text: It was June 18th, 2045, when Earth’s top scientists at the ISS noticed something unusual, a blip that would one day prove detrimental to the survival of the human race. So when the top brass of the ISS got on the phone with the top brass of the United Nations, everyone knew what was at stake. One question still haunted the High Commissar for the United Earth and First Nations Theodore Milton, one which he posed almost immediately to the unlucky bastard who had to be the one to inform him of the impending crisis. “How the hell is one supposed to fix a fucking star?” Commissar Milton then lamented that on today of all days, on the fifth anniversary of Peace Between Hemispheres, this would happen. This is when some no-name undersecretary informed him that there was no time to waste. For what a dozen phone calls in search of a straight answer would soon reveal, Earth had, in fact, little time, one year to be exact. On the sixth anniversary of Peace Between Hemispheres, undulating waves of cosmic energy would obliterate humanity as we know it. And all of this was because a nearby star one day decided to die. The timing of all this felt personal to Commissar Milton. There was the Peace Between Hemispheres Week of Celebration to consider and the North Eastern Quadrant’s biannual meeting. There was the continued rooting out of the radical terrorist group known as The Rescue that had taken hold in the South. Three civil wars were happening on three different continents simultaneously, and a worldwide shortage of silicon was ruining the global supply chain. If there was ever one attribute that was crucial to the continued success of the High Commissar for the United Earth and First Nations and by extension, all of humanity, it was finesse. Everything must be carefully managed. One wrong move or unforeseen consequence, and the whole thing falls apart. Global geopolitics was only ever one slight breeze away from total disaster, nothing more than a house of cards held together with pure will. To say Commissar Milton didn’t get much sleep the following night would be an understatement. The scientists had affectionately named the star, Bright Eyes, which the Commissar didn’t love. Consumed by the world’s imminent demise, he ordered every leader on the “goddamn, piece-of-shit, about-to-be-blown-up” planet in his office by the end of the week. His troupe of undersecretaries knew the enormity of that task would be tough. If anything could grind the world’s government to a halt, it was rearranging a schedule, but they figured that upon learning of the end, the news could put a pep in a lot of prime ministers’ step. Come Friday, the undersecretaries, disheveled, bleary-eyed, and sleep-deprived, had succeeded in rearranging one hundred and eighty three of the one hundred and ninety five leaders’ schedules, corralling them into a large conference hall leased from a real estate company down the street from the United Nations headquarters. When Commissar Milton asked where the other dozen “fucknuts” that couldn’t be bothered to show up were, Undersecretary Riguald simply shrugged, and Undersecretary Williams merely said they were fishing. Surveying the audience one more time, Commissar Milton decided that this would have to do. He made his way to the podium set facing the audience, called for quiet, and jumped straight in. “The world will end in one year,” he said. “I’ve gathered you here as the world’s leaders to find a solution. I want to hear ideas. Nothing is off the table.” To his dismay, many of the politicians were on their phones. Some had formed groups. Others were yelling or murmuring amongst themselves. Some were bellowing as if giving a speech, and others were whispering to what seemed like no one in particular. To say this room inspired confidence would be a lie, and Commissar Milton knew it. It was at this moment that the Commissar mustered all the strength he could, sucked in all the air his lungs could hold, and brought his fist down on the top of the podium in front of him, calling for quiet at the top of his lungs. Remarkably, silence overcame the gathered crowd. The Commissar made one last plea, deciding to change his tac. “The first country to bring me a workable solution in two weeks will get a super special top-secret prize that will be given out next year at the sixth anniversary of Peace Between Hemispheres celebration. That country’s leader will be singled out by name and given the highest honor the world can bestow.” Excitement filled the air as the world’s leaders jumped into action. The Prime Minister of Belarus promised he had a guy that could create a supernova-proof glass dome that would encase the Earth. The Chairman of the St. Marshall Islands drew up plans immediately for a giant mirror that could reflect the energy waves out of the way. Even the Supreme Leader of North Korea got in on the fun, swearing he could build a rocket that could push Earth out of the way. Commissar Milton had low expectations, even directing his troupe of trusty undersecretaries to develop plans B through Z to save the world. Still, he figured the leaders’ excitement was progress, and undoubtedly one out of the almost two hundred politicians at the meeting could come up with something workable. With each passing day, the undersecretaries did worry about the health of the Commissar. They knew the enormity of leading Earth away from destruction had to be taking some kind of toll. \ Two weeks turned into six months with very little to show for it. Getting a flock of politicians to agree on anything was already a challenge, but uniting them under a project that required unprecedented cooperation, seriousness, and resources turned out to be nigh impossible. What became known as Project Blue Dot began in good faith but quickly devolved into nasty spats over who should be required to pay for the project and how credit for the project should be distributed amongst the participating nations. Developing nations expected wealthy ones to front most of the cost while rich ones questioned why they were spending so much money to help other countries’ citizens in the first place. All the grudges long-buried boiled to the surface as the initial breaking of ground on the plan to save humanity stumbled. At six months, with delay after delay and budget cut after budget cut, the Commissar decided to shelve the project in its entirety, allowing all the countries to go their