New Scientist Book Club: Inspiring Science Fiction Inspired by a World-Ending Supernova

In my venture to craft a gripping space opera, I envisioned starting with the explosive narrative of a supernova. Nothing rivals its awe-inspiring enormity and destructive prowess. However, supernovas are not just cataclysmic events; they are also predictable. As a writer, this presents a captivating scenario. What does it mean to gaze at the cosmos, fully aware of when a star—and your world—will meet its end? What decisions will emerge, and what sacrifices will unfold to preserve your existence or that of your civilization?

This is the essence of slow gods.

Imagine yourself as an astronomer, chronicling the stars whose impending explosion will annihilate your world. For eons, the incoming supernova has been an accepted truth, yet your society turns a blind eye. “In about 500 years… let’s radically transform our society to safeguard billions.” Convincing anyone is daunting. While everyone nods in agreement, it always seems an issue for the distant future.

But the situation escalates. Suddenly, thousands of years shrink into centuries—then decades. Time slips away. Perhaps, while cradling your newborn grandchild, you comprehend the grim truth: you know precisely how and when this child will perish. Will they succumb to boiling seas, flames igniting the atmosphere, or suffer a slow demise from radiation? Your previous gradual improvements—a distant colony, a space elevator? Insufficient. The moment has arrived to fundamentally rethink how your society can salvage what remains.

You must act quickly. You have a century to rescue 5 billion souls before Earth incinerates. Building colossal space elevators and motherships may allow for the evacuation of around 50 million people annually. (You will choose to overlook the lurking terrors in the void—entities that induce madness, manipulate biology, or consume entire ships whole. After all, such horrors defy understanding.)

In a century, you could manage to evacuate everyone in a crisis, yet complexities remain. The birthrate surpasses evacuation rates, resulting in a growing population. Is it wise to consider limiting the birth rate? Not really. A century of silence on this front could spell the end of civilization as dramatically as any inferno. Life must continue, even if every child saved hastens another’s demise.

Perhaps selecting who to evacuate weighs on you. Will you benefit the educated, the influential, the notable? Does this decision imply that the disabled, vulnerable, and marginalized will be left behind? This leads to genocide by omission—an insidious form of eugenics—are you complicit?

Alternately, a lottery system might offer a semblance of fairness. Although individuals detest feeling powerless, this might seem equitable enough. You yearn for your number to be selected, but with each passing year, that hope diminishes. When people anticipate that you will quietly fade away, it might simply be due to unfortunate circumstances.

Even if you escape, where will you land? Some worlds may outright reject newcomers, casting millions into eternal darkness. Others may offer refuge but only accept a few hundred thousand at most, forcing you into desolate areas unsuited to your biology. Your species could become scattered, living in tiny enclaves among the stars, drifting away from your traditions, languages, and thought processes. Though lives are saved, the essence of civilization is lost. Historians may argue over what songs and stories define you. You watch your culture become a curated display, your history auctioned to the highest bidder, realizing that what is showcased encompasses only a fragment of your identity.

However, this is merely one narrative among many in the galaxy—this is the tale of slow gods.

Perhaps you underestimated the crisis and thought, “Someone will handle it,” as if the threat of a supernova could be disregarded. Now, with fewer than ten years until the oceans churn and boil, billions face inevitable demise. The affluent escape, but they still rely on others for sustenance, depending on desperate souls willing to do anything to survive.

As you gaze at the gunship, you look beyond to other vulnerable worlds beyond the imminent explosion zone. You might choose to save your child, even at the cost of another’s life. Faced with annihilation or perpetual conflict, choosing between these extremes becomes overwhelmingly difficult.

Discover Claire North’s Slow Gods (Orbit), the New Scientist Book Club’s selection for July. Sign up here. Join the discussion on our Discord channel here.

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