Genesis
Eve sits in the garden and thinks about the future.
It’s a lot of responsibility, and she doesn’t know if she’s up to it. But, well, it’s not like there’s anyone else around here to do it.
She looks around at the greenery, runs her fingers through the grass by her feet. The few wild flowers spotted among the weeds are made all the more beautiful by their isolation.
There’s literally no one else. It’s just her, and him, and the garden.
She wishes he understood how she feels. He doesn’t have to go through what she does, he’s got the easiest end of the deal by a mile. A country mile. More than that; light years.
But there’s no one else.
She gets up and walks to the edge of the clearing, starts to make her way through the woods.
What happens if she says no? What happens if she defies the plan, says no, this stops here, we go no further. This is the end of the human race.
Will we be all the more beautiful for our isolation?
Or is it better to keep going, to overrun the universe like weeds?
She’s coming to the end of the woods now, she is nearing the edge of the garden. She can see the dark beyond. She starts to run.
She wishes she could keep running, out of the garden and away from this oppressive future. But she comes to the edge and stops. She has to. The glass is six feet thick. Beyond it, the stars move slowly by. They seem so calm, but she knows the fact that they are moving at all means their vessel is moving impossibly fast. She puts her hand on the glass and wishes she could be out there somehow.
And then she turns, and walks back through the garden to the bridge of the ship.
David Wynne
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