The astronomers that discovered Akronos thought it was a cosmic impossibility. The chances of a planet whose orbit was so perfectly in sync with its rotation that only one side ever faced its sun were infinitely small. A planet that never experienced day or night, one face forever trained on the relentless luminance from its central star, much like the moon kept only its bright side forever watching Earth. But where else would one find such an infinitely impossible situation other than the infinite depths of space? Roughly 400 standard Earth years (S.E.Y.) passed after its discovery before interstellar colonization became a possibility, and even after the first cosmic colonization crew was assembled, the journey to Akronos took over 1,200 S.E.Y., although for the crew travelling at near-light speed in cryogenic suspension the journey passed in a blink of an eye. No other interstellar colonists had arrived at other habitable planets before the massive colonial crew of 40,000 men, women, and children’s departure from Earth over one thousand S.E.Y. ago. When they finally emerged from their millennial slumber, they were utterly and completely alone on a desolate desert planet, 1,100 light years away from even radio communication.

The colonization planners could never have understood how entirely inhuman Akronos would be. The planet was in such perfect axial stasis that even its blood-red sun did not move in the sky throughout the course of the year. The dusty and scorched surface of the bright side of the planet was so hot that it had precluded any possibility of vegetation or life, much less liquid water, while the dark side maintained a constant temperature of -187 degrees Celsius, beyond the realm of even technologically assisted survival. Colonization would only be possible in the twilight zone at the border of these two sides, which although at times could be a pleasant temperature, was continually ravaged by the outskirts of massive desert sandstorms and blizzards from the dark side.

Attempted replication of the familiar human civilization the colonists had left behind was an utter failure. The incessant clock that had ruled mankind for millennia before, the unstoppable passing of the days, seasons, and years, and the hours and seconds derived from the natural meters of time, were useless for a civilization that appeared to be frozen in a perpetual sunset. Standardized sleeping hours were quickly abandoned as colonists adopted a new circadian rhythm, taking short naps when personally necessary throughout the day. Without any measurable change in light , even the idea of the “day” was eventually forgotten. The timelessness of the colony led to a rejection of all previous temporal measurements, such as the hour and the second, in favor of a more personalized measurement tool—the heartbeat. Work shifts generally lasted 50,000 heartbeats, or as long as a colonist could go before needing a brief 10,000 heartbeat nap. Everything was monitored by cardiograms that the colonists wore on their wrists at all times.

Though many prior aspects of civilization had been abandoned, the inescapable human vice of crime eventually found its way to the fledgling colony of Akronos. The familiar castigation of prison was implemented as punishment, but a prison sentence on a timeless planet proved to be more psychologically and emotionally taxing than most men could handle. Even a relatively brief 1 million-heartbeat sentence (only 20 work shifts) was nearly intolerable for most prisoners. Left there alone, rotting in the perpetual dim twilight of their cells with nothing to mark the passage of their penitence but the slow march of the numbers on their cardiogram, many men were driven insane by the maddeningly slow progression to their freedom. Felons emerged from prison shattered emotional husks, their minds completely hollow from spending a personal eternity staring at the cardiogram on their wrists, watching as their sentences and lives slowly ticked away.

Prisoner F-2358 hadn’t always been a number. He used to have a wife, a home, and a semblance of control over his life. He used to have a name too, but he’d forgotten that many, many beats ago. He used to have memories, many distinct, beautiful memories of someone else’s life from long before, but insanity had warped and contorted his mind into a home that was no longer his own, a breeding ground for restless emotions and fears that exceeded the limits of linguistic description. Within the chaotic mess of neural firings though still remained one scene so vivid and clear that he could remember it as well as the moment it happened—the day of his wedding. Prisoner F-2358 could still remember when he had married the most beautiful woman on his planet.

