The old monk leaning on the rake looked like any old man leaning on any rake throughout history: cloth sandals, loose fitting slacks, a cotton shirt and a wide-brimmed white sun hat shading a grizzled, heavily lined face. He breathed deeply, letting his lungs take in the alkaline salt of the desert air.
A few centuries ago, on another planet perhaps, one could have mistaken the old man for a prospector, or maybe a poor farmer trying to eke out a living in an dry lake bed. Maybe an innkeeper, this one low spot was a watering hole that travelers stopped in during the rainy season on their way across this desert, and the low hut behind him was a rudimentary inn where a cool drink could be had, and maybe, vows not withstanding, a warm woman.
But, no, he was alone, tasting the metallic tang in the dry, chilly air and not any iced drink. There was no warm woman in the hut preparing his meals, and there were no travelers on their way to better places. He stirred the dust at his feet with the rake, looking at the remains of his little experiment: a few sad, browning tomato plants. He and the robots had tried to keep them alive long enough to fruit. But not yet. The air might be able to support life, but the ground...Well, he wouldn’t live long enough to see his low spot become a puddle, let alone an ocean.
The desert the man and the hut were, in fact, on the surface of a planet that was undoing massive changes in order to be colonized by citizens of this government.The old monk had been educated by his order, taught how to monitor the equipment and adapt its programming in order to make it more efficient. It was a commandment from God to go out into the stars, be fruitful and multiply. He had taken vows, learned how to meditate and be at peace on this barely survivable world. He had volunteered for this dangerous mission and actually was in the employ of a large governmental agency that was in charge of colonizing planets.
The process had begun years ago, then the old monk had been just a child. Large asteroids, full of ice and metal, had been pushed out of orbit in this solar system by automated ships, small tugs that were programmed to do one thing over and over until their batteries ran out. These asteroids would impact the barren planet and raise huge geysers of steam and particles. Once there was enough moisture in the atmosphere, another wave of robot ships came through, dispersing clouds of genetically altered bacteria. the bacteria would eat the metal ore, and emit oxygen, and even more moisture. This was cheap and easy. The Government that the old man worked for could afford to create armies of these robots, send them out in an ever widening globe, and wait for the results. if only one out of a hundred planets were ever transformed into being capable of supporting colonists, it was worth it.
Eventually, some threshold was reached, and a signal went out from a robot surveyor to the government. A message was sent that the planet could, maybe, possibly, with a little supervision, support a human colony. It might have resources that could be exploited, or be used as a fortification against some other government that might be doing the same sort of thing.
Anyway, the call had gone out and a small army of men, some older, some younger, mostly other monks but a few laymen with their own reasons for seeking solitude, had descended on the planet. Each man had fallen through the sky inside the hut, each hut had settled in a prescribed landing zone. Each hut could keep the man inside alive for years. Water was drawn from the atmosphere and recycled from waste, food was grown in vats and prepared by specially equipped robots. Communications, games and amusements were sent around the globe and into deep space.
And the army of men took readings, conferred with each other, made notes and requested certain things from the army of robots above them. They might need a little more moisture in the northern hemisphere, a mountain cracked open on the edge of a range, a little more iron or magnesium in a bowl of a desert. The men would decide where oceans would be created, mining outposts would be profitable, where farms could be founded. All this would take years. God Willing, the old monk would be buried on this planet, the area around his hut named for him.
In the meantime the old man looked out across the expanse of his desert. He watched the robots he had programmed cut little troughs in the dirt, and haul the dust back to the hut for processing. He leaned on his rake and was content. This was his lot in life. In a few hours, he would go, have a little stew made of protein grown in the hut, play a little chess with another old man on the other side of the planet, and rest. then tomorrow, he would go out and do it again. in a few years, he might be able to see a cloud. It was worth it.
* * *
Doing this, doing God’s work alone on a hostile planet, filled the old monk’s heart with gladness. Looking out over the expanse of dust as the reddish sun set, drinking a glass of wine created whole cloth out of nutrients stored in the hut, saying his devotions, he could not believe how many of his fellows refused to believe. God was great, and all inspiring, and bigger than any man could comprehend. And he was that much closer to Him than others who led so called "Better" lives.
It was nearly time to head inside for his evening meal and devotions when the old monk noticed a bright spark in the sky, near the horizon over the distant low mountain range. It was to early to be an evening star, too bright to be a natural planet. It slowly made its way across the sky, getting brighter but not noticeably growing.
It must be a ship, he thought. He remembered that one of the monks over near the range might have requested a large piece of mining equipment, an automated harvester perhaps, and this might be its delivery.
The light climbed to about two-thirds of the way up the sky, and then split into three, each as bright as the original. Each of the three then split, and then again. Twenty-seven lights spread out over the darkening sky.
The Monk frowned. That was unusual. A shuttle fleet? Had something gone wrong? Were they going to be taken off planet? A soft alarm had started going off in the hut behind behind him, the chime of an incoming message. He glanced at his watch- it was just his chess partner. Surely he couldn’t know what was happening either.
First one, then another of the lights began to enter the atmosphere. The light turned reddish, and began leaving contrails behind them. The monk smiled. There was enough enough moisture in the upper atmosphere to start seeding clouds after all.
But then the contrails turned dark. Something was wrong. The monk frowned, worried. Black meant smoke, combustion. These lights were accelerating. That meant they weren’t shuttles. They were missiles.
He dropped the rake and turned to the shuttle. He thumbed the controls on his watch, first to recall the robots, then to message his friend on the other side of the planet. The robots slowly began to turn and head back to home; they had a direct connection. But the watch let him know that there was no planetary signal. The satellites were not responding.
He made it to the front door of the hut at the same time he started to see flashes. The missiles were hitting the ground. None were around him: he didn’t feel anything, but seismic sensors in the hut started sounding alarms. His watch was flashing red. He turned in time to see a mushroom cloud rise over the low range of mountains. He started counting.
One, two, three: A wall of dust swept down over the range, covering the floor of the desert, the future ocean that should have been named for him. He turned toward the Hut and stumbled, nearly falling before catching himself.
Four, five: He stumbled again, the ground beginning to buck beneath him, just a few more steps to the hut’s door.
Six,Seven; He entered the hut, slammed the door shut behind him and fingered the watch. The lights turned green. He had to make it to the command chair and buckle the safety belt.
Eight: the ground gave way beneath the hut as the shock wave hit him. The hut was torn off it’s moorings and began flying. He was thrown to the floor, and as it rotated over him, then to the far wall, then the ceiling.
"Please God, don’t let this hurt," he thought before the hut started to disintegrate. Then, "Smyrkanski Ocean was a stupid name, anyway."