We will not have to wait long until the cold, or the starvation, claims us. We are all unmoored. The Black Sun Temple recognized what lurked beneath the sirens’ melody. Those who shaved their heads to sport the black sun upon their crowns resisted as best they could, and we executed them for it.
The red-eye king of Jupiter looming outside of our penitentiary embraces Ganymede for a little while longer. None of us survivors huddling together in our apartments and cell blocks can determine for how much longer Jupiter’s gravitational pull will keep this moon in its orbit now that our sun has vanished from the center of our solar system. In a blink, the heart of our heat disappeared. The sirens’ power was more incredible than any of us imagined; and in a wink, the sirens have stolen our star from us.
Perhaps Ganymede will slowly drift beyond Jupiter’s pull. Perhaps this moon will drift alone through the stars, to perhaps one day collide with a cousin, to perhaps drift some future eon too close to a black hole and its annihilation. Those of us who have conducted so much killing upon Ganymede will never know. We will not much longer survive to learn what becomes of our crypt.
The sirens gifted mankind with their song, and we returned the melody with blind justice. I understand why the sirens extinguished our star. We were a poor audience for those aliens’ performance. Our tastes lacked too much sophistication. Too often, we yearned for the garish. Our appetites lean towards such violent flavors.
But I wonder if the sirens still sing to our reflections upon another plane. Perhaps our reflections on another dimension are worthy of the sirens’ instruments. I certainly hope so. For as our food stocks dwindle, as the power for our life support systems fade, I regret more than anything else that I will never again be graced to hear those sirens sing.