A Sputtering Light Cast Forward

20260520

Written for Bradley Ramsey’s “Halls Of Pandemonium”, Day 20.

Never before had an international meet been so packed. But then, never before had they been meeting on such an important matter, one which threatened the fate of the entire world. Every country and all significant political entities were present. Ongoing hostilities had been set aside in favour of addressing the predicted cataclysm.
And Dr Okoro, the archaeologist at the centre of it all, who had spent so long deciphering alien records and convincing others of their validity, sat alone. Eyes sunken and shoulders slumped.
He, and all others cited on the submitted plans, were effusively thanked for their service to humanity. And the chair proudly announced, to thunderous applause, that the international community had agreed to enact this plan, in its entirety, to prevent the fate which befell the previous inhabitants of Earth.
In the midst of this celebration, as the first delegate stepped up to the podium to begin their prepared speech, Dr Okoro stood and rapped on his table. Gesturing for a microphone.
Though this wasn’t on the schedule, they could hardly deny the hero of the hour a chance to speak. So a roving mic was quickly directed to him.
“Enough of this farce.” Dr Okoro said, his words clipped with a cold, focused anger. “These measures are woefully inadequate. Implementing them will do nothing to-”
An outcry drowned him. It took several minutes for the chair to restore order.
Then she leant forward and fixed Dr Okoro with a piercing gaze. “What do you mean, ‘inadequate’? This is your plan we are voting to implement, is it not?”
“Yes, this is the plan that my team presented - five years ago.” It was a wonder the microphone could withstand the clenched grip of Dr Okoro’s hand. But his back was perfectly straight, his gaze steady, his words measured and crisp. “And if it had been implemented promptly, I believe it would have been effective. But it was not.”
The chair sucked in breath. Dr Okoro could already hear, painfully clear, the excuses. The difficulties. How unrealistic it was, to expect anything better than had been managed.
Had it been the same, all those millennia ago? Was that the great regret the records had spoken of, which prevented them from acting in time? It pained him to think that the cycle might truly be repeating… but in some regards it was more painful to think that the previous measures had failed due to impossibilities, while this cycle lay doomed by paperwork and committees.
Either way.
He pressed on relentlessly, refusing to give the excuses space to take root. “The first cosmic flares will hit Earth in approximately six months. Either you agree, now, to implement the full updated proposals we have repeatedly submitted, or today we accept that the records my team has been preparing to aid those who next face this dreadful cycle may be all that remains of humanity.”
This time the hubbub was deafening. Security was desperately trying to shut off or confiscate cameras. The chair had pushed her mic away and was whispering into her earpiece. More than one delegate had collapsed into tears or prayers.
And in the middle of it all Dr Okoro stood, back straight despite the weight of three billion years of history laying on his shoulders. Waiting for an opening. Waiting to be heard.
But he wasn’t going to wait forever. There wasn’t time for that.

Prompt was “Write about an archaeologist who discovers evidence of a highly advanced civilisation that lived on Earth (and possibly other planets) long before us. According to their records, a great cataclysm led to their downfall. One that comes in cycles. The bad news? The cycle is set to begin in six months…”