Heroes lay in the planet's distant past. The human species had long since mastered interstellar and intergalactic travel and it had diversified into numerous subspecies on incalculable numbers of worlds. Some of those descendant species reached singularity phase and left the narrow confines of the space-time continuum, to exist in higher dimensions without such limitations. Other descedant species were less fortunate, losing sapience and their dominant species status. Others were destroyed by events that had failed to befall the forgotten homeworld of humanity= gamma radiation bursts, asteroid strikes, antimatter warfare, climate change or obliteration by hostile xenophobic aliens. But humanity was no longer limited to a single world, so although these endings were unbearable tragedies for these farflung colonial civilisations, they did not prove fatal to the posterity of the human species themselves.
And on that very last day, a single figure walked the seared and cratered ground of the dead Earth and looked up into the desolate black sky. Some of the larger stars of the distant past were no longer present- Antares and Betelguese, to name two, had long since flared into oblivion. Sirius was now a white dwarf and neutron star pair. Alpha Centauri A and B were also white dwarves, and where Rann had once orbited, there was a desolate cluster of silently pirouetting debris. On the boundary of Alpha Centauri A's planetary system, lonely Anthorann orbited, its surface seared by the death furies of its primary, host to a lonely monolith that marked the last records of the civilisation that had once existed there.
Clad in red in blue, the figure should not have even been there- red solar radiation was supposed to nullify its metahuman capabilities, and there was certainly no way that it should have been able to traverse the surface of the charnel house planet before it. Yet, it did so, leaving footprints over its surface that would eventually be erased by what would unfold later that day. Above it, the swollen and engorged red giant sun filled half the sky, with its prominences and flares erupting in silent and terrible majesty before it. Earth's temperature was now thousands of degrees Celsius.
As it had steadily approached uninhabitability, the colonial worlds sent an armada to evacuate its final few hundred thousand humanoid inhabitants from the planet. In those days, there were still metahumanoids, so they played their role, excavating the decaying surface for remnant traces of lost civilisations and species of millions of years past. While that lasted a few thousand years, ultimately the area was mined out, and then they abandoned the silent world to its fate. As time went on, the sun's nuclear reactions began to metastasise as it aged and expanded steadily into the space between it and its innermost planets. An occasional alien archaeological team or heavily insulated tourist starship visited, but the cadaverous Earth attracted no interest from successive interstellar empires, mined out of whatever strategic minerals it might have possessed, uninhabitable even for extremophile species with exotic anatomies and bombarded with increasingly deadly radiation from its prodigal primary.
And then, further in deep time, animal life and then photosynthesis became impossible. As the sun continued to expand, Earth entered a runaway greenhouse phase of its development and its average temperature passed the point at which water boiled. As that happened, its oceans slowly evaporated. One day in eternity, the phytoplankton began to die, followed by the remaining extremophile bacteria, as Earth's atmosphere evaporated into space and its former satellite spiralled inexorably away from it. Earth's molten surface became permanent and unchanging and it bore silent witness as the red giant sun consumed Mercury, although an alien species rescued Venus from the flames and then bore it away to its own planetary system. The sun inexorably increased in diameter, monitored by distant probes from humanity's successor species in what remained of its Oort Cloud.
And then one day, what would have still been a familiar red and blue clad figure from distant legend entered the radically transformed solar system. It passed oceans on Enceladus and Titan, although Saturn lacked its rings of yore, long since fallen into the surface of the gas giant. Three of Jupiter's four Gallilean satellites- Callisto, Ganymede and Europa - were potentially inhabitable. Asteroids had been flung into the maw of the giant planet, became subsidiary minor satellites or were thrown out of Earth's solar system forever as gravitational turbulence increased while the sun grew. Like Earth, Mars was now also scorched and desolate, a terraforming period long forgotten. A ring encircled it, debris of its innermost satellite Phobos, which had disintegrated when it passed the planet's Roche Limit.
On the former moon, now Luna, the silent ruins of abandoned lunar cities and their support industries bore witness to what would shortly unfold.
And then the figure set foot on the forgotten, deserted Earth, kneeling down to survey the remnant rock and soil and then standing, striding forward to walk the surface that it had not trodden in several billion years. With eyes beyond those of mortal sapience, it gazed into the blinding maw of the sun as it roiled and pulsated above. Then, it detected increasing fluctuation within the star that now covered half the sky above it. Finally, events were coming to their conclusion. Within the immense, bloated red giant, its temperature had reached the point where it had begun to fuse helium into carbon atoms. Abruptly, a flash lit up the sky as a threshold was reached and passed. Visibly, the star began to flare outward as it reached its nova stage and its superheated plasma surged into the intervening space between itself, Earth and Luna. Within four and a half minutes, light and heat burst in on the charnel house Earth. The gravitational pulse began to distend the world into an oval as cavernous fissures opened, the size of continents, exposing its mantle and core to the inexorable pressure and heat from the burgeoning primary. But it was not infinitely elastic, so debris and superheated rock began to break away from its surface. Its fragmentation accelerated as the blowtorch pulsation tore into its fabric. And then, abruptly, the figure on its surface bent and the uncanny red glow in its eyes went out. Instants later, a final eruption slammed into its fragments and the Earth vanished from existence.
Light years away, a familiar figure blinked in the afternoon crimson light of Rokyn as the feed ceased. Kal-El had once been known as Superman and alongside him, enhanced to match his prodigious abilities, sat his wife of these billion years, Lois Lane. Rokyn's red dwarf primary was more frugal with its heat and light and might last as long as a trillion years. Like humanity's successor species, Rokyn's Kryptonian population had steadily advanced until it too had reached the singularity phase and transcended its universe. Kal-El and Lois silently stood, hand in hand, as they walked from the abandoned surface of Kryptonian civilisation's second home, entered a starship, and left Rokyn to its ghosts. Superman had outlived the world he had once protected, if not the species born on its surface.
