The test began.
As soon as the candle was lit, apprehension squeezed my gut. I found myself thinking about my great-grandfather, the first butcher to arrive on Penates-149; the way he would close his fist with a line of sausage in it, the meat exploding between the gaps in his fingers. He had arrived to a planet filled with promise, and now almost 100 years later, the promise of that planet was threatened and entirely dependent on the flickering candle before me.
The Director cradled the candle in his weathered hands. Against the dark, it was impossible not to stare at the small flame, and the light reflected off the sweat on his palms. The Director moved towards the door and, like moths, the crowd of officials and I followed automatically.
Of course, we have the technology that could have done the job of the candle —instruments and sensors with pinpoint accuracy that could inform us about the state of the atmosphere—, but the candle was symbolic. It represented life. Warmth and destruction. Care for the fire and it will sustain you. Without it, death is inevitable. Mistreat it and it will destroy you.
Before I knew it, we were outside under the striking and clear night sky of Penates-149. We waited in silence, watching the candle before us. A couple of minutes went by, and just as a seedling of hope began to sprout, the candle died. Two people laughed. Two people cried. Most of us were silent.
The atmosphere could no longer sustain a single candle. We had killed another planet, like those before us. Like a bushfire, we were spreading through the galaxy, destroying all in our path.
I suppose we all knew this, one way or another.
