14323 B.C.

The fire was the largest that Ndaga had ever seen. Its flames roared with the voice of a wild, angry beast even though the water from the rainy season remained in the wood.

Clouds of smoke billowed into the sky, like giants reaching for the home of the gods.

Ndaga knelt and touched his the ground with his forehead, in tribute to Danaa, goddess of all things living. She had made them the masters of Earth to roam it freely. She had given them weapons to reap its riches. She had gifted them with thought to rule its creatures.

He sat up and watched as the smoke obscured the face of the Sun. He wondered if men would ever be able to build a fire so fierce that its smoke would engulf the world in darkness.

2213 A.D.

From orbit, Captain Jane Warland looked at the sad face of Earth on the monitor before her. Where there used to be white wisps of clouds hardly able to obscure the ground's glorious, colorful brilliance, the planet was now shrouded in a veil of soot and smoke. The little she saw of the sea was steel gray, and the single piece of land visible—she thought it was a part of South America—was a dull brown.

It had started with the first tribal campfires in the steppes of Africa, had evolved into the chimneys of early industrialized Europe, and found its climax in the combined exhaust of 20 billion people hungry for energy. All that time, increasing amounts of carbon dioxide and other substances were released into the atmosphere, generating a greenhouse effect. First, temperatures rose by some fractions of a degree, later by many degrees. Wildfires devoured most of the remaining biosphere. Wars over the dwindling resources erupted, finally breaking the weakened back of Earth's ecosystem.

A runaway process that had culminated in the disaster showing on the screen in front of Jane Warland.

In its last decades on Earth, humanity had looked up to the stars fading in the night skies. And they had built five huge starships to carry their kind off the ravaged planet, to give their children a future.

As large as an oil tanker, each ship slowly rotated about its axis to maintain artificial gravity in its tens of concentric levels, providing space for 2048 passengers. To maximize chances of survival, each of the vessels was destined for another star system. The trips would take decades, and the ships were built to provide a home for several generations of passengers.

Like a fungus, Jane thought, studying the dreary remains of Earth. Humanity was like a fungal growth, destroying its host. And now it was sending out its spores, in search of another victim.

No, she shook her head, thinking of the people on board. People with dreams, with beliefs, with ideals, with love, with hope. A fungus had none of these.

Jane Warland was the Captain of the starship Last Hope. Aptly named since she was the last vessel to be completed, and presently the last one remaining in orbit around its dying planet of origin.

Well, completed was a bit of an exaggeration, Jane knew. The ship had been assembled in a hurry, and much of it was still under construction. Even today, at the day of her departure, the main bridge was not yet operative, and her captain had to launch Last Hope onto its journey from the auxiliary bridge.

With an effort, she took her eyes off the monitor and looked at her officers, one by one.

"Are we ready?" She knew they were, but the occasion demanded ceremony.

"Reactors running and engines ready!" confirmed the first engineer.

"Sophia?" Jane asked, addressing the ship's primary AI.

"Yes, Captain Warland?"

"Start the engines for 23 Alepiae, on my go."

"Ready, Captain Warland."

"Go!"