Planetes’ fourth volume begins with an accounting of our heroes’ trials, all framed in relation to the profession that once united them. Hachimaki is en route to Jupiter, “committed to never again collect garbage in space.” Tanabe is now Mrs. Hoshino, and “currently collects garbage in space.” Fee “might be sick and tired of commanding a team that collects garbage and space.” And the thoughtful, quiet Yuri seems content with his lot, and “will perhaps always collect garbage in space.”

The repetition of that phrase adds a sense of humble inevitability to this accounting of our protagonists’ journeys. They cannot escape the prospect of being garbage collectors, or what being garbage collectors signifies in a more general sense – being the cleanup crew for other people’s dreams, the countless unsung yet essential workers who ensure the bold, destructive actions of people like Werner Locksmith don’t cause even more damage than necessary. Why is it that we venerate the breakers, but not the people who diligently put things back together? Why is the idea of collecting garbage in space so contemptible, so associated with failure?

Hachimaki might actually have been far happier staying home and collecting garbage with Tanabe, rather than seeking an impossible dream of mastering space and taking his position alongside the pioneers, the breakers, the history-beloved “heroes” who make no apologies for their destructive behavior. Was it ever something intrinsic to Hachimaki that made him desire the Jupiter mission, or was it just the terror inspired by a society which cannot value mundane, honest labor in service of peace and comfort? While pioneers like Locksmith destroy countless lives in pursuit of personal glory, that “great lie” that Goro once referenced, the rest of us are forced to endure shame from both society and our own nagging internal voices for not seeking similarly audacious, selfish glory. Not only are the rest of us forced to pick up the pieces, we’re not even allowed to take pride in that honorable duty.

With Hachimaki now off on his grand voyage, his former coworkers navigate that indignity with whatever grace they can muster. Tanabe, who has always appreciated the simple yet essential pleasures of ordinary happiness, now struts around with a big grin on her face, insisting on her new title of “Mrs. Hoshino.” Her joy is infectious; in her satisfaction with this very ordinary milestone, we see a natural insistence that collecting garbage, marrying the man you love, and occasionally checking back in with your parents is a life of dignity, a life worthy of veneration. Tanabe stands as an antidote to the poison of the great man’s philosophy, insisting that if we can find contentment in our ordinary trials, then we have necessarily discovered a life worth living.

Through the course of Tanabe’s mundane trials in the wake of Hachimaki’s grandiose exit, we see an echo of the transition Makoto Yukimura would also undertake in Vinland Saga, a sort of bait-and-switch leading the audience towards stories of life lived with kindness and without apology. He clearly sees nothing more honorable or worthy of celebration in a life of destruction than in a life of growth and renewal, planting seeds so that the next generation might live without need for fear or violence. The message is clear: if we do not learn to celebrate these stories, if we do not orient ourselves towards praising the kind and the gentle over the fierce and the destructive, then we will continue to find ourselves trapped like Hachimaki, driven towards selfish glory by a society that cannot imagine or respect other approaches to life, other systems of value.

As a result, instead of lofty dreams of escaping earth orbit and traveling the solar system, Planetes’ fourth volume opens on mundane, incidental workday trials like dealing with an awkward new coworker. As Tanabe attempts to befriend the strange pompadoured newcomer known only as “the Baron,” the narrative prioritization of this incidental workday task seems to push back against our cultural veneration of figures like Locksmith. Locksmith might make the history books, but he also destroyed the lives of thousands in the process. Why is that a more worthy path through life than doing right by the people who love you, protecting and loving them in return? Locksmith might be “important,” but is being answerable to history more significant or human than being answerable to the people closest to you?

Guiding this stranger into an easier rapport with his coworkers, Tanabe’s kindness and curiosity embody the true essence of what is noble in humanity. Our greatest, most honorable strengths aren’t necessarily exhibited through our willingness to push beyond what exists, to grapple and climb over our fellows in our rush to gain historic glory – they are found here at the cafeteria table, in the kindness we afford to friends and strangers alike. A humanity composed of Locksmiths would consume itself in no time; a humanity composed of Tanabes might not challenge the stars, but they would construct a nurturing and gentle society. While Locksmith might insist the essence of greatness is surpassing your fellow humans, Tanabe would counter that life is a process of growing into true humanity – the kindness and sense of communal responsibility that are the true markers of greatness.

Granted, contentment is not the same thing as complacency. If your moral compass guides you towards the grand arc of history, then there is often nothing for it but to follow your heart. So it goes for the young woman Kana, who we find standing before her brother’s grave, one of the thousands of victims of Locksmith’s lunar catastrophe.

Though the overall scale of destruction prompted by the lunar explosion meant little to Locksmith, Kana’s brother was something different – another genius, and thus someone of genuine note. “He was an incredibly talented engineer,” Locksmith admits. “I killed him anyway.” With the Von Braun launched and off to Jupiter, Locksmith remains on earth, with only the companions he consigned to death for company. His isolation prompts a question: at the end of your life, do you want to be surrounded by vengeful ghosts, or by people who love and care for you? The allure of the history books seems like it would offer little comfort from a lonely deathbed.

