This story was first published in "The Piker Press". 

https://www.pikerpress.com/article.php?aID=9952

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You don’t want to be the first to spot a colossal, planet-sized beast far in the depths of space, and not for the reasons you might think. No, it’s not the danger of it. Celestial bodies -- in this case, a literal body -- are discovered at such a distance that you certainly care a lot more about it than it does about you. The far more impactful difficulty lies not in surviving its sighting, but in having to turn to another with hands on hips and declare that, yes, you’ve spotted a demi-god in the infinite void, and no, you’re sober. These hangups likely delayed the initial sighting from its first announcement. It was almost certainly dismissed as a rock, or gas, or both, and the gnashing teeth and ghastly form must’ve been thought to be a smudge on the proverbial lens.

Eventually, but after much hemming and hawing, it was believed to be well and truly real once the governmental powers that be decided to admit the conspiracies actually held weight. That took time. Its size alone was a deterrent to belief. To give some semblance of understanding to the inquisitive public, the standard media parlance was to say a single tentacle could stretch all of Europe from west to east -- or 20,000 football fields, the measurement given to American audiences as a third option from the more commonly used metric or imperial.

Even in a world so mined to bedrock of incredible secrets, it didn’t seem possible. The world watched the news in a daze, thinking it to be a product of some feverish nightmare or one of the more mystifying hoaxes. It was large enough to surely be seen as a god to some, the god to others, and more than likely a decidedly vengeful one at that. Just its existence was enough to throw our whole belief system into disarray. While they hesitated to admit it, preachers of all religions had a tough time explaining their way out of this one.

Still, in spite of its seeming impossibility, there was something about its discovery that spoke in a profound way about what makes us human. Our curious minds and vast array of technology allowed us to travel the stars; we travelled because of our inherent instinct to explore; our obsession with it grew because of our fascination with all things at the top of ladders -- the greatest, the fastest, the best, and in this case, the largest. Then, once found, human instinct struck again, and we decided that since it was large, and great, and powerful, we just had to go and prove that we were all those things and more, and the concept of a continent-sized head mounted above the fireplace of mankind seemed like the preeminent trophy of trophies. The same happened of mighty Everest; we were at first awed by its grandeur, then consumed by the desire to defeat it. Now Everest lies conquered, covered in debris, depleted oxygen tanks, the occasional corpse, and a truly stunning amount of faeces.

So who, then, would rise to the challenge and claim the greatest victory humanity has ever seen? Our governments, each longing for glory, put their best and brightest to the task. Oh, to be the champion of the last great hunt! To deliver the final, decisive blow to declare man the winner of the food chain and once and for all crush nature under heel! Of course, the average citizen cared little for a staggeringly expensive space-themed slaughter-safari. To get the citizens on board, the propaganda machine had to begin to work its magic to bend the will of the public to its whim.

It was simple enough. The monster was -- governments blithely supposed -- hell-bent on devouring our Earth and everything we held dear. If you tracked its movements, it was reportedly moving towards our home -- supposedly, according to mysterious and unaccountable sources. Surely, we couldn’t let our children be food for this terrible demon! All resources must be devoted to stopping this wretched and diabolical menace! Such petty, short-sighted grievances such as education and healthcare were quietly shuffled to the wayside to make way for the parading vehicles of war.

Not to say there weren’t unintentional, positive side-effects. Unexpectedly, the hatred of the beast prompted a new golden age. Through war, we were more peaceful than we ever had been. A world united, weapons trained not on each other but on a faraway, indefinable enemy, looming forever over us and yet inexplicably just now a threat. For decades we blasted away at it, with corrosives, explosions, firepower the likes of which could have annihilated our entire existence with ease had we set the weapons upon ourselves. Ultimately, it was fruitless. They were swatted away like minor distractions. Minor, budget-shattering distractions.

Unfortunately, bloodthirst can only be left unsated for so long, and Earth and her colonies began to grow weary from the endless and seemingly hopeless battle, and dissent to the war began to rise. ‘Why kill it?’ became the predominant question of the day. Avoidance seemed the clear and obvious alternative. Space was infinitely large, and even a planet-sized monstrosity was small-scale in the grand scheme of things.

However, not all felt the same way. This pacifism was anathema to the intrepid, stone-jawed heroes of the time, who saw only weakness in such dispiriting logic. To cede victory to the creature, even if all that meant was the status quo, was to abandon the undying pursuit of success that was the cornerstone of human progress. The conquerors cited history to mock the cowards on the other side of the fence. The Arctic was frozen -- why explore it? The oceans were vast -- why cross them? We can safely walk on the ground -- why develop planes? To them, and the ensuing propaganda, the space god’s mere existence was an affront to our very nature.

What political theatre came from that. How an individual would hope to react to an impossible-to-comprehend horror, too distant from any human colony to be relevant, never seen by a single soul that spoke on the issue, said something intrinsically about who they were as people. Those that wished to study the monster instead of slay it were lauded by the elite, seen as calm, intellectual men and women of science -- and cowards. Those that wished to destroy it were brave, heroic, following in the bloodlines of the classic adventures of old -- and warmongers. The only ones left without an ally were those that wished to forget about it entirely. They were seen as bland, boring, soulless husks that had no political country. To take a side left you hated by the opposition and beloved by your tribe, but to ignore it meant you were nothing, adrift, and ultimately pointless.

