Page 1 of Between Earth and Eternity
“From Earth to Eden. Together.”
Mannox Industries Motto
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Earth Year: 2130
The usual fine layer of dust covers my shins and shoes as I climb the last stretch before the summit. My feet stomp the ground, kicking up clouds in their wake. Maybe it’s all in my head, but I swear my lungs have burned more than usual these past couple of runs. There’s too much nitrogen in the air as Earth steadily becomes deadly.
Ever since the newest ration protocol was invoked a few months ago, the decay of the planet seems to have quickened; not just the habitat, but also what is left of our civilization.
Breathe, Skyler.
The adrenaline pumping through my veins is the only thing keeping the panic at bay. It’s why Ihaveto run every single day. My body at rest only makes it easier for my busy mind to become dangerous. I breeze by proud spruce trees and other hardy shrubbery covering most of the mountainside, wondering how long until they too are dust like most of the planet has become.
I’ve never known a living Earth. That place only exists in tales of fiction and history, lost in time and memory. The only oceans and forests I’ve beheld have been through the filter of a digital screen or worn page.
Now, the grain of sand we call home in this universe is no longer in perfect balance with the cosmos. It has been nearly thirty years since the transformation of the planet began, and while there may be lingering signs of life, the diminishing forestry and farmland, we are losing precious time. Time that we already didn’t have. But if the “grand plan” goes as it should, we will all be evacuated before there is nothing. Earth will be void of life, but our journey into the unknown will be well underway.
Flashing propaganda for our new home has followed us wherever we’ve gone for the last seven years. “Home awaits you on Eden.”
I hate everything about the slogans. How they advertise it like a vacation destination and not a complete relocation of our kind. I assume the marketing tactic is to keep hysteria in check, and for the most part, it works. But as the days dwindle closer to the first crossing, the world holds its breath in anticipation.
Ten years ago, when the new planet was discovered on one of the hundreds of exploration missions into the unknown, I’m not sure anyone held much hope that they would actually findsomething of worth, but Mannox Industries, a multinational tech company, turned that dream into a reality.
Then there is the name. Eden. It’s poison on my tongue. A new world, untouched and without blemish, is ours for the taking, waiting to be trampled by new, undeserving inhabitants. Ironic. Has everyone forgotten that Adam and Eve were kicked out of the garden because they were no longer worthy of it? And where is God now? I’m not the only one who shares the sentiment, but the majority view the discovery of Eden as the universe granting us a second chance. “A gift.” Another phrase that makes me borderline postal.
I choose to believe that the universe placed us on Earth for a reason, and now the universe is blatantly informing us that it is the end of our time. It may be comforting to some to see images of what awaits us somewhere out there in the sea of stars: tropical forests, evergreen mountains, indigo seas, and freshwater lakes. For me, it’s a carrot being dangled, and I just know the moment I reach out to touch it, the moment I really believe, it will be ripped away. Still, even I can admit it is nothing short of a miracle that a place that perfect exists, let alone was discovered, but I’m not fully convinced I will step onto the surface of another world; that would mean I was still alive by the time my name was drawn.
The Lottery, the great equalizer. If your name is selected, you win a one-way ticket to Eden. The first crossing is mere weeks away, and the heightened anticipation to board Zenith, the one and only luxury ship that can ferry us through the stars, is no longer a farfetched dream but a reality. Only twenty spots remain for the first go-around. To say I’m not holding my breath is an understatement. Chances will get better with each crossing, but when will it happen? The 10th crossing? 30th? I try not to dwell on it, but my mind paints the picture of a line stretching out into the horizon with no end in sight, so many of us leftbehind to hope for the best and prepare for the worst. But a more terrifying prospect than not reaching the end of the long list of souls is being chosen.
I am perhaps one of the few left on Earth who is frightened by the idea of being propelled into darkness. My best friend, Elliot, has chalked it up to watching way too many space movies with the plot of everyone dying one way or another. The ship explodes. They all end up floating out into the unknown. They are eaten by a nightmarish alien creature. Somethingalwaysgoes wrong. He likes to remind me that space travel has been proven safe and has been going on smoothly for many years. “All the kinks have been worked out,” as he always says. He’s not wrong. Many gave up their lives to search for this new world and to work out “the kinks” of space travel, but as twisted as my mind may be from fictional stories, I would rather meet my end on a dying world—grounded on something, even if it’s dust—than in the alternative of the deep, dark cold that is outer space.
My fears are my own; I would never wish terror on another. I admire those with hope so bright that it seems to burn the notion of fear away. The only hope I inhabit is that everyone will get what they want, especially the good ones like my family, like Elliot. If only goodness was taken into account when deciding who gets to evacuate and when, but if you are not rich enough or smart enough, you are not worth it.
And who is the person measuring our worth? If there is indeed a god to judge us all, his name is Alister Mannox. He will decide who lives and who dies, pulling the strings of our existence. Perhaps that is the true meaning of power, when a person can decide the fate of a human life.
Mannox Industries doesn’t just own the ship that will take us off world, they owneverything. The large M and X insignia has been branded on any surface available; we might as well have it tattooed on our bodies. Mannox not only owns everything buttracks everything as well. How long we work, where we go, and the provisions we stock up on. I highly doubt anyone in the Mannox family or those they associate with take precautions like we are forced to.
My thighs burn as they power me through the last few yards to the top of the hill, surrounded by mountains and overlooking the basin of what used to be Salt Lake Valley. Now, we refer to the entire area as Wasatch. An industrial cityscape takes up most of the valley, spires of skyscrapers reaching toward the sky, and it eventually spills into rows of thousands of housing pods that appear as bubbles dotting the landscape with their dome structures. After that, miles upon miles stretch between the other remaining settlements of Earth. There aren’t many, but all are under the protective umbrella of Mannox Industries.
People began to migrate inland after the flooding and destruction subsided, but not all conformed to this new way of life. Some didn’t love the idea of living under the “protection” of Mannox Industries; much of the remaining farmland is guarded, but the edge of settlements tend to have higher reports of suspicious and criminal activity.
The lingering dust in the air turns the sunrise into a show of vivid pinks and oranges, the rays bouncing off the glass of the city’s buildings. A sight that is so fleeting, I’ve timed my morning runs to reach this spot at the perfect moment so I can fully enjoy it at its peak. I pause the mix of indie songs from the early 2000s on my battered mobile device. A view like this doesn’t need a distraction.
The device hardly works. The camera broke years ago, but a new one would come at an astronomical cost, and I try to limit my support of Mannox Industries if I can help it. As long as it can still play my music, that’s all I care about.
I lift the brim of my San Francisco Giants baseball cap slightly higher on my forehead. A thick blanket of dust kicks up witha strong breeze, causing me to adjust the bandana covering my mouth and nose.
The scene stretched out before me always sparks the memory of a picture of my parents standing side by side in a spot similar to this one, but behind them is a glittering ocean and green hills, The Golden Gate Bridge standing proud and shiny. They were probably around my age when the photo was taken, my dad wearing the same hat I adorn now. I can never shake off the chill as I imagine the Gate no longer there, washed away with other structures, plus homes and . . . people.
My phone beeps at me, pulling me from my thoughts. I need to head back if I’m going to make it to work on time. I stretch my muscles while they’re still warm, feeling the sweat on my back starting to cool. The downhill route home is always quicker.
My family lives in one of the last foundational neighborhoods on the edge of the city. The surrounding homes are similar to ours, established dwellings in the hills, nothing like the temporary housing pods that expand for miles and miles in every direction from the city center. I slow my jog to a walk as I approach our modest two-story brick townhouse with tall forward-facing windows and a large porch. The townhome has been in my family for almost three generations. It’s where my dad grew up before he left Utah to go to school in California and met my mother.
Our home has been upgraded with the newest technology, most updates done before Earth’s sundering, and along with my father’s line of work, it has kept us comfortable. It’s the perfect blend of warmth with modern touches. I place my thumb on the scanner near the large wooden front door, and the quick, high-pitcheddingsounds before the door clicks to unlock. I go through my sequence of shaking off as much dust from my body as possible before stripping off my shoes, jacket, bandana, and hat in the foyer and stepping into our cozy home. The door softlylatches closed behind me just as I hear the soft hum of the TV in Gran’s room. The kitchen and living room are empty, but I smell fresh coffee, which means Dad is up and about.
It’s just the four of us. My parents, my grandmother, and me. It’s always been the four of us for as long as I can remember. We don’t talk much about my grandfather’s passing. It’s not an insult to his memory by any means, more of a reverence, because the day he died was the same day millions of other people died too. I always take an extra second to pause by his photo hanging next to the stairs; his honey-brown eyes that he passed down to my dad and now to me, stare back out of the frame.