separate ways, off to figure out their own solutions to the world’s impending doom. The Commissar had sent flowers to leaders’ wives; listened steadfastly at dinner after dinner to complaints, demands, questions, and concerns. He had gotten an endless stream of nieces and nephews jobs at every government agency imaginable, helped quell certain coups, helped initiate certain others, had done it all and then some, and all that was left was a pile of countries with worse off relations then when he had started. He immediately called in his undersecretaries to go over the backup plans he had tasked them to come up with in case he found himself in this very situation. The undersecretaries moseyed into the Commissar’s office one by one, shuffling their feet and saying nothing. The truth was that all of the backup plans suffered from the same flaw that had tanked the initial effort. Any strategy to save humanity required unprecedented levels of cooperation, something that humankind seemed unwilling to muster given a large enough scale. So Commissar Milton, now at a loss, did what anyone else in his situation would do. He drank heavily. It was the first time he had drank in a long time. It felt good. He started stashing handles in his desk and around the United Nations compound. His undersecretaries were sworn to secrecy concerning his budding alcoholism, for drinking had become a semi-regular habit for the Commissar, a ritual of sorts calling out to the universe, all in the hope that if Theodore Milton went through the motions enough, then, one day, the universe would show him the way. Bright Eyes was now identifiable during the day. The Commissar had instructed the scientists to make some excuse as to what exactly was giving the sun a run for its money. Meanwhile, the Commissar finding himself as he regularly did, a few tallboys deep on a Tuesday night, suddenly had the great urge to disappear. He wondered if he could pull it off, if anyone would miss him, if things would go on as they always have, if this was his destiny. After draining a beer, the Commissar cut a small incision in its aluminum side. It was something he started in high school for some weird reason and kept up, his singular exciting trait. Commissar Milton blinked, and one empty can had turned into six. How had he come this far, climbed the highest ranks of international government, and stayed sober? This was a serious question for the Commissar, one he’d never considered until now. As people generally do, the Commissar drank a bit in college and then gave it up like most adults. After graduation, he stayed sober, did well in government, was unassuming, steadily climbed the ranks, and reached as high as he could go in the public arena. Commissar Milton phoned his assistant, asking her to remind him where the whiskey bottle some random prime ministers’ wife had given him at last year’s United Nations Solstice Celebration was stashed. In a box in the cupboard, the assistant dutifully reminded him. Commissar Milton made his way to the veranda, poured himself a few fingers worth of liquid gold, and lit up. He couldn’t tell if he was happy or sad that humanity’s last days would be brought to an end by a bright light in the sky. The phone was the first thing Commissar noticed as he awoke. The sun was just peaking over the horizon. The phone rang again, the noise piercing a hole in Commissar Milton’s pickled mind. He fumbled for the it for a minute, willing himself to answer. “What,” he said gruffly. “Uhh, sir,” an undersecretary on the other end said, “I have Professor Laura Donagen on the line for you.” The Commissar rubbed his temples, the pain throbbing harder than ever. “Who,” he growled. “Uhh, Professor Laura Donagen? She says she’s a scientist and can help.” It took the Commissar a moment to realize what the undersecretary was saying. “Put her through.” The Commissar waved over an aide to clean up the remnants of last night, including the half-empty bottle of whiskey and an array of cigarette buts that littered the floor beneath him. His wife would be home soon, and the only thing he hated more than conflict were questions. He was of the belief that questions were a direct attack on one’s capabilities. Good leaders weren’t asked silly questions like where were you all night or why do you look like death, or when was the last time you interacted with your kids. The Commissar didn’t hear the first hello from Mrs. Domner. It was only after a few minutes that he realized she was on the other line, politely waiting for him to finish up whatever it was he was doing. Knowing this, the Commissar dove right into the meat of the business to end this call as soon as possible. “Professor Donagen, I’m told you have a solution to this whole end of the world business.” After a bit of back and forth, the grand idea involved personal energy domes handed out to every adult on Earth. The point of these domes was for a human to sit inside them, protecting them from a supernova’s dangerous gamma waves. The domes were completely transparent with a hinge at the top that held it all together and functioned as a door to fit an adult and small child inside snugly. The transparent material was flexible, almost more like a see-through sleeping bag than a hard surface. Having already developed a workable prototype, Professor Donagen and the undersecretary assured him that this solution was vetted by several reputable organizations and individuals worldwide, thoroughly tested in the Hades Supernova Lab in Berlin and that the best part was that this solution wouldn’t require buy-in from countries and governments. It could be mass-produced. Additionally, these energy domes were cheap to produce, making the cost of providing one for everyone on Earth surprisingly affordable and a relatively quick process. The Commissar did wonder how effective these energy domes could be. At best, they sounded like one of those sketchy products people sell with infomercials on late-night TV. It didn’t take long, though, for the Commissar to agree to the plan. While he didn’t fully understand all the intricacies, the world was four months away from the end. Being picky wasn’t helping anyone. \ Two weeks away from the supernova, eighty percent of the world’s population had been given an energy dome. Governments were all too happy to help and chip in money. It was a solution that required very little of them, and they could still look