Chapter 1: To Dust With Them All!

The curse echoed in the steel-lined chamber as his visitor's face darkened. What started as such a congenial conversation had grown more and more strained as the guest kept fighting, arguing, prodding.

I cannot yield. I must be as strong as this fortress! Impregnable. Their lives, their futures depend on me. There can be no debate. No discussion. Their fate is sealed and there will be no questioning my decisions!


Furiously, he took a breath to lash out in another fit of righteous anger but slowly, reluctantly, he sighed and began again, more calmly. "We cannot tolerate insurrection. You know this as well as I."
"Yes, but..." the intruder stuttered.
"There will be no more discussion." With the air of finality, he sat in his chair. It was by far the oldest and most regal pieces of furniture in the entire complex. It was rumored to be many hundreds of years old, but that information, like so many other trivialities, had been lost over the centuries. Now it stood proudly, high-backed, worn but not damaged, a symbol of enduring strength and stability. The chair perfectly suited the calling of the man who now occupied it. The Administrator.

For many centuries, the people of Earth struggled with power and control. Most people were content in their day-to-day lives, trusting that the affairs of global powers were in "good hands," and that if anything would go truly, horribly wrong, they would be looked after. This proved not be true, especially in the 20th and 21st centuries. In those two centuries, weapons of mass destruction were invented with the capacity to destroy the entire planet countless times over. Wars were fought for control, for power, for resources, and these weapons were used with devastating effects. Chemical, nuclear, biological, and, in the 21st century, electro-magnetic warfare tormented the human race. Until the miracle occurred: Controlled, self-sustaining, limitless-energy nuclear fusion.

It was, as some might say, a Godsend and a curse. More bloody and violent wars were fought to possess this technology than ever before in human history, but, after the dust had settled, we found ourselves content, basking in the glow of thousands, nay, tens of thousands of fusion reactors all across the planet. Our differences had been set aside. Humanity took a collective breath, and sighed happily. Famine? Gone. Disease? Eradicated. The miracle of limitless energy gave rise to many more miracles, and the human race prospered.

The contentment lasted a while, many decades, until another, more insidious shadow began to stir: Helium-3, the primary fuel for these reactors, is not found in abundance anywhere on the Earth. It has been buried under the planet's water and dirt over countless eons, and late in the 22nd century, readily-available supplies had been nearly exhausted. The human race began to panic. Helium-3 was mined in the deep oceans, by sifting through inconceivable amounts of mud and silt. Helium-3 was mined by huge sails, drifting in the wind, catching imperceptibly small amounts from the Earth's air. A final, ambitious project was conceived: to mine the Moon itself.

Helium-3 comes from the sun. More precisely, the mechanisms deep in the stellar core that keeps it bright and shining also expels Helium-3 on the solar wind, drifting out across our solar system. On Earth, were it was needed most, it was sequestered away in the deep, inaccessible places. The forces of the planet (erosion, tides, plate tectonics, and the like) hid the gas that had been captured. But here, on the moon, the dusty rock, there is no liquid water. There are no tides, tectonics, or erosion. Those small steps of men and giant leaps of mankind are preserved for all eternity, just like the Helium-3 we seek. And it is to that end that the people of Earth constructed the great laboratory, the last laboratory:
Lunar Base South.

This laboratory, this base, this home, is a marvel. It is the mighty triumph of intellect and a lasting testament to the strength of human fortitude, unrivaled in its astounding beauty and complexity except perhaps by the great fusion reactors themselves. It has stood here for generations on the peak of this great mountain, protecting us and sheltering us. It has stood the test of time. It has endured. It has been a constant source of hope; not only for those it protects, but also for those countless billions who lived on the pale blue dot. On a dark night, they could look up and see the speck, the faint pinprick of light, reminding them that there was hope. When the days grew dark and one-by-one the life-giving lights of the fusion reactors flickered and died, they need only look up and see that beacon shining and be comforted.

We were going to save the human race. We were going to become the heroes! We performed our duty with pride. Our miners found that the dust with which we were surrounded was rich with fuel beyond our wildest dreams. We packed the fuel into a canister and launched it home, with much joy and celebration. We had done it! The great experiment was a success!

We gathered together in the great hall, deep in the mountain to watch the reactor re-activation ceremony. The canister was unveiled, to much applause. We were congratulated on our tremendous success. They maneuvered the steel cylinder into position, and, just as the dark machine was about to come alive again in a glorious display of light and power, the video went dark. This is impossible!, we thought as we waited to re-acquire the signal. Lunar Base South was built with one of the most sophisticated antenna arrays in existence. How could they have stopped transmitting? There was no explanation for it. Word came from the observatory that something was amiss. Our largest and most powerful telescope was turned towards the Earth and the video was put through to the hall. In stunning, mind-wrenching detail we watched our future's end.

The globe was dark. This is impossible!, we thought again. At night, typically one could see cities, highways, lights. But this night, all traces of civilization had been wiped clean. The dark side of the Earth was instead covered in irregular, bright pinpricks. Each would slowly fade as more flashed into existence to take their place. The antenna operators must have then acquired a signal from the dying planet, for the dark globe was suddenly replaced by an image of hundreds of towering plumes, mushroom clouds, presumably filmed from an aircraft that had yet to succumb to the desolation and destruction below. This is impossible!, our hearts cried in anguish. After several minutes, this video failed as well, and we were again left frozen, transfixed by the image of the Earth, a featureless black disc framed by the star-studded vacuum of space.

I remember that day clearly. It is burned into my consciousness though I was too young to fully comprehend the magnitude of what I had just seen. Now, today, on the fiftieth anniversary of the day of darkness, I am the one in "the chair." It is my job to lead this splinter of humanity, to speak to the people, to reassure them, to remind them that there is still hope. Do I believe it? Not today. Today I sentenced twenty-eight people to death for insurrection. They are condemned because they threatened the health and safety of this entire facility. As punishment, they are each given eight hours of air and forced to walk through the airlock. I can see them now, standing in their defiant line, arms crossed. They have been ex-communicated, cut off. They stand outside the doors. They stand apart.

They stand in the dust.