The Nineteenth Hour
by Connor R. Smith
A suited figure careens past the observation deck and slams onto the main galley, hydraulic joints hissing and buckling as they absorb several kiloNewtons of force. Mag-boots allow the creature to walk at an angle parallel to the horizon, like some cosmic deity. Light blooms behind it, and small, dark silhouettes reveal the outlines of the final evacuation shuttles.
The huddled passengers look past it in horror. Numbering less than two thousand, pathetic, confused, and reeling in shock, they take no notice of the approaching figure, their eyes instead affixed to the conflagration below that marks the death of everything they have ever hated or loved.
It is the nineteenth hour, and the last of the humans stand witness as the Earth begins to fold in on itself.
The first hour was heralded by innocuous tremors that rattled silverware and startled infants. Schoolchildren squealed in terrified delight.
Panic arrived with the third hour, as images of the impact were broadcast across nations. Anxious politicians met in stuffy rooms, pursed their lips with worry.
At the sixth hour, the earth's crust rippled like water.
By the seventh hour, 2 billion were dead.
The eighth hour was accompanied by sleek, silver ships and a message: "You have been struck by a world-eater probe. Your planet is lost. We can save some. Not many." A silence. "We grieve with you."
It was the eleventh hour, and survivors jostled and jabbered in the orbiting ship. Irate voices demanded explanation, men clenched impotent fists, and children's heads swiveled as they adjusted to the foreign environment. The humans' panic wove dissonant waves through the air. Drab metal walls retracted to reveal the dying Earth beneath them. Orange light bathed their faces. The humans fell silent and did not speak again until the nineteenth hour.
At the twelfth hour, oceans boiled and veins of molten rock lanced through continents, burning their afterimage into the retinas of those who stood witness. Some buried their face in their hands or began to turn away.
A modulated voice blared from the ship's intercom.
"Bear witness. This is the death of your species. The death of the planet that birthed you. You are all that remain. Do not turn away. You must remember." The voice sounded like it was pleading. "Our home was taken from us as well. Do not forget what you see. Bear witness. You are the anger that persists, you are their memory and love."
Silence.
"You are the enemy in the dark."
Silence.
"You are their vengeance."
