Stake Your Claim
Planet Naming
The airlock hissed open, and Marcus Chen stepped into the docking bay of Galactic Central.
He had prepared himself. He had studied the briefings, memorized the holographic renderings, spent six months in diplomatic training learning to keep his composure in the face of the alien and the incomprehensible. None of it mattered. His breath caught in his throat and stayed there.
The station stretched before him in every direction, a lattice of impossible architecture spiraling toward a core of soft golden light. Structures that defied gravity hung suspended in the void between levels, connected by bridges of what appeared to be solidified starlight. Beings of every conceivable shape moved through the space: gelatinous, crystalline, gaseous, mechanical, biological, and configurations that seemed to exist in more dimensions than Marcus’s eyes could process. The International Space Station, humanity’s proudest achievement in orbital construction, could have fit inside this docking bay’s restroom facilities.
“Ambassador Chen.” A creature like a floating purple jellyfish materialized beside him, its translator rendering speech in a pleasant baritone. “Welcome to Central. If you will follow me, the Induction Chamber is prepared.”
Marcus followed, still trying to remember how his legs worked.
The Induction Chamber was a vast amphitheater filled with representatives from what Marcus estimated to be several hundred species. They sat, stood, hovered, and in one case appeared to exist as a localized probability cloud in seats arranged in concentric rings around a central podium. As Marcus took his place at the podium, a hush fell over the assembly.
A being that resembled a walking tree covered in glowing moss presided over the proceedings from an elevated platform. Its translator identified it as the Registrar General.
“We are gathered to formally induct the species known as Humans into the United Planets,” the Registrar intoned. “Ambassador Chen, you speak for your people?”
“I do.”
“Very well. Let us proceed with registration.” The Registrar consulted a tablet that seemed to be grown from living crystal. “Species designation: Human. Homeworld location: Orion Arm, third planet from local star designated Sol-7829. Homeworld name...”
The Registrar looked up expectantly.
“Earth,” Marcus said. “We call our planet Earth.”
“Objection.”
The voice came from somewhere in the middle rings. Marcus turned to see a creature rising from its seat. It stood roughly human-height, with a segmented body covered in chitinous plates of deep burgundy and compound eyes that glittered under the chamber’s lights. It wore a tan suit that had been carefully tailored to accommodate six limbs.
“The Hive Collective of Xithar VII registered the designation ‘Earth’ four hundred thousand cycles ago,” the insectoid said, its tone apologetic but firm. “I’m terribly sorry. We do have documentation.”
Marcus blinked. “I’m sorry, what?”
“It’s quite a common word, you see. Means ‘soil’ in roughly twelve thousand registered languages. We were the first to file.”
“But that’s our planet. We’ve called it Earth for thousands of years.”
The insectoid made a gesture that its translator rendered as sympathetic. “I’m sure you have. Unfortunately, the name was already registered in the galactic database. We have a similar word in our language. It seemed fitting for our agricultural moon.”
Marcus took a breath. “Fine. We have other names. Terra.”
The Registrar checked its crystal tablet. “Taken. The Terran Hegemony, approximately two million cycles ago.”
“Gaia.”
“Taken. Registered to a religious order in the Andromeda sector.”
“Jord.”
“Taken.”
“Tellus. Midgard. Prithvi.”
“Taken, taken, and taken. The last one quite recently, actually. Only about fifty thousand cycles.”
Marcus ran through every name for Earth he had memorized during his preparation. Maa. Bumi. Ard. Chi. Zemlja. Each one met with the same apologetic shake of the Registrar’s mossy head. His shoulders began to sag.
“Ambassador Chen,” the Registrar said, not unkindly, “if you cannot provide an unregistered designation, we will be forced to assign your homeworld its default classification name.”
Marcus loosened his collar. The chamber felt suddenly very warm. Eight billion people were counting on him. This moment was being broadcast to every screen on Earth.
“What,” he asked slowly, “is the default classification name?”
The Registrar consulted its tablet. “Standard practice is to sell naming rights for newly discovered planets to the highest bidder. Your world was catalogued approximately seven of your centuries ago by a survey drone. The naming rights were purchased shortly thereafter.” It paused. “By a juvenile member of the Gastropod Collective of Slime Prime. The individual found your species’ existing planetary nomenclature, I quote, ‘hilarious.’ They paid twelve credits.”
Marcus felt a cold certainty settling into his stomach. “What name did they choose?”
The Registrar’s glowing moss flickered, and if a tree could look embarrassed, this one did.
“Your planet will be officially registered as Youranus.”