In contrast with Locksmith’s megalomaniacal dreams of glory, Kana’s brother hoped to become someone like Guskou Budori, the protagonist of a novel by Kenji Miyazawa. Budori stands as the hopeful counterpoint to Locksmith – though he becomes a great man of science, he “never forgets where he came from,” and prioritizes the enrichment of all people over the satisfaction of his own ambition. Can you truly seek the distant horizon while remaining a man of the people, never losing sight of the millions of souls waiting on the ground below? That is our grand, desperate hope – seeking the infinite without losing touch of the intimate, harnessing our lofty ambitions to bring light to the darkness, not just for our own curiosity’s sake, but to make a brighter path for all who stand beside us, all whose diligent, smaller efforts, the “garbage collection” of humanity at large, make our grand accomplishments possible.

Still, what comfort can that hope offer Kana now? Her brother’s face is now forever distant, looking off towards a future he will never see realized. She sits alone by his grave, the one who truly loved him, now left to carry on his wake. Could her brother have accepted ordinary happiness like Tanabe? Of all people, it is Locksmith who answers that question, stating “your love did not affect his choices, and your love could not have saved him.” 

To Locksmith, what is admirable about Guskou Budori is in large part his implacability – his unwillingness to put his own ordinary happiness above the greater good, no matter what that would cost him. Locksmith focuses not on the motivation of helping others, but the willingness to do whatever is necessary to achieve that motivation. He primarily relates to what he sees as the “strength” to do what is required for the future, and sees in himself a similar capacity. And yet, for all his coldness, he still comes to this grave, and still risks death in order to have this conversation with Kana. He even stops her from killing herself, after she realizes Locksmith possesses no real sense of guilt, and thus cannot be made to feel accountable for his actions. Locksmith may not understand her brother’s compassion, but he can still admire the man he was, and attempt to do right by his old companion.

But to simply remain alive is not the same as truly living. With the prospect of war in orbit hanging above, our pilot Fee can no longer find satisfaction in her work, and sees herself as a trained, captive dog with no ability to break its containment. What nobility is there in cleaning up people like Locksmith’s messes? Even as she works to retrieve debris, she is forbidden from interacting with the true threats, the lunar mines that short-sighted military men have left floating in orbit. Having seen the true face of their masters, Fee cannot accept the ordinary, everyday happiness of Tanabe or Yuri.

Fee roams listless and unmoored, until she finds inspiration in an unexpected place: the rebellious look in her son’s eyes, who remains determined to save stray animals even as he risks losing the family’s apartment. Fee is not a trained dog – she can do what she wants, even if it pushes against the expectations of her job description. Getting along with humanity is well and good, but our individual rebellious streaks are also crucial, whether they lead us beyond the stars or simply in violation of our apartment’s pet policy.

The genesis of Fee’s own rebellion begins in a military board room, where the unfortunately named Colonel Sanders makes an impassioned plea against a war in space, arguing that it would inevitably result in an endless cascade of debris known as “Kessler Syndrome.” Slumping into his desk after his failed entreaty, his wife kindly suggests that he’s not suited for this job, to which he replies “the military needs men like me.” Men who think of the consequences, men who think of the worst-case scenarios, men whose humility and concern for their fellows outweighs their ambition. On every level of society, it is the “garbage collectors” who are the most essential, the most dignified, the most worthy among us. 

The Colonel must deal with his own “great man,” a commander who is determined to seek war after a rival nation sets off a mine in space.  The colonel immediately and correctly identifies this man’s true wish as gaining enough notoriety as a heroic space warrior to eventually claim the presidency, his personal ambitions apparently outweighing both millions of lives and the viability of space habitation altogether. His story is familiar; after all, millions have already died across the middle east because one would-be “great man” refused to live in his father’s shadow. As of now, that great man sits at home minding his paintings, having been fully rehabilitated into a beloved former public servant. You don’t need fiction to imagine such inhumane audacity; this is the modern history of the United States.

With even the military’s most distinguished and responsible servants unable to stop this charge towards oblivion, what hope might Fee have of preventing war? Idly discussing the prospect of open combat, Fee’s coworker scoffs that “only a kid would fight a battle he can’t win.” And Fee thinks of her own defiant son, his unwillingness to give up on what was right in the face of all society telling him he was wrong. Whether victory is hopeless or impossible, there are some fights that are still worth fighting. If you can find peace in ordinary happiness, in the everyday process of kindness and companionship that makes life worth living, hold onto that feeling as tightly as you can. But if you must fight against what is in favor of what ought to be, take care not to hurt the undeserving, and swing your fist with every ounce of strength.

This article was made possible by reader support. Thank you all for all that you do.