Letter From a Distant Future
by Charles C. Cole
I want to live. In the old days, that might even have been a viable choice, but now that the planet has been overrun by hungry “Extraterritorials” from somewhere deep in murky space, humans are just looked at as food, toothsome terriers, at least as defined by the recently arrived apex predators.
It was our first Planetary Ambassador, Hans Cabot, an early collaborator and sacrificial lamb, who coined the term, because “extraterrestrial” seemed insensitive and unwelcoming. Many of us realized quickly that, for these most recent others, it meant the freedom to follow one’s own imported morality, as when foreign embassies had extraterritorial rights. Pre-existing human laws and constraints no longer applied.
We don’t know where they come from. Rumor has it they are a plague of interstellar marauders who de-bone ripe planets, then move on when they get restless for something new or when resources dwindle. I don’t know their language or their culture. I have heard through the grapevine that they are particularly fond of earthly condiments, like ketchup and salt and barbecue sauce. They don’t care for fruits or vegetables or even traditional livestock, just humans. Lucky us.
Though I’m sure it’s not for everyone, I myself have become a vegetarian in recent years; I cannot now look at the things I kill without seeing myself through their eyes and feeling their pain and fear through my nervous system.
If you read this, I’d like to think that I found some unexpected mode of transportation and migrated a little closer to the Arctic Circle, to some mythical virgin forest. The Extras don’t like cold. Me either, but it’s better than the alternative. I leave instructions and a map to an abandoned small-town library. In the early days, I boarded up every window and door so that those who came later would have tools — science — and, yes, literary escapes from life’s toils.
If the Extras have adapted or now require expeditions into the northern territories for untapped reserves — we can hardly call ourselves states — I wish you sincere good luck. When cornered, the best deterrent to being invited for dinner is a yummy poison. I’ve left a few labeled bottles. You won’t live through the experience, but you can die knowing the Extras will not violate your spiteful corpse; they can smell the poison on you.
For the record, I was not an exceptional specimen who led glorious rebellions or continued with scientific advances in underground bunkers during our occupation. I was a survivor, at least for many years. I kept to myself out in the dense woodlands of our remaining wilderness. You should know, if the Extras ever return, they thrive on creature comforts, and they detest bugs and dirt and exerting themselves. Ironic, considering the tremendous distances they forage for exotic delectables but, for all we know, their huge ships may come equipped with indulgent delights from their homeworld.
Should these words be found and understood, then very likely human civilization has survived some very dark days indeed; the locusts have swarmed to other fertile lands and we have persevered, though likely we have been profoundly altered by our collective trauma.
I finish with some encouraging words and blunt warnings for your, hopefully, brighter future. Learn to work and stand together; that will take you far as a society. It may not by itself inoculate you to novel threats, but it will make you more resilient as victims of war and privation. Remember that life is a gift. Pleasure, which we all seek, will always be found with an adjusted perspective. When last I looked, the world still had rainbows, dazzling dawns, spectacular vistas, wild blueberries and invigorating fresh air for those who can appreciate such things.
Regarding the conquest of space, I imagine that to be a pipe dream for the new world order. First, rebuild, plant and harvest, rally and reload. Then I recommend long-range, space-based telescopes. We cannot stop the curious from approaching, but we can at least see them coming from a distance and prepare.
You may be rightly asking yourself, where is God? To this, I say, we are the created. Is that not an extension of the creator? Should we survive, how can we not learn and evolve from every challenge, however harrowing? My deepest hope is that the generations that follow me will be smarter and kinder — more philanthropic — and braver and more innovative. Take it from me, an uninterrupted belief in a better future will get you through every hardship.
You will have an abundance of work ahead, such as has not been seen since the late 1800s. Take pride in your successes and use your technology prudently. If you hug your children and help your neighbor generously, you cannot go wrong. Appreciate every day because, whether or not the marauders return, our time here is limited.
To the ones I loved and lost, thank you for your support, your friendship and fellowship. I may have struggled on my own, but your past encouragement stayed with me and fortified me. Surely, your bittersweet sacrifices were the through lines to our next world.
To those not yet born, or even considered, remember and give respect to the faceless rabble you never met. We may have been selfish and clumsy and, yes, at times myopic, but we gave the best we had to give. Thank you for willingly and graciously working the next shift. I cannot speak for others, but know that I love you and have every confidence in your nascent abilities.
Be well, friends I will never meet. Be wise. But, mostly, be happy.
Copyright © 2026 by Charles C. Cole
