Ode to the star-eater
Look to the end of the world for hope
Ryland Grace faces Tau Ceti, a swirling planet of marble green, as he floats into the direct path of the Petrova line, the migrating “star-eating” cells, astrophages, threatening the existence of Earth and other planets in the galaxy. The dark void of space surrounds everything, with the Hail Mary ship backdropping the lone astronaut. Grace flips on the infrared filter in his helmet. The world lights up in bright red, now casting the space around him in an unnaturally magnificent illumination. On one hand, it’s a terrifying scene, a glimpse of the apocalypse soon to devour the primary source of life — the Sun. Yet there’s something breathtaking, beckoning, about it; because as we see the small form of Grace face against a flood of sparkling red, we also feel a beacon of hope that even a single man can, quite literally, face up against something ethereally destructive.
Apocalyptic science fiction returns to this image often, to show us what humanity looks like under pressure, but also how the noble instinct to willingly stand against something incomprehensibly vast and destructive depends on a chosen belief. Characters we admire act as their choices will matter, as if the people they love will be saved, as if their choices carry meaning.
I’ve loved apocalyptic science fiction since the first time my Dad sat me down to watch “Interstellar” (2014), drawn in by Matthew McConaughey’s terrific portrayal of anguish, the otherworldly pink-purple hues of Nolan’s space, and Hans Zimmer playing over vast cornfields. But above all, what drew me in was the exploration of characters bifurcated to both ends of potential. When one man chooses self-preservation and sets back humanity’s rescue mission, another chooses to save humanity: an act of love for his family, even if it means sacrificing years with them. When characters rely on this core self-belief to sacrifice for an unpromised greater good, rather than the instinctual reflex of survival, we are moved.
Humanity pushed to the extreme gives us a grotesque view of what we are capable of in desperation. But it also allows us to access the pinnacle of human potential: invention, ingenuity, or even something as basic as compassion. Apocalyptic sci-fi forces us to turn the metaphorical infrared light on, to see the core of human nature (the good and the bad) more clearly. In a way, polarity of circumstance forces purity of reaction. Without the Petrova line, there is no destruction. Without the Petrova line, there is no potential — no beauty.
Cormac McCarthy’s The Road follows a father-son duo who persist in being good people while traversing a post-apocalyptic wasteland, holding tightly onto humanity when it is easier to live without virtues. In a world largely devoid of civility and bleakly savage in classic McCarthy style, the love between the pair and the dogged insistence to “continue carrying the fire” is the very reason that keeps them going down “the road.” The duo is driven by faith in a greater purpose, even if that purpose is, at its core, an act of self-deception.
McCarthy asks: if you stripped away every other identifier, any reasonable context, what remains? It is our morals, the love we have for others, and the desperate belief in the existence of those qualities. Ursula Le Guin, a pioneer of exploring sociological themes in science fiction, portrays this well in The Left Hand of Darkness; her protagonist experiences a great, inhumane struggle and remarks:
“It is a terrible thing, this kindness that human beings do not lose. Terrible, because when we are finally naked in the dark and cold, it is all we have. We who are so rich, so full of strength, we end up with that small change. We have nothing else to give.”
It’s doubly compelling when our character wasn’t destined for greatness in the world as we know it today. Ryland Grace begins as a disgraced professor who refuses to join the Project Hail Mary suicide mission. Yet when Grace wakes up, drugged and kidnapped on the ship against his will with a lagging memory, he is driven to save. He may have not made the heroic choice the first time, but when he discovers there is hope to return home, he chooses to be selfless nonetheless. While the noble choice of saving billions of faceless people is unfathomably difficult to make, it becomes easy to “find someone to be brave for,” the belief that even one person (or alien) is enough. While the first choice asked him to sacrifice, the second choice asked him to give.
Project Hail Mary hit the theaters as a box-office success; it’s well-directed, beautifully shot, and features great acting. I suspect it’s also caught national attention because it speaks of hope when various different crises are happening — the decline of U.S. hegemony, various global wars and conflicts, and the ever-looming threat of AI. The latter is especially relevant; as our reality begins to match closer and closer to what we used to consider as science fiction, it’s undoubtedly comforting to hear stories of human triumph against alien technologies and impart optimism that we will stay loving1, useful, and brave through unpredictable times.
Unlike other fiction, these stories feature no true villains, but rather people grappling with uncontrollable circumstances — climate change, star-eating aliens, chemical warfare — in a more extreme way, how reality often feels. Yet in these stories, we see acts of heroism2 played out not as naive, fated givens, but as the meaningful consequences of an individual’s decision.
We feel inspired when Grace faces down the Petrova line because it is an exaggeration of decisions we make every day, and the appropriate conduit for how overwhelming those choices may feel. We feel such sweeping emotions when we see splashy heroism on the big screen and the novels that inspired them because we are moved by what they suggest — that it is not hopeless to believe in authentic goodness and seek genuine greatness even in hopeless situations. We feel relief when the belief does not go unnoticed; it is not meaningless.
In some great irony, apocalyptic sci-fi is a campaign against nihilism, especially when it concerns the people you love. As Ted Chiang, one of the greatest modern sci-fi authors, writes in his book Exhalation:
“Pretend that you have free will. It’s essential that you behave as if your decisions matter, even though you know they don’t. The reality isn’t important; what’s important is your belief, and believing the lie is the only way to avoid a waking coma. Civilization now depends on self-deception. Perhaps it always has.”
Honorable mentions - other apocalyptic sci-fi I loved:
Parable of the Sower by Octavia Butler: Troubled protagonist Lauren looks not to the stars, but to the Earth in a grounded, spiritual, and community-forward solution as she traverses a post-apocalyptic California.
“Arrival” (2016) dir. Denis Villeneuve / “Story of Your Life and Others” by Ted Chiang: Louise Banks’ feat of creativity, genius in translation allows her to literally see the future and prevent global warfare; an incredible story of human triumph when faced with alien circumstances and technologies.
[SPOILER] Last of Us (2023): Our protagonist chooses one individual’s life over saving the world from a zombie apocalypse, an interesting experiment of hope not found in heroism but in our everyday relationships.
The Paper Menagerie by Ken Liu, “Mono No Aware”: In the way a game of Go has no true individual “heroes” (vs. that of chess), one’s sacrifice to save the last remnants of humanity is indicative of someone part of a greater web, holding it together.
“Children of Men” (2006) dir. Alfonso Cuarón: Amid a global infertility crisis and societal collapse, the sight of a single pregnant woman and the hope she represents brings fighting in a refugee camp to a sudden halt.
On April 7th, 2026, when four astronauts traveled farther from Earth than anyone in the history of humanity on Artemis II, they named a newly found moon crater “Caroll”, after one astronaut’s late wife.
“Rich Purnell is a Steely-Eyed Missile Man” from “The Martian” (2015) is a compliment first used to describe flight controller John Aaron, credited with saving Apollo 13 through an innovative fuel-rationing strategy. Aaron made an unconventional call to turn on the instrumentation system right before re-entry, a calculated risk that was contrary to existing procedures.