Beyond The Horizon

I love me some fantasy and sci-fi: whether it be myths, magic and dragons, or lasers, spaceships and aliens, the scale and scope of the genres have always appealed to me.

Though, as much as I've always been a fan of both, as a young'n', it was fantasy I was keenest on.  It was without limits; from beardy old men slinging lightning at each other, to mountain-sized, sentient beasts soaring through the sky, dousing vast armies with their fiery breath.

Despite being a slow reader (to this day), I read The Hobbit in a few days; The Lord of the Rings in a few weeks.  I longed to one-day write my own epic adventure, encompassing all of the classic tropes, and developed a story of such scale as to make Tolkein say, 'Sorry, you've lost me.'

In more recent years, however, I've leaned more towards science fiction.  Not necessarily in terms of reading material - I've frankly struggled to find anything that has hooked me for any length of time (beyond Drew Karpyshyn's Mass Effect novels) - but in terms of the genre as a whole.

For one, I like adventures: characters going on a long journey, filled with danger and intrigue, exotic beasts in exotic locales.  The problem is, while I believe sci-fi has far greater scope for such stories (you've the entire universe to play with, after all), I've always found good adventures easier to find in the pages of fantasy.  Perhaps the tertiary, rather than universal, setting makes such stories easier to write.

Regardless, the second - and perhaps more important - appeal of the sci-fi genre is the possibilities (imagined though they may be) it represents.

The thing is, we know dragons don't exist.  We know there are no such things as fairies, or sorcerers, or witches seeing future events in bubbling cauldrons of rat-tail and bat-wing broth.

Space, however, is out there.  Full of alien worlds, and varied solar systems, and structures so immense, it would take several lifetimes to get from one end to the other, even if we could reach the speed of light.  

And who knows what exits on those worlds?  The odds of life such as ours evolving are billions to one, but there are trillions of worlds out there in our galaxy alone.  The odds of us being alone in the universe are infinitely greater.

Unfortunately, the pages of science fiction are where such things must remain for the time-being.  We can't travel beyond (or anywhere near) the speed of light.  We can't enter hyperspace or create wormholes.  We can't even take a good look at the planets in our neighbouring systems (not yet, at least).  But while it's frustrating to have no way of finding out what's truly out there, there's still excitement to be found in the possibilities.

To that end, I've made a few attempts at writing my own sci-fi story, so far without much success.  This is the beginning (and, so far, the entirety) of the latest attempt:

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In millennia past, man was hesitant to sail to the horizon for fear of falling from the edge of the world, into the gaping maw of some unseen beast.  Distant lands were new worlds filled with exotic, savage peoples and alien species, ancient and terrible.

But the horizon was reached, and those new worlds explored, and the Earth grew small.

And so to the moon; that mystical body so near in the heavens, yet beyond our reach.  We thought ourselves edging ever closer - scaling mountains, taking to the air, skirting the atmosphere and finally entering the void beyond - only to realise it would take one giant leap to bridge that great distance.

But the moon was reached, and the footprint of mankind planted forever on its surface.

We sent probes to our neighbours: Mars and Venus.  Our eyes reached out as far as Ceres; the moons of Saturn and Jupiter; the Kuiper Belt and the dwarf worlds of Pluto, Haumea; beyond the very borders of our solar system.

But our gaze reached far beyond our grasp.  As far as we could send our legacy out into the cosmos, we remained bound: multiplying and spreading to every corner until the land was choked; our resources failing.  And the Earth grew small.

Politicians argued over who had the rights to what, and answered contrary opinions with soldiers, tanks and bombs.  The people lamented their leaders; argued with their leaders; elected new leaders; ultimately ignored their leaders when new faces walked the exact same path as the old.

The people became insular; caring for themselves and their own, and dealing with the fallout of their leaders’ action and inaction only when it encroached on their own lives.

And without warning, the Earth was far too big.  Many died quickly.  Many more died over time.  The few who remained were disparate: alone and scared.  The horizon was a world away, and there was no way of knowing what lay beyond.

But the heart of man cannot survive stagnant and alone.  Necessity, as well as curiosity, sought the horizon once more.  People lived.  People gathered.  People grew.  Fallen leaders remained buried and forgotten, and the people rose anew, as one.

The road was long and difficult, but never without purpose.  

We sailed to the horizon and we rediscovered distant lands, and the Earth grew small again.

We rebuilt on the ashes of the past, and looked again to the heavens: to the Moon; to Mars.  And further.  We built, and we explored.  We colonized, and we explored.  How ever far the next horizon - how ever difficult the path - we ventured without pause.

And we learned.

And we grew.

And on our diminishing homeworld, The Horizon was built.

Those who desired to, stayed.  The solar system was theirs and we knew, at last, it was in good hands.

The rest of us boarded The Horizon to follow the path of Voyager.

How ever far - how ever difficult - we are bound for the horizon, and The Horizon is now our home.