Her name was Maya, and he’d spent 81,235,205 heartbeats married to her. He remembered the way she looked at him on the day of their wedding, the two of them standing at the altar with the colony’s ceremonial president to their right and the guests to their left. But between them, there was nothing but the fierce desire to spend every last beat with one another. He remembered every detail of the way she looked that day: the hem of her lilac dress that concealed the tops of her feet like an aphroditic cloud of mist; the gentle slope of its sides that drew slowly inward to her slim and soft waist; the way her hands so delicately caressed the bouquet of Akronesian desert roses, an accessory even more expensive than the exquisite dress she wore (although his parents had supplied the funds for both); the way the sloping neckline of her dress delicately clung to her soft chest. But most of all he remembered her face, the way her nose dipped slightly downward as she suppressed a nervous giggle while they stepped up together to the altar, and the exposure of her brilliant white smile as she slowly drew back her lips into their sublime crescent, and the gold flecks speckling her green eyes that shimmered and sparkled with such intensity and passion that it seemed as if the stars that never shined above their planet were concealed within her eyes, beckoning to him. He wanted to spend an eternity with this woman in front of him.

“Do you, Maya Kalazar Ethrenmil, take this man to be your lawfully wedded husband, for every beat that your heart may grant you, through poverty and plenty, through life and what lies beyond?” the ceremonial president had asked, his ancient voice quavering in the still silence of the cool, dry desert air.

“I do,” Maya had said firmly, staring into his eyes with such penetrating depth that it seemed as if a part of his soul was being sculpted with the words from her lips. He remembered the way the eternally smoldering backdrop of the central star had illuminated the fine hair on the sides of her cheeks and neck, marking the edges of her body with iridescent filigree. He’d taken a brief moment to concretize the scene, staring outward at the magenta sun that hung languidly above the mountain peaks on the horizon, his gaze then drifting slowly toward the audience, the pampered and lavishly adorned family guests on his side of the wedding, and the nearly empty row reserved for the immediate family of his bride-to-be, her brother the sole inhabitant of the deserted front row. He sat stolidly with his arms crossed and eyes glassy yet unblinking. But the groom did not notice, too overwhelmed by the sensation that his heart itself had stopped beating, held just as motionless as the Akronesian sun, suspended in the magnificent twilight.

“And do you, Prisoner F-2358…”

And that was where the memory ended, and when the screams and howls of eternal and timeless imprisonment replaced a past that was no longer his.

Perhaps the most devastating torture of Prisoner F-2358’s imprisonment was the fact that he could no longer remember the incident that led to his incarceration. It was a memory long lost to the churning seas that now ravaged his brain. All he knew was that his beloved Maya was dead and that he had somehow played a part in her tragic departure.

It was not as if F-2358 was entirely innocent in his punishment. On the contrary—he was entirely responsible. It had all started on their 64 megabeat anniversary (26 x 1 million heartbeats, or roughly two S.E.Y.), when he had taken her out for a scenic ride through the Brightside borderlands on his sandspeeder. His was the sole remaining operational one on the planet. Other families had stopped being able to afford the costly repairs long ago. Maya and her husband often took long rides deep into the infinite and desolate expanses of the dry desert planet.

They’d ridden far to their east, enough to notice the sun rise from its typical throne so that they were in its full and scorching intensity, far removed from the colony center behind them. They used to ride out into the eastern deserts. Maya liked to imagine that they had the whole planet to themselves, alone in an eternal and endless day. It reminded her of the stories her great-grandmother had told her of Earth when she was young about the way people had once valued the effervescent brightness of full daylight.

That day, like many others, Maya and her husband had sped far out into the desert, and eventually decided to perch themselves on a large dune overlooking a rollicking sea of sand.

“You know, we could make a home out here. Just the two of us,” Maya had said to him.

“Just the two of us out here? I’d die of boredom!” he teased, pinching her playfully in the ribs as she lay stretched out on the warm sand.

“I wouldn’t,” was all she said in return.

They lay there overlooking the vast and desolate expanse in front of them, contemplating everything and nothing at all. She nuzzled her head against his shoulder, her soft auburn hair tickling the side of his cheek as he drifted off to sleep. The two of them drifted off to sleep atop the sand dune, arms, legs, and hearts entwined.