July 7th, 2027
Richard MacNaomhán stood upon a knoll overlooking the Svartsengi sanctuary, his calloused hands and eyes having seen more in the past year than in all his years of academia. The first rays of dawn stretched over the land, casting a golden hue on the thriving greenhouses and solar fields that dotted the landscape. In the distance, he could see Einar, now a respected and accomplished protégé, teaching a group of new arrivals how to bury conduit and rig cables back to the power station.
Nearly a square kilometer of greenhouses and solar panels lay beneath his view. And underneath it all was what felt like an endless network of conduits that he had buried himself or overseen—an intricate maze that made it all possible.
The air was thick with the news brought by these newcomers, Americans and Europeans, sharing tales of a world on the brink of devastating change. Richard and Sólveig Jóhannesdóttir, Svartsengi's political sentinel, quickly called the sanctuary's inhabitants to the meeting hall to disseminate the information. Visitors from four continents had outlined a dire global landscape:
The USA, once a beacon of prosperity, was tearing at the seams. Their strategic gamble to fortify Mexico had backfired; in a harrowing case of bad timing, Mexico had claimed large swaths of America's southern border. California, once a jewel state, was murmuring of secession, and the capital bore the scars of heinous violence and massacres of politicians.
The concern was palpable across the room, etched on every face. But within their community, they had built something resilient—an adaptability to the chaos unfurling beyond their borders.
"We are the stewards of a new way of life," Richard's voice carried over the murmurs, steadying the tides of anxiety. "Our mission extends beyond survival; we are custodians of knowledge, of hope, and significantly, of continuity."
He gