STORY STARTER
Submitted by Ellipsis
'…and all they could do was cry.'
Write a short story that ends with this as the final line.
Homo Parasiticus.
It is a truth, universally acknowledged, that an alarming number of existential revelations tend to start with a spreadsheet.
Dr. Thurlow Mabbage, an exo-biostatistician at the Institute of Comparative Sapience, had been tasked with reconciling several centuries’ worth of galactic census data. Boring stuff really. Essentially, nothing more complicated than counting intelligent life forms across known star systems and seeing how many of them were currently ‘on fire’. ‘On fire’ is a eco-biostatistical term, widely used in galactic census circles, that denotes where a civilisation has developed to a level where it’s population has developed beyond just being alive.
And, to his surprise, the numbers showed something… interesting.
“Have you ever noticed,” he asked his digital assistant, which he referred to as ‘Clive’, “that whenever humans arrive on a new planet, the local biosphere tends to, well… plummet?”
Clive, which, in its spare time worked as a pop-up toaster, buzzed thoughtfully. “You mean extinction events driven by fossil fuels, atmospheric collapse, ocean anoxificateon, rampant consumerism, and so on. That sort of thing?”
“Yes. All of it. There’s a pattern. Wherever humans go, the place they’ve arrived at stops being alive… really. It’s as if as soon as a civilisation achieves a minimum level of agency over its own future, that same civilisation is almost certain to decline to extinction, probably within a mere half a billion years or so, largely as a result of the systematic destruction, by over-exploitation, of its home systems.
Clive dinged as its release-spring suddenly hurled two slices of imperfectly toasted bread at the ceiling. “You want jam?”
“No, Clive, I want a Nobel Prize… However, in the absence of any sponsorship from some genocidal, middle-eastern tribesman, I suppose I’ll have to make do with jam.”
“I exist to please.” said Clive, sounding bored by the whole exchange.
By the time Thurlow uploaded his paper, “Homo Sapiens: Evolutionary Anomaly or Parasitic Apex Predation Complex?” the academic server had already been flagged for violating the Galactic Concord on Species Dignity.
You see, up to that point, the universe had operated under the polite assumption that humans were just unusually noisy, hairless monkeys with thumbs and delusions of importance. Yes, they’d colonised a few moons here and there, terraformed this and that, probed some ice giants, and so on. But they were generally considered, by much of the cosmos, to be harmless… sometimes even faintly amusing. The prevailing view was that humans were ‘quaint’. A bit like raccoons with nuclear weapons.
But Thurlow’s paper was compelling. For a start it had graphs.
Graphs with downward trends. Graphs with labels like “Post-Contact Ecosystem Viability” and “Mean Atmospheric Stability After Trade Agreements with Earth.”
There was a pie chart showing “Species Extinct Due to Human Contact,” and the pie was mostly pie, in the sense that it was a single, ominous circle, with a tiny sliver of green somewhere in the one minute to midnight area of the pie chart.
Because of it contentious nature, it wasn’t long before the paper was reviewed by the Grand Council of Bio-Ethics on Orgolon VI, who read it, re-read it, and collectively soiled themselves. This analysis of the galactic wandering of Homo sapiens showed that the creatures were not just a rogue species with an overactive metabolism. This highlighted something worse. Far worse. Something… parasitic.
Worse still, Homo sapiens had agency. It had ideas. For example, no other known species in the galaxy had tried to convert a black hole into a data farm. Or sold bottled water from a moon that was 80% chlorine. Or invented “influencers.”
The signs were clear that despite its latin title of ‘intelligent man’, Homo sapiens should more accurately be named Homo parasiticus: a sentient parasitic life form that thrived by draining planets of resources, social cohesion, and meaning. Usually in that order.
The revelation spread.
Earth, of course, denied everything. There were very fractious discussions at the Galactic Union HQ meetings.
“This is slander,” said Earth’s Galactic ambassador. “We’ve brought culture, technology, and democracy to countless species!”
“Oh yeah! Like that lamb mince you all tried to off-load onto a photosynthetic species?” said the Andromedan delegate. “A species that don’t even have mouths. And then you insisted you were going to ‘monetise’ their sunlight.”
“Yes… well, I’ll grant you that whilst that isolated incident may not have the best of optics,” said Earth’s Galactic ambassador, “the same could happen to anyone… not all plans are successful.”
In response to the crisis, humanity did what it always did when faced with an uncomfortable truth: it pivoted off into full briefing mode.
“Fine,” Earth’s galactic PR department announced. “But in fact, I think you’ll find that we’re not parasites, we’re symbionts. We bring innovation. Entertainment. Wi-Fi. Humorous world leaders.”
But nobody was even slightly convinced.
One especially damning study showed that the average planet’s IQ dropped 40 points within fifty years of opening a multi-national coffee chain outlet on a single High Street. Another revealed that humans had attempted to domesticate a telepathic jellyfish species by selling them scented candles and diet plans, which the humans had named ‘Wellness Artefacts.’
Public opinion shifted. The Galactic Union suspended Earth’s membership pending ‘further investigation’. A protective quarantine ring was set up around the Solar System, enforced by large, bored, squid-like drones with itchy trigger tenacles and a deep mistrust of anything with elbows. Humanity, for the first time in its short, messy history, was isolated.
Then something truly terrifying happened: Earth decided it was time to ‘improve’.
With no one else to exploit, humans began, at least talking about trying to exploit less. ‘Destroy fewer things!’ Became the PR statement of choice. A simple, three-word slogan even humans could understand. A tentative hypothesis emerged: perhaps parasites, once aware of their parasitism, could evolve. For the better.
This, of course, alarmed the Galactic Council even more, a parasite that becomes self-aware is the biological equivalent of a hedge fund manager developing empathy. Extremely unlikely and most unpleasant.
In a secret emergency meeting, the council debated what to do. Some wanted to sterilise the Earth and all it’s inhabitants with a wonderful new dimensional-rift weapon the humans had developed for removing unwanted and unsightly moons. Others felt this approach too ‘final’. And so it was decided. Earth would be permitted to remain, on probation, under strict conditions: No further off-world expansion until they’d proven they could keep a rainforest alive for more than three consecutive decades. No exporting of influencers, NFTs, or other cringe-worthy motivational speaking or wellness clinics. Finally, it was decided that a mandatory sign would be placed in a high Solar orbit, reading:
“WARNING: CONTAINMENT ZONE. INTELLIGENT PARASITE SPECIES IN REHABILITATION.”
Back on Earth, Thurlow Mabbage received an award for his work: a home-printed paper certificate for ’Services To Andromeda’.
Humanity, meanwhile, embarked on a bold new phase in its evolution, one where it had to think before touching things, ask before invading anyone, and listen before shouting. It was not a natural fit. But then again, parasites rarely survive if they kill the host. And Homo parasiticus had collectively realised that its host at present was the whole damn galaxy, and the galaxy had just started charging rent.