The Doomsday Vault: A Story In Several Parts

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The Doomsday Vault
A Story in Several Parts
by P.J. Amergin

“May a man procure a dream by an external cause?
It may be done. If a man speak softly in another man’s ear and awake him not, then of his stirring of the spirits there are thunderings and buzzings in the head, which cause dreamings.”
— Aristotle, Problems

Part One

Exactly four-thousand, six-hundred and twenty-two days since he had started working at the seed vault.  That arrival was an occasion he remembered most because of the tilt of the Arctic sun, a bright behemoth parked in the vast, cold sky.   Flynn relished the thought behind the backs of his eyelids for a moment, but failed to coax any morsel of warmth out of the memory.  Only the sheer and utter brilliance of that light.

Far beneath the permafrost, he basked in the glow of a scientifically proven ultraviolet lamp, something some whiz kid had whipped up that provided the body with the same nutrients as the real thing, without any of the adverse side affects which had plagued previous models.  When the government declassified the patents on the model, the guy would probably become a billionaire.  But creation proved so valuable that the authorities deemed it necessary to place both the invention and its creator into an extended “Discretionary Period”.

This had all been explained to him at great length when he was first hired. The only people who got to use it were certain special government employees, the types who, like Flynn, worked deep beneath the surface.  There were twelve other sister vaults around the planet.

“Computer,” Flynn called out, his eyes still shut, “How much power remains in the primary cells?”

“The inability to recall the identifying phonemes comprising the social label of a female companion is considered, by most civilized cultures, to be quite rude.  I prefer Cindy.”

“Cindy,” he growled, “How much fucking power remains?”

“Twenty-four percent of total capacity in primary cells.”

“And the reserves?”

“Must you swear?  It offends my sensibilities programming.”

“I’m sorry,” Flynn said, opening his eyes.  “Okay?  I’m sorry.”

“Reserve Cell A at one-hundred percent.  Reserve Cell B at one-hundred percent.”

“So that means we’re good for how long?”

“Current projections indicate survivability inside this facility greater than ninety-five percent for approximately nine-thousand, seven-hundred and three days.”

“Has there been any activity on the communications net today?

“ComNet silence endures, Flynn.”

Flynn walked across the room and put his hand against the window.  The glass was cold against his clammy skin.  As he pressed the whole of his weight into it, the meshwork of finely woven fiber optics began to display a series of images— endless fields of August corn, the masts of a thousand sailboats bobbing gently atop the blue waters of Lake Michigan.  Lines of people streaming down Addison and Belmont toward Wrigley Field on opening day.  His mother and father.

“Cindy, stop it.”

“Biometric analysis of your sweat composition reveals increased levels of stress and anxiety. In addition, I detect pheromone patterns consistent with those of persons suffering from post-traumatic stress disorder.”

“I don’t need to be soothed.  Turn it off.”

The window went black.

“That world doesn’t exist anymore,” he announced, resignedly.  “It’s all gone.”

“Are you going to hurt yourself, Flynn?”

He played with this thought for a long minute.    The atomic clock fixed to the north wall ticked off each second like a thunderclap.  Finally, he spoke.

“No.  I suppose I’m not.”

Flynn removed his hand from the glass.

“Current time is 0900 hours,” chimed Cindy.  “Seed vault requires attention.”

The seed vault lay protected behind a series of airtight compartments.  The compartments were designed for redundancy and guaranteed hermetically isolation of the precious store in case of emergency.

On the inside, the vault was cavernous.  Row upon row of white shelves stretched from floor to ceiling.  Fluorescent bulbs bathed the place in the cool glow of filtered light.  Flynn cast the only shadow.

He walked through the rows, checking displays and making slight calibrations.  Routine.

Tending to the seed vault was a lot like tending to a garden.  The government called the place a seed vault, and indeed, most of the seeds could be kept dormant for years.  Decades, even.  But in reality many of the seeds needed a continuous cycle of germination to preserve their fecundity.  Seeds of this type were liable to lose genetic stability when left dormant.  Without constant attention, they would die.

He narrowed his eyes at one of the displays.

“Cindy, can you identify package A4-C22?”

“Package A4-C22:  Triventa strain biopharm rice.”

“Status?”

“Protein levels are at 67.7% of optimum.”

Flynn considered this statistic.  The Triventa strain was one of the primary crops harbored in the seed vault.  The genetically modified rice contained the same proteins as human saliva, and breast-milk, and was intended for use in large quantities to support the reconstitution of the fledgling survivor population.  Assuming there were survivors.  He frowned.

“Any particular reason why the protein levels would be so low?”

“Data shows abnormal growth conditions.”

Flynn fingered the tiny chutes.

“Cindy, can you tell me more about these conditions?”

“Biopharm rice package A4-C22 has received only seventy-two percent of necessary photoautotrophic compounds.”

“Up the luminescence.”

“A4-C22 lamps are already at full power.”

“How long have they been losing nutrients?”  asked Flynn.  There was a tremor in his voice that he was certain Cindy would be able to detect.

“Reduction onset is concurrent with the occurrence of the Type-1 incident four-hundred and forty days ago.”

The numbers.  The numbers.  “Cindy, can you run an estimation contrasting the long-term wattage uptake versus the rate of deterioration of the proteins?  How much power is it going to take to give it a boost?”

“It is ill advised to reroute power in this fashion.”

“What do you mean ill-advised?”

“It would cause an unacceptable decline in survivability.”

“You’ve got a bug or something, Cindy.  How does an increase in power to the Triventa strain compromise survivability?”

“It would reduce the number of days of facility operability far below the amount necessary for the surface to return to a state of radiation that would ensure safe export of plant material.”

“But we’ve got to have Triventa,” intoned Flynn. “I’ve got to have it.”

“Preservation of Triventa strain is possible under certain circumstances.”

“What circumstances?”

“A reduction in species variation.”

“You mean get rid of one strain in order to keep this one?”

“Yes.”

““I see.”

He looked at the impossibly straight rows of shelves.  Then he looked back at the display.

“Flynn?”

“Yeah, Cindy?”

“Three thousand other strains show signs of similar distress.”

That was when Flynn Kirmse began his career as an amateur god.

TO BE CONTINUED…