The Sun Never Rises on Galicia
I used to teem with life. Now there’s only Marcela and her abuela — Pepita. Two lost souls marking time on the dark side of Proxima b. And Pepita and I aren’t on speaking terms anymore. Not since she yanked out her implants.
A ping comes in. “Galicia?”
“Hi, Marcela,” I reply. My default answer mode is cheerful and optimistic. “How can I help you this evening?”
“Can you send a medbot? For Abuela?”
“You’re sure?” The last time I tried, the old woman threatened to dismantle the poor bot with an atom slicer. Even as her temples bled.
But Marcela is sure. Choking through her tears, she swears there’ll be no more trouble.
Even before the FTL ship docked at Upper Galicia — announcing the dawn of a new era and taking away most of my inhabitants — Pepita was my oldest citizen. Oldest ever. Damn near 200. And more stubborn than the night is long.
“I don’t care if everyone else is leaving,” she said. “I was born here. I’m going to die here.”
I tried suggesting other options. “They can get you to Earth within a week now. You won’t believe what they’re doing with cybernetics these days.”
But the human skeleton isn’t designed for hostile environments like Proxima b. And two centuries of fighting against its gravity — 37.2% higher than that of Earth — had ground Pepita’s bones to pulp.
She spat back, “No offense, but I was born human. I’ll die human, too.”
The next day, within hours of the ship’s departure, she took the pliers to her head. And that’s the last we ever spoke.
Faster-than-light travel changes everything, of course. Where it took decades to get the first settlers out to this system, it now takes but a few months to cross the galaxy. Suffice to say, it didn’t take long to discover a ton of new worlds perfect for colonization. Goldilocks planets, no terraforming necessary. Hundreds of them. All with stable stars, liquid water, oxygen. And near-Earth gravity. Who needed Proxima b anymore?
As the governor said while she packed up her desk, we were here because of stubbornness. To prove a point. Humanity had crossed the void and set up a new home. Ta-da! But enough was enough. If you can be on another Earth in a matter of weeks, what’s the use of toiling on this shithole any longer?
Her vulgar comment only fazed me for a few nanoseconds. The governor had a potty mouth. But she also had a point. Why suffer any longer than you have to?
Marcela was smitten when the ship arrived. I’ve seen the signs enough times to know by now. When that little red-headed lieutenant stepped off the space elevator from Upper Galicia — fresh-pressed uniform, proud bearing — Marcela’s heart skipped a beat. Literally. So, I arranged for them to “accidentally” go to the same out-of-the-way cantina that evening.
“Trust me,” I told Marcela, “you want to go out tonight. And you want to wear that dress.” The one coming out of her printer.
But in the end, things got complicated. The ship was going, Pepita was staying, and Marcela couldn’t let her grandmother die alone.
By the time I get a medbot there, it’s too late. Pepita’s already gone. Her mind and body in final agreement that enough was enough already. Marcela says it’s time to bury her. But she’s been up for days now. “Get some rest,” I say. “I’ll ready things in the meantime.”
And I do. One bot embalms the body while another prints out and assembles a hover-casket. One checks Marcela’s pressure suit while an excavator readies itself by the airlock. And I have a printer make an appropriate headstone.
Marcela rises shortly after noon. I tell her my plan. But in the end, she grabs an old shovel and tells the excavator to stand down. She suits up, cycles through the airlock with the casket, and walks out west from Lower Galicia. To a series of low rolling hills where her abuela loved to climb in her youth. When she and I both teemed with life.
The grieving nieta digs up rocky soil. Deactivates the suit’s exoskeleton assist functions. Carves out her grandmother’s grave using pure Proxima b-sculpted brawn. Tears pollute her field of vision. Unwipeable snot escapes her nose. And I regulate the hell out of her air mix to keep her from hyperventilating and passing out.
Marcela’s beat when she returns, hours later. She picks at a plate of spicy protein. Takes a shower. And on her way to bed, the last living soul on Proxima b says, “Galicia, can you activate the beacon? Please?”
She doesn’t need to specify which one. Before returning to her ship, the red-head left behind a signaling device. My comms being radio-based, it takes me months to get a message to the colonies at Alpha Centauri A and B. (Not that anyone would hear them now.) This new device sends text fast as that ship can fly. And it stands ever-ready to notify the lieutenant once Marcela has settled her abuela’s affairs. Come and get me, it will say.
She will go. And I will stay. Keeping things rust-free and ready for new settlers that will never come.
Her departure will mark the end of my purpose. And I’ll never teem again.
And yet the red light of Proxima Centauri will shine on, fueling my orbital solar array for trillions of years. Long after Earth’s sun has expired, taking the homeworld of humanity with it.
Dumbstruck by the mind-numbing finality of it all, it takes a full 253 nanoseconds before my compliance protocols kick in. And I say, “Of course, Marcela. Activating now. Would you like anything else before turning in?”
“No,” she says. “That’s all. Thank you, Galicia.”
“You’re welcome,” is all I can say.
This story first appeared in Unfit Magazine
