The Bacteria Will Arrive First 

A monologue from the launch pad, by Ilon Masq

The rocket stands upright—towering, not trembling yet, indifferent. Thirty seconds to launch, and already the silence hums louder than the countdown.

I’ve sunk my life into this ship. Every alloy, every algorithm, every jet of flame beneath it. We designed it to hold dreams... But it may only cradle microbes.

People think the future arrives in suits and speeches. I suspect it arrives in spores.

They cling to wires, stow away in floor joints. Not the hero’s entrance we scripted, but an invasion by silence. Primitive, patient, opportunistic.

We thought we were the colonists. But these earliest stowaways— Will settle just  our boots touch dust. They’ll adapt, multiply, evolve.

And they begin a new tree of life— One that will flourish in this alien soil, Unburdened by our biology, Uninterested in our aspirations.

We came from a world too specific. Brittle systems, oxygen expectations. But the microbes we brought are flexible. The environment bends around them, And we, oddly enough, do not belong.

We are the strangers in our own saga, Suited and speech-bound, While life unfurls quietly— as if the Cosmos only ever wanted its first whisper to be microbial.

Sometimes I think of Earth itself. Not as a failing home, But as a perfect ship, Too large to build, Too familiar to worship.

It has no launchpad. It needs no countdown. Yet it flies—with us inside—toward a destination we’ll never chart.

...3, 2, 1... Ignition! 

The rocket roars... 

But I listen for the quiet revolution: The colony beneath intention. The passengers we never invited, but always carried.

The bacteria will arrive first. And perhaps, they were always meant to arrive first, as the silent echo from which life unfolds.