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The Harvard Compendium

Stone Age Awaits

By Alice Donenfeld-VernouxPublished 3 years ago 10 min read
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The Harvard Compendium

The Arrival

“Temperature at 110 degrees Celsius. Looks like the waters are rising at 3cm an hour.”

“Don’t worry, it will take five days for the runways to be underwater at that rate.”

“Are we expecting anyone soon?” 2nd asked.

“Depends. Delhi had tornados incoming, also Madrid and Anchorage. Another surge was about to hit what’s left of New Orleans, but New York, Paris and Senegal were all clear . . . for the moment. Something’s coming into sight now. See if you can raise him on approach one.”

2nd spoke into her mike, “Reykjavik Approach, unidentified aircraft approaching from the south, please identify.”

No response from any bandwidth.

“I’ll try old school and see if we get a response.” Control remembered enough Morse code to send out “Identify, identify, identify” by tapping the mute switch.

The halting response came. “Georgia here. Tornados took out local airports and planes. Prop plane museum, crop duster only available. Georgia USA, not Russia. Dr. Richardson to meeting. Advise landing. Low fuel.”

Holy shit! Richardson was on the list. Professor, Georgia State University. A crop duster? How the fuck had he even made it this far?

Control shook the hand of a tiny, white haired woman in a flight suit. “It’s okay, sonny, you can hug me. I could really use it about now.”

Control stared at the aircraft. It was at least a decade or two older than the woman and he figured she might be pushing ninety. “You flew this in by yourself?”

“You bet’cha. My granddaddy had one of these in his barn and taught me.”

“How did you get fuel?”

“Stopped at gas stations on the way.”

“What navigation equipment does this buggy have?”

“Navigation? Hah!” A small compass appeared in her hand.

Control almost fainted. A fucking compass!

“Sometimes the old ways work when nothing else will. I need to get to the Compendium, and where is the rest room?” She reached into the opening of her flight suit to rub the small gold heart on a chain.

“Don’t worry, one of us will drive you when you are ready.”

An hour later, Dr. Richardson had showered, eaten and changed into a dark grey pinstriped suit, white shirt with colorful silk scarf draped casually over her shoulders. Standing in front of the washroom mirror, an elderly face replete with wrinkles, sunspots and tired eyes looked back. My heavens, I’ve lasted a lot longer than I ever dreamed possible. She touched the gold heart, her husband’s last gift to her, and left.

The Reykjavik Plaza occupied the loftiest spot in the city. High temperatures melted the permafrost, and seas were rising. Every city on Earth was in jeopardy from climate change, one major global worry. Wars raged on every continent except Australia, which was burning as wildfires raged to spark blazes in the cities, ranches, farms and villages. The globe offered no safety.

The Harvard Compendium was the name for a symposium of world leaders in diverse fields: politics, education, religion, culture, STEM, geology, ethics, the arts, literature, archeology, language, communications, and philosophy. The U.N. catered only to world leaders, politics and tensions curtailed most actions or plans.

The Compendium gathered the brilliant hoping solutions might arise from open minds, without political points of view — a response to a sixty-four trillion-dollar question: what was killing humanity faster—other people or Earth’s revenge for its desecration by humans?

A familiar face came into sight. Alexi Portanova, a poet and a political activist of Mexican-Russian descent. After a greeting and a hug, she led him away from the crowd.

“Were you able to get everything done?” She asked.

“Don’t worry. Only minor details had to be worked out.”

Dr. Richardson sighed. “I’m not sure we are in time. The melt may have proceeded too far already.”

“We have to hope everyone shows up.”

“POTUS will show up. If only for his own selfish reasons.”

“What of the Russians or the North Korean. If Turkey . . . no problem, but the other two…?” Alexi frowned. She shrugged.

Parting, he bent and kissed her on both cheeks. “See you in the morning.”

The Russian plane appeared first on the Airport Tower screen, the American plane behind. Protocol had the Russian land first, but the American pilot sounded frantic, a man was shouting and swearing in the background while the pilot attempted to get instructions.

Control took a deep breath. It was the American president — in person. His first inclination was to send the plane into the nearest mountain and rid the world of the horror.

“Control to US One. You will land first.

“Roger as requested.” The pilot clicked off.

Once US One was safely on the ground, he brought in Russia.

He picked up a cell phone hidden under his desk and checked his watch. Alexi would be relieved to know who finally arrived.

The Next Morning

Seats were assigned alphabetically by country to avoid jockeying for better positions. The American president complained about being stuck in the back with the other ‘shithole U’s’, Uganda, Uruguay, United Arab Emirates. He only took his seat after a huge leather recliner arrived. His coterie of black suited white men with shaved heads carried AR-15s, which were immediately confiscated by Compendium security. A small rectangle was cordoned off to protect POTUS’ space.

The United States was a prison to three quarters of its population, held captive by a ravaged electoral system. In the eyes of the world, the USA was a pariah country, causing discussion over whether to invite its participation.

“I’m not going to sit here and listen to this crap. Tell me when my friends Sergi, Burak or Kim Yun will speak.” The American President arose to leave.

“Sorry, Mr. President, our orders are no one leaves until this meeting is over,” Compendium Security advised him.

His 430 pound six-foot six-inch frame, arms extended, kept going, bowling over security.