like they were supportive. Professor Donagen dove straight into the project, distributing the prototype across the world for companies to mass-produce. Each energy dome came with detailed instructions. Precisely fifteen minutes before the scheduled time that the energy from the supernova is expected to reach Earth, one must undo the flap of the energy dome and slide it around your body. At five minutes, close the flap and seal yourself inside. Each dome comes equipped with a specialized filter that could scrub the air and allow oxygen to flow freely into the dome without contamination. Additionally, the Commissar gave a pivotal speech, officially announcing the world’s imminent demise to the public. After employing a few thousand well-paid influencers to hawk the product, almost complete buy-in was assured. The polls didn’t lie. Commissar Milton saw his highest approvals a week before the end, the highest of his career. The media had played ball surprisingly well too, opting not to tear the solution to shreds. TV hosts promoted the pros of energy domes and brought in expert after expert to bolster the public’s confidence. Any little bit of dissent was written off as harmful, unneeded, and anti-human. Professor Donagen and Commissar Milton talked regularly, often multiple times a day. The truth was that for a dyed-in-the-wool scientist, Professor Donagen made for a remarkable business leader. Ramping up production to a global scale in two months, repurposing old factories, recycled material, unemployed workers, and the world’s expertise to accomplish what some in the media were saying was a miracle. On June 16th, 2046, two days before the supernova everything was in place. Energy domes had been distributed to every human on Earth. The Commissar still wasn’t sure what to make of Professor Donagen. She had grown up in relative poverty, just like all the other towering figures of history. She was the first in her family to go to college, studying a dual major in molecular physics and bioengineering. She worked at Star Orbit for five years out of college, designing durable structures and component parts for use in space travel. From there, she moved to the Hades Supernova Lab in Germany, where she worked with a team that studied the effects of extremely high levels of Gamma waves on various compounds. Before she was plucked out of obscurity by Commissar Milton to save the world, she was working for the government of Northern Brazil, having embedded herself deep in the ruins of the Amazon rainforest studying the effects and durability of various rare plants and minerals. The Commissar sat at his beautiful oak dining room table considering a plate of medium-rare steak along with a pile of potatoes and greens, a last meal of sorts set before him. His head was in hyperdrive, filing through all the checks and balances, making sure everything was in order. His home was dark. He had told his security to go home and be with their families, figuring even his enemies wouldn’t try anything tonight. His wife had left weeks ago and took the kids, saying that if the world was going to end she “sure as hell didn’t want to spend her last days with you!” He looked down again at the meal before him. The Commissar had specially requested it. Nowadays, meat from an actual cow was a rarity. Most food came from labs. There wasn’t enough room for cow pastures anymore. In fact as the population ballooned with each passing decade, there wasn’t room for much of anything anymore. Even seeing a squirrel outside a zoo was a rare event these days. If the Commissar could will the food into his mouth, he would, but something was stopping him, a nagging feeling that he had missed something. He had debriefed with Professor Donagen that morning. Everything was in order. At least ninety percent of the world’s population would be saved from this disaster. Contingency plans were put in place to deal with changes in the environment. Rarely was the Commissar amazed, but these last few months had succeeded in rendering him in awe. The whole of humanity came together. We would know in less than a day whether or not all this had worked. His heart was like a drum. The meal still sat untouched before him. The Commissar got up and poured himself a generous amount of whiskey. On his veranda once again, the energy dome unpacked and ready, High Commissar Milton thought about his father. He wondered what he’d be thinking at this moment. Would he be disappointed in him? Would he be proud? Commissar Milton wondered why everything he and Professor Donagen had achieved in the last few weeks had come together so smoothly. A small part of him was thought about tomorrow morning, minutes before Bright Eyes explodes, him getting into his energy pyramid, sealing it tight with a glass of whiskey in hand, closing his eyes, taking a drink, and feeling the effects of enormous amounts of gamma waves turning his body into dust. The worry sat heavy, like a thick black goo, lodged on to the back of his skull, his head spinning a yarn about a world-renowned scientist pitching an idea to a desperate politician; about a woman who had already, long ago, developed a distaste for humanity, born from a mind that thought too much, that questioned too much and was left wanting; a darling scientist becoming possessed many years ago by an intriguing thought: Do humans deserve to live? Every day that question burrowed a bit further into the scientists’ mind like the paranoia worm now eating away at the Commissar’s, nagging, changing, altering the course of a destiny neither one could ever imagine, one that would lead Commissar Milton into the highest ranks of power and the Scientist to an underground group called The Rescue. And like any good villain calling out into the unknown, one day, the universe answered back, telling this renowned scientist that it would set the ultimate cosmic bomb if she could convince the world that it was a dud. The Commissar stared at the wood-paneled ceiling fan that sat above his bed. It turned lazily, pushed by the faint breeze from a nearby open window. He was better than this, he thought. Worry was natural. Tomorrow will be fine. Humanity will be fine. I’ll be fine. Looking out, the Commissar noticed the haze that had settled in. Bright Eyes had turned the entire sky a misty white. The Commissar headed to bed, deciding to turn in early, opting to get as much sleep as he could before the big day.