And who can tell if this is an imaginary story or not?
THE END.
And on that very last day, a single figure walked the seared and cratered ground of the dead Earth and looked up into the desolate black sky. Some of the larger stars of the distant past were no longer present- Antares and Betelguese, to name two, had long since flared into oblivion. Sirius was now a white dwarf and neutron star pair. Alpha Centauri A and B were also white dwarves, and where Rann had once orbited, there was a desolate cluster of silently pirouetting debris. On the boundary of Alpha Centauri A's planetary system, lonely Anthorann orbited, its surface seared by the death furies of its primary, host to a lonely monolith that marked the last records of the civilisation that had once existed there.
Clad in red in blue, the figure should not have even been there- red solar radiation was supposed to nullify its metahuman capabilities, and there was certainly no way that it should have been able to traverse the surface of the charnel house planet before it. Yet, it did so, leaving footprints over its surface that would eventually be erased by what would unfold later that day. Above it, the swollen and engorged red giant sun filled half the sky, with its prominences and flares erupting in silent and terrible majesty before it. Earth's temperature was now thousands of degrees Celsius.
As it had steadily approached uninhabitability, the colonial worlds sent an armada to evacuate its final few hundred thousand humanoid inhabitants from the planet. In those days, there were still metahumanoids, so they played their role, excavating the decaying surface for remnant traces of lost civilisations and species of millions of years past. While that lasted a few thousand years, ultimately the area was mined out, and then they abandoned the silent world to its fate. As time went on, the sun's nuclear reactions began to metastasise as it aged and expanded steadily into the space between it and its innermost planets. An occasional alien archaeological team or heavily insulated tourist starship visited, but the cadaverous Earth attracted no interest from successive interstellar empires, mined out of whatever strategic minerals it might have possessed, uninhabitable even for extremophile species with exotic anatomies and bombarded with increasingly deadly radiation from its prodigal primary.
And then, further in deep time, animal life and then photosynthesis became impossible. As the sun continued to expand, Earth entered a runaway greenhouse phase of its development and its average temperature passed the point at which water boiled. As that happened, its oceans slowly evaporated. One day in eternity, the phytoplankton began to die, followed by the remaining extremophile bacteria, as Earth's atmosphere evaporated into space and its former satellite spiralled inexorably away from it. Earth's molten surface became permanent and unchanging and it bore silent witness as the red giant sun consumed Mercury, although an alien species rescued Venus from the flames and then bore it away to its own planetary system. The sun inexorably increased in diameter, monitored by distant probes from humanity's successor species in what remained of its Oort Cloud.
And then one day, what would have still been a familiar red and blue clad figure from distant legend entered the radically transformed solar system. It passed oceans on Enceladus and Titan, although Saturn lacked its rings of yore, long since fallen into the surface of the gas giant. Three of Jupiter's four Gallilean satellites- Callisto, Ganymede and Europa - were potentially inhabitable. Asteroids had been flung into the maw of the giant planet, became subsidiary minor satellites or were thrown out of Earth's solar system forever as gravitational turbulence increased while the sun grew. Like Earth, Mars was now also scorched and desolate, a terraforming period long forgotten. A ring encircled it, debris of its innermost satellite Phobos, which had disintegrated when it passed the planet's Roche Limit.
On the former moon, now Luna, the silent ruins of abandoned lunar cities and their support industries bore witness to what would shortly unfold.
And then the figure set foot on the forgotten, deserted Earth, kneeling down to survey the remnant rock and soil and then standing, striding forward to walk the surface that it had not trodden in several billion years. With eyes beyond those of mortal sapience, it gazed into the blinding maw of the sun as it roiled and pulsated above. Then, it detected increasing fluctuation within the star that now covered half the sky above it. Finally, events were coming to their conclusion. Within the immense, bloated red giant, its temperature had reached the point where it had begun to fuse helium into carbon atoms. Abruptly, a flash lit up the sky as a threshold was reached and passed. Visibly, the star began to flare outward as it reached its nova stage and its superheated plasma surged into the intervening space between itself, Earth and Luna. Within four and a half minutes, light and heat burst in on the charnel house Earth. The gravitational pulse began to distend the world into an oval as cavernous fissures opened, the size of continents, exposing its mantle and core to the inexorable pressure and heat from the burgeoning primary. But it was not infinitely elastic, so debris and superheated rock began to break away from its surface. Its fragmentation accelerated as the blowtorch pulsation tore into its fabric. And then, abruptly, the figure on its surface bent and the uncanny red glow in its eyes went out. Instants later, a final eruption slammed into its fragments and the Earth vanished from existence.
Light years away, a familiar figure blinked in the afternoon crimson light of Rokyn as the feed ceased. Kal-El had once been known as Superman and alongside him, enhanced to match his prodigious abilities, sat his wife of these billion years, Lois Lane. Rokyn's red dwarf primary was more frugal with its heat and light and might last as long as a trillion years. Like humanity's successor species, Rokyn's Kryptonian population had steadily advanced until it too had reached the singularity phase and transcended its universe. Kal-El and Lois silently stood, hand in hand, as they walked from the abandoned surface of Kryptonian civilisation's second home, entered a starship, and left Rokyn to its ghosts. Superman had outlived the world he had once protected, if not the species born on its surface.
And who can tell if this is an imaginary story or not?
THE END.
