Return to Eden Prologue

Prologue

United Nations Headquarters, New York City, 2078

The wide, dimly lit conference room was alive with arguments, most of them in the annoying self-righteous way of politicians. The Secretary-General stood at the raised podium the East side of the building. Her face was creased with fatigue, hands wrung together. She had just passed the last document for the Bunker program, a plan to bury 10,000 people in 400 bunkers across the world. This way while the rest of them died from heat and lack of food and storms and a million other things that the climate crisis would throw at them, they could be preserved. Humanity would be preserved.

When they emerged though, most of their humanity would soon disappear. Stripped of it by necessity like a dandelion in a hurricane, they would revert to ancient methods and be once again, hunter-gatherers, and Earth could only sustain about 10,000 individuals.

If only there’s an Earth waiting for them when they emerge. She thought, hands stroking her chin, too exhausted to try and solve that problem too. Scientists were looking into doing something along the lines of quadrupling the genetic material in animals and plants globally to allow for more rapid evolution, but she couldn’t be bothered to worry about it. She had other things to think about, like the selection process.

There were 50 spots in the cryogenic vats from each bunker that would be randomly selected by the UN, as well as the 25 people maintaining the vats. The other 50 would be given to the most powerful regional government to decide how they would be dispersed, on the condition that they couldn’t select themselves or their loved ones. She had spent many long nights figuring what to do, and this was her conclusion.

The determined woman was jostled back to the present by the sudden silence that fell over the room. The rows of representatives and officials stared at their desks, fiddled with pens, and clasped their hands.

The delegate from Fiji made his way up to the stand in a controlled manner, walking as if strings were attached to him, and then he started to speak. His voice was frustrated, yet subdued, like boiling water in a pot.

“I beg of you,” He plead, voice trembling, “Please do something; redraw the regional borders, add more bunkers, anything.” The dark-skinned man’s hands were balled into fists, his brow lowered over his eyes, burdened by defeat.

In the left corner of the room a tall black-haired man in a suit stood up.

“That’s not possible. You aren’t close enough to any other regions, and adding more vaults is out of the question,” the Canadian representative interjected coldly, his voice measured and political, as always.

“You’re just going to let my people go extinct?” Hands turned in front of his face.

“The fate of humanity rides on this movement. It is with regret that we leave behind your country for the good of mankind. Plus, there’s still a chance for one of your people to be selected. May God remember you.” The Secretary-General issued decisively, leaving no room for argument in the wide meeting hall they were stationed in.

The Fijian man was silent for a moment besides his heavy pained breathing which could be heard by all in the room. Then he spoke.

“Our people don’t need you or your Western Gods to remember us.We’ll survive and remember ourselves in spite of your mercilessness, your apathy,” He spat on the ground next to him, barely outside of the UN logo he stood on.

“I hope you can feel the blood of all the people you’ve condemned on your hands. I hope it burns.” And with that he turned and hotly strode out of the room.