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For a time, the former won out over the latter, and from what once was a looming threat became a subject of fascinating scientific study. Questions arose about what it ate, if it ate, how it moved, how long it lived, if there were more… all sorts of questions screaming for answers and lapped up by an eager and waiting public. Becoming something under a microscope rather than a bullseye meant the societal thoughts on the creature softened, and instead of its image appearing only on the fringes of society and in counter-culture teenage wardrobes, its likeness was made into stuffed animals and children’s books. The space monster death god, an allegory for not judging a book by its cover.

But for all the technology and science of the world and the worlds beyond, the creature seemed to be a strange anomaly. Nothing about it made sense, and its very existence was a defiance of logic and reasoning that had for so long lived in tandem with humanity’s sense of wonder. See, that’s the thing about humans and curiosity; it only lasts so long before the lack of answers just gets frustrating, and you just want to smash the puzzle into pieces.

Without answers to put to the questions, mankind began to make their own. Myths and legends about the creature began to creep into the public consciousness, first as fiction, then as fact. Not being able to understand it was insulting to scientific minds, and the once anodyne, more natural image crafted during the scientific inquiry era turned to one of horror. The thing became some apocalyptic scourge bent on someday finding earth and scouring it of all life. It was said to cause horrific visions in any that dared look upon its grim and wretched visage.

Truly, it ran the gamut. It became so much to humanity -- a god, a devil, a saviour, an end, a $9.99 bargain bin stuffie at Walmart -- without ever having done much of anything at all, save for sitting in space and being visually stunning but kind of bland in its average day-to-day activities.

Amazing things, no matter how incredible the subject may be, will always become gradually mundane. It turned into the tiger at the zoo that doesn’t come out of hiding; you know it’s fascinating, but when you can’t see it do anything, you’re only entertained for so long. With interest waning in the ‘study’ camp, paired with the onset of a public belief in its malevolence, the ‘fight’ side began to break in again. For years, the push and pull of the two sides dragged inevitably towards one direction and then the other, meaning that, given enough time, eventually the side of war always wins. If they decided on peace with the being, it would only last until the debate arises anew. With war, a single success ends it all. A failure in war means a continuation of the cycle as long as humanity isn’t obliterated. Peace is finite. Death is not.

So came the greater bombs. Greater destruction. Greater firepower.

Eventually, the great god of space finally began to pay attention to the new and savage weapons being levelled against it. For the first time, it shifted locations, interpreted by the powers that be as a retreat, and reports flooded from the military to the government and then, eventually, when they got around to it, the lowly people, that small scars the size of cities had formed on the exoskeleton of the monster. It was a god only because it had been labelled as such, and if it could be injured, it could be killed.

Years passed. Worlds were put to work on righteous-ish slaughter, beset by a deep and enduring hatred of the beast. It certainly seemed to know it was hunted; it was almost always on the move then, travelling incredible distances, leaving behind the wreckage of countless ships and soldiers that lost their lives battling the giant. In retrospect, it spurred humanity on to some of the most incredible technological advances it had ever seen. Long hidden truths about the universe were revealed in the efforts to find new and better weaponry, and the knowledge that was found in the effort to destroy it was so vast as to almost justify the entire practice in and of itself. Fresh blood of the enemy has always been the best brain food, even if it doesn’t sell like leafy greens and walnuts.

Then, one year, rather suddenly and unceremoniously, humanity succeeded. The logic of ‘if that bomb wasn’t big enough, make it bigger’ eventually worked out. The weapons grew more powerful, the acids stronger, the fires brighter, and someday something was bound to work. Much to the disappointment of the public, on the final day of the battle there was very little to see. A devastating blast in space, the size of which was well beyond the comprehension of any one person, and then nothing. Pieces of tooth, flesh, tentacle, and organ floated aimlessly through the universe, dispersed in every direction until they landed on unknown planets, or for all intents and purposes, just disappeared. Once there was an alien space god. Now there isn’t. It was to live on forever as a Jeopardy! trivia category.

Not that it was immediately forgotten, however. Trophy hunters developed an industry just in collecting the pieces. Most made their way to museums in the peculiar way that humans, once having proved themselves superior to beasts, display their corpses behind glass. The conquerors, staring in amazement at the strength of the conquered. Free entry for children and seniors.

Over time, documentaries were made to remember the centuries-long struggle, shown to bored children by substitute teachers. The scientists that developed the weapons were lauded as quiet, unsung heroes before they became historical relics. It faded as all history does, and the personal lives of the citizens took precedence once again, and the sword of man searched for a new dragon to slay. Yet, like Alexander so many centuries before, there were no lands left to conquer. Humanity’s knight in shining armour returned to the kingdom, covered in the blood of giants, but that left the uncomfortable question -- once the dragon was slain, what was there to be done with the knight? The population, growing angrier and more restless, would sometimes wish for the strangely unifying presence of the great space god that brought them all under one violent, wrathful banner.

At least the stuffed animals are 50% off now.