A rogue planet is a planet that has
been ripped from its home solar system and hurled into
intergalactic space. The scenario varies, but essentially
something from outside the solar system comes along and
knocks it out of its orbit, while imparting incredible
velocity. The result for the hapless inhabitants is that
their familiar sun slowly dwindles in the black sky,
Survival is burrowing into the interior of the planet.
Heat is life, cold is death.
Rogue planets can wander for millennia
through the galaxy without ever encountering another star.
What does that mean for the science
fiction writer? Think of it as a natural, really big
generation ship, wandering forever through the vastness of
space. If you believe that particular theory, you could
think of it as a microcosm of the end of the universe: a
planet slowly freezing to death as the stars recede.
Eventually the atmosphere lies frozen on the planet's
surface, the outside temperature slightly above absolute
zero.
The good news is that you may have a
ringside seat to some really great starscapes, if you're
lucky....
What about the captive inhabitants, and
they are captive. We are probably looking at an
ultrastable civilization, long lived and very conservative
-- literally. Energy is life. Whatever transuranium
elements remaining in the planet's crust would be mined to
power nuclear reactors. Of course, eventually all the
fissionable material will be used up. Waste storage will
become vital; fortunately nuclear waste emits large
quantities of heat, some isotopes for thousands of years.
But eventually even the nuclear waste will go cold.
Mining the thermal energy from the
center of the planet may at some point become the only
energy source. We can imagine the last alien survivor in
the hollowed-out core of the planet huddled next to the
last bit of cooling iron. (Don't forget the alien is
weightless, being at the center of the planet.)
Pretty dismal scenario.
But what if there is another scenario?
Imagine a rogue planet with a moon. Now things are
different. We have a gravitation-powered thermal machine
-- with planetary heat generated by tides.
Nobody had seen this scenario in
practice until the close flyby of Pluto and Charon by the
New Horizons probe. Planetary scientists couldn't believe
their eyes. Instead of two frozen worlds, they saw a dwarf
planet with recent surface activity. I would say
"geological activity," but that would be geocentric of me.
We need another term. Instantly a lot of questions were
answered. Astronomers repeatedly overestimated Pluto's
size because they thought it was darker than it really
was. Like it or not, over time Pluto just shrank below
planet size. Not until they discovered Pluto's moon Charon
did they have an accurate mass estimate. But I digress.
What does this have to do with rogue
planets you ask? Now instead of the planet slowly cooling
as the radioactive core decays, the tides from the
accompanying moon continually generate heat from friction.
Because energy is constantly removed from the system the
moon approaches the planet over the centuries. Eventually,
the moon reaches a stable orbit when the interior of the
planet cools down enough that there are no more tides, or
breaks apart under gravitational forces and forms a ring.
Same outcome, but after an immeasurably longer time.
Why should you care? We always pull for
the victim, the underdog, the one who, through no fault of
their own, gets the short end of the stick. After all,
that's what science fiction is about, isn't it?
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