OZYMANDIAS AT BETA LYRAE

Words by Wade Tarzia

“’Round Beta Lyrae floats an armored sphere,” the far-eyed space-farer said, “so large the sensors paint the image-swell and on the screen stares out a giant’s head. And planet-huge it is: we measured it with radar bounces off the chin. True enough: its contours are distinctly like a face, so big a leaping god might bruise a shin!

The warlord’s fortress dents the fairest sky of the world it anchors on. Parents threaten children with its gaze, and patriotic folk salute its dawn.

This space-bound battle station fills the eye as the customs dock extends and clamps resounding on our hull-steel bones, while on a thousand frequencies the challenge sounds: ‘Heave to, power down, and on my grace depend.’

Who would dream of spitting back a curse? Not the simple folk like me. Unload, refuel, and take on all our freight, then beg from them a fast trajectory.

At the point dictated by that face let your engines warp space-time. It’s no good time, that tyranny to taste: another day, another clime, a light-year underneath your tail, and bad tastes fade with dopplered weeks. You know, interstellar deserts offer cures, and simple natural laws avenge the meek. The inverse-square makes radio-toys: listen hard!—in deep space the tyrant squeaks beneath the galaxy’s cosmic noise.”