Author: Julian Miles, Staff Writer

“Don’t do that, Will!”
“Got to try something, Len.”
Those words ended the final transmission from the Champion, one of the colony ships that established our ancestors on the planet of Mireybrul. The transmission ended because the ship collided with Mermyd, the smaller of our two moons, and disintegrated in an explosion so big it changed the orbit. Not that anyone noticed for a long while: everyone was too busy hiding from, and then rebuilding after, the massive meteor shower caused by the collision.
Meteors sent far out still come down occasionally, although many scientists have said it’s impossible, because a lot more rock has fallen than was blown from the surface of Mermyd. But the meteors still fall, regardless.
Anyway, the collision happened 464 years ago. Tonight the last catastrophe of that disaster will play out, as Mermyd collides with Bastul, the larger moon. There are legions of warships and orbital weapons platforms ready to deal with any debris that come towards the planet, as well as defending themselves.
Mort looks about at the crowds of people spread across the common, all manner of viewing and recording devices at the ready.
“You reckon it’ll be a big show?”
I stare at him.
“Why do you think I’d know?”
“You’re smart, Deece.”
“I’ve the same online access as you, champ. Anyway, a soft rock the size of a dwarf planet is about to smash into a much harder rock the size of a small planet. It’s happening overhead on a clear night. Even though we’ve got several thousand weapons at the ready, I wouldn’t be out here if the deflector arrays and Skydome hadn’t been completed and tested years ago. ‘Big show’ won’t even come close.”
I turn my attention to the sky. The pink disc of Mermyd looks like it’s touching Bastul already, but that’s because it’s coming from ‘behind’, having originally orbited further out.
Mort checks his phonecuff, then starts counting down.
“Ten, nine, eight, sev-”
Blinding light obscures everything! Like you’re staring into the sun on a summer afternoon, but it’s everywhere you look. A deafening roar shakes the ground. I hear people and things falling down.
Everything goes utterly black… What? Why?
Normal light and vision returns, like someone flicked a switch.
Mort looks up, rubbing his eyes.
“Where’s Mermyd?” he points, “and what’s that?”
I look. There’s only one moon! No debris at all? But… next to Bastul hangs the unmistakable, gigantic ovoid of a second-generation colony ship! I lunge sideways and grab a radio unit from the family picnicking next to us. Ignoring their shouts, I frantically retune it. What was the old Federation distress beacon channel?
An eerie sound, like countless voices singing different songs, fading in and out like the noise of waves upon a shore, comes from the unit. Over that, a single despairing voice can be heard.
“…ear us? I say again, this is the FCS Calamity to any who can reply. We’ve suffered catastrophic drive failure due to a gravitational proximity event and need immediate rescue. I’m recording this after six weeks in warp space. The singing keeps us awake, those of us still alive. I don’t know how much longer we can last. Help! Can anyone hear us? I say agai…”
I think meteors from tonight’s collision have been falling for the last 464 years.
Maybe somebody suspected the paradox? No proof, probably condemned as a lunatic. They tried to hack causality using belief: by changing the name of the cause.
Facing an impossibility – a calamity – like this? Desperate, delusional guesswork is all they had.