We may no longer be alone in the universe – and that’s a fact. Nearly.
Scientists have provided the not-very-cool news that one of Saturn’s moons has three of the four conditions needed to support life. It’s exciting and disappointing.
Enceladus – a moon I would never have heard of if it hadn’t been the source of some murderous sentient ice in a Judge Dredd story – was last week called one of the best possibilities to prove that life exists on other planets.
Those four conditions, by the way, are liquid water, certain chemical processes, an energy source and time for life to develop.
Thanks to the probe Cassini, we know the first three exist so, in theory, discovering alien life becomes no more complicated than waiting for a bus.
And just as boring.
This isn’t just any alien life. Yes, it’s fascinating to talk of extraterrestrial life and Enceladus joins Mars and Jupiter’s moon Europa as real prospects that we will confirm it exists.
But it’s also frustrating to understand, with the weariness of adults forced to act maturely, that any such aliens are microscopic and, therefore, underwhelming.
This isn’t a spacefarer arriving in a saucer, with a dangerous robot in tow. This is boffins using words like “methanogenesis” as they breathlessly describe lifeforms who do not, in fact, use death rays. This is not what I was promised.
When did alien life start sounding like a shampoo advert? I demand my due as a science fiction fan. I want sinister aliens who threaten all mankind and must be defeated by a plucky, square-jawed hero or, at a pinch, aliens that are somehow cute and, when treated badly, highlight the fact that humans are the real monsters. That’s always a good one.
I realise I’m behaving poorly here and I should embrace scientific knowledge with enthusiasm. But I can’t help it. My head is full of space despots with moronic henchmen, or sociopathic bounty hunters in a galaxy far, far away.
I need better stories in my universe.