The President’s face turned purple, he suddenly stopped, became quiet, turned, and quietly walked back to his seat. An onlooker said he saw a security guards push a gun to POTUS’ back.

The Symposium

Scientists discussed global warming. Since Venice, most of Hawaii, Miami Beach, Malibu, Malta, Japan, and Thailand beaches had been evacuated, it was hard to disprove the effects. Dykes or pump were discussed, little about how to stop further damage.

Religious wars and immigration were next. In the United States, Europe, North and South America, Australia and New Zealand the Evangelicals and White Supremacists were wiping out Jews, Muslims, and Catholics with Temple, mosque, and church bombings weekly perpetrated by young white men chanting “Go Home.” Troops were still in Syria and in Afghanistan fighting the Taliban.

Thirty-seven speakers took turns at the microphone: scientists, poets, philosophers, futurists, writers, geologists, biologists, climatologists and more. The American president refused to speak.

Dr. Richardson stepped up on the podium on day three. “So far, no one has spoken of empathy, civility or ethics, the essence of comitatus between ruler and ruled.

“If you peel us like a fruit, we are all the same color underneath. A white man can use the gift of a kidney from a black man, and vice versa.

“We all have a common ancestor, DNA with tiny differences mutated over the eons. We all started out the same color. Your DNA is the same as mine. If you are hating someone, then you are hating your relatives.

“This is the lesson we need to teach to our children: be civil to all humanity because we are one family.

“We are one, it’s time to begin to act like a family.”

A chant arose in some areas. “We are one, we are one, we are one!” Other areas remained silent. She made mental note of the silent areas. Later, Alexi would confirm the residents of those sections.

When the chant subsided, a small girl with blonde curls, grey eyes and soft café au lait color skin took the podium.

“Hello everyone. My name is Waylala. My mother is black African and my father is white American. I am eleven years old, proud to be a member of our tribe: humanity.

“I was invited here today to represent the children of the world. We worry about our future. We will inherit wars, genocide, and starvation we can't end. Terrible deadly weather events over which we have no control, water we can't drink, floods we can't stem, fires we can't put out. Your generations have destroyed the balance of life on this planet and will leave your mess to us to fix. But how can we fix a house filled with people who hate one another?

“So, I have a request to make of you before I leave. Look at your neighbors, the people sitting next to you. Could you please give those on either side a nice hug and say to them ‘have a great day, brother or sister’. I don't think it will harm anyone; it might even make your day better.”

Waylala looked over the audience. “Now didn’t that feel good?” Loud applause. “Thank you all for your time,” she said as she stepped down from the podium.

Wrap-Up

Dr. Richardson stood at the podium again. “Thank you all for attending. The organizers and I would like to have your reactions and opinions on the value of this symposium. It will later be distributed to you in the form of a Compendium. You will find a tablet on your desk. Turn it on and a screen will appear. It contains a box to leave your comments and suggestions for a better future and topics for the next symposium. On the next screen are two boxes. One is ‘yes’ the other is ‘no’. If are going to try and lead your country into the future working toward climate change, less war, less religious tensions, humanitarian changes and equal rights for all citizens, push ‘yes.’ If you don’t agree, push ‘no.’

“Please vote now, so you can have the results before you leave.”

Alexi helped her down.

Dr. Richardson stood by Alexi quietly watching.

When the voters pushed the ‘no’ button, 10 mill Amps entered their bodies four seconds. Their hearts stopped immediately. Silent, and effective. Demagogues and tyrants—gone.

Alexi motioned to security. “Okay guys, you can clean up. A cargo plane is waiting.”

Dr. Richardson accepted her role — anti-hero. The nemesis who always went over the line. The contemplation of dying with such guilt on her conscience — unimaginable. The end—salvation for the planet and every living being within it. The means— questionable. Was it justified? She didn't know.

Alexi interrupted her thoughts. “I'm worried about fallout over their disappearance.”

“A piece of cake. It cost only a few billion to convince several Christian leaders the Rapture had taken them all at God's command. New leaders were chosen and financed to step up, take over with more liberal agendas and a heightened sense of civic responsibility.”

“What about the governments already in place? Alexi asked.

“War crimes will be attributed to the missing and forgotten. Investigations, if begun, drag on and flow over to families and supporters. They can open Pandora's box, few will choose that route.

Alexi nodded. “I hope the new leaders will undo the wrongs, not waste time mourning the departed.”

“I can't imagine anyone concerned about disappearing tyrants and demagogues. Now I must hitch a ride home. I'm leaving the antique plane to the city of Reykjavik, a symbol of progress.”

Alexi gave her a hug. “I’m sure people will think it an honor to bring you home.”

“Don't be so sure. The world must heal. Humanity must straighten itself out . . . or repeat the Stone Age. I wish them the best of luck. Me, I'm going home to my farm, my cats, dogs and a few sheep.” She turned, rubbed the small golden heart and walked away.

(1995 words including title and sub-titles)

Sci Fi
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About the Creator

Alice Donenfeld-Vernoux

Alice Donenfeld, entertainment attorney, TV producer, international TV distributor, former VP Marvel Comics & Executive VP of Filmation Studios. Now retired, three published novels on Amazon, and runs Baja Wordsmiths creative writing group.

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