One Year to Saturn

Yes, one year to Saturn - that was the theory, at least. Humanity's first solo mission to the ringed planet, carefully planned down to the last detail. But barely six hours into the mission, just as I passed Moon's orbit, this massive - and I mean massive beyond any human scale of measurement - alien ship, its hull stretching across what must be thousands and thousands of kilometers, as if these units even matter at this terrifying scale - barely missed my vessel, sending me spinning through violent turbulence. You know, all those decades of SETI programs, all those debates about first contact protocols... and in the end, we're not even important enough to be formally acknowledged.

As I fought to stabilize my ship, I watched in horror as it bumped into Earth like it was a mere pebble in its path. My home planet shattered into millions of pieces, and with it, any hope of communication with Mission Control. I mean, I could try turning back to reach the Moon Base, but what's the point? Without Earth's gravitational pull, the Moon will drift away into space soon enough, taking the base and its crew with it.

The irony isn't lost on me: six hours into humanity's first manned mission to Saturn, right after our successful Mars colonization, and suddenly I'm not just the commander of a historic space mission - I might be one of the last humans alive. What the hell am I supposed to do now?

Well, first things first. I have a job to do. And a life to save. I recalibrate my course - thankfully, some brilliant minds had thought to include all navigation data offline in my systems. The computer starts calculating a new trajectory, but something's wrong.

'No destination found: Saturn.'

What? I check Mars instead.

'No destination found: Mars.'

My heart races as I pull up the solar system map. Where there should be familiar planets, there are just... gaps. And that incredibly huge ship is still out there, moving with impossible speed through our solar system as if it was cleaning properly and dispose everything in its way. Humanity spent centuries wondering if we were alone in the universe, imagining grand meetings of civilizations. Turns out we're about as significant to them as ants are to a construction crew clearing a building site.

I force myself to think logically about my options. Alpha Centauri? Well, that's not a logical option, I know. But I try to grab each straw. At our improved speed - eight times faster than missions 100 years ago - it would still take... I do some quick math... a few thousand years. Hey, even if I lived that long I only have resources to survive for one year. Right. No.

The asteroid belt? No. Makes no sense hiding there while a cosmic cleaning crew is at work. Uranus? Neptune? My fingers fly over the console.

'No destination found.'

Of course not. Jupiter and its promising colonies? Gone. Just... gone.

One year of resources. That’s all I have. Three hundred and sixty-five days of oxygen, water, and food. So the question isn’t where I could go - it’s how far I could get... My calculator blinks with numbers I don’t want to see. Even at our groundbreaking speed, with my one-year supply reserve calculated for Saturn plus safety margin, I’d only make it about halfway to Uranus’s orbit before resources end. If Uranus was still there. It isn’t.

But TERRA NOVA is still out there - humanity’s emergency sanctuary, our last-resort survival station. Hidden in plain sight, only reachable through precise coordinates. If I can reach it before they do, if it’s still where our mission briefings showed it would be... It has to be there. It’s not just my last hope, it’s everything we managed to preserve, everything worth saving.

I input the coordinates, and at first there seems to be... nothing. Just another patch of void where Jupiter once lit up my navigation screens. Then my sensors pick up the signal I've been looking for - a faint energy signature, too regular to be natural.

And then I see it. TERRA NOVA. Humanity’s emergency sanctuary, our last-resort survival station. A perfect cylinder, a few miles long, slowly rotating to create its own gravity. This isn’t just a ship, it’s a giant ark, hidden in plain sight, only reachable through precise coordinates.

After docking procedures that feel painfully slow given the circumstances, I make my way inside. The airlock hisses shut behind me, and I'm struck by the almost sterile perfection of it all. Every surface gleams, every system hums with precise efficiency. No dust, no wear, no sign that time has passed at all in these corridors. It's like stepping into a place outside of time itself.

The TERRA NOVA's systems are a miracle of engineering. Endless oxygen. Sustainable food. Unlimited power. A true second Earth, floating in space.

'Welcome to TERRA NOVA. All systems operational.'

'Listen, we need to move. There's a threat approaching.'

'No threats detected. All systems are working within normal parameters.'

'No, you don't understand. The solar system is being destroyed!'

'Scanning... Solar radiation levels nominal. Internal temperature stable. Hydroponics status stable. Life support systems functioning at 100% efficiency.'

I slam my fist against the console. 'The Sun might be gone today, or tomorrow... or maybe not... I don't know!'

'Error. Statement contains logical contradictions. Solar status cannot be simultaneously existent and non-existent. Current solar radiation readings confirm stable solar activity. Please provide accurate data for system analysis.'

'For God's sake, look at the long-range scanners!'

'Long-range scan complete. No system malfunctions detected. TERRA NOVA is operating as designed: a self-sustaining habitat for preservation of Earth's biological heritage.'

'Yes, and that heritage will be wiped out if we don't MOVE!'

'Unable to process command. Course adjustments require full crew authentication. Current crew count: 0. Would you like to review the hydroponics schedule?'

Zero crew. Of course. I'm not even registered in the system. The bitter irony of being on humanity's first solo mission to Saturn isn't lost on me - if only they'd stuck to the old protocols of multiple crew members. But no, we had to prove that one person could handle it. Well, technically I am handling it. I'm just a visitor watching the most sophisticated life-support system ever created calmly maintain itself while oblivion approaches.

'Current probability of mission success: 100%,' the computer adds helpfully.

A new alert cuts through the absurd conversation. Another ship, responding to TERRA NOVA's beacon. Finally, someone else! But my relief quickly turns to dread as I hear their first transmission:

'...escaped Jupiter's destruction... anyone alive out there? We saw Saturn go down, then Uranus... They are on their way to the Sun now... Hello? Anyone?'

I feel my stomach drop as I process these words. The Sun. Our last hope for any kind of survival.

'Solar radiation readings dropping by 12.4%,' the computer announces. 'Adjusting solar panel alignment for optimal energy collection.'

The other ship's transmission becomes frantic: 'The Sun... it's just... it's gone. Like the others. Just gone.'

'Solar radiation readings dropping by 57.9%. Switching to auxiliary power systems.'

My mouth goes dry. 'How long can you keep this ship running?'

'TERRA NOVA is designed for complete self-sufficiency. Backup power systems engaging. Internal fusion reactor maintaining optimal output. Life support systems stable. Hydroponics continuing normal growth cycle. Current probability of mission success: 100%.'

I am speechless. I mean, what could I say? There is nothing to add. Computer insists on mission success. Yay. Not...

'Solar radiation readings at 0%. No external light source detected. Recommended action: Activate artificial UV lighting for hydroponics section. Would you like to review the maintenance schedule?'

The other ship's signal dies in a burst of static. In the darkness outside there is... nothing. Not even the debris of planets or the faintest starlight. The scans TERRA NOVA allows me to access show an eerie void where our solar system used to be. 

The TERRA NOVA, this perfect, eternal system, designed to run forever - if only there was a sun left to power it. And that incredibly huge ship is still out there, moving with impossible speed through our solar system, methodically disposing of everything in its way. Guess it won't stop until everything is wiped away, including this ark. Given the rate the solar system disappeared, it can't be long now.

The last human alive, trapped in a perfect copy of Earth, maintained by computers too efficient to recognize the end of everything. At least the hydroponics schedule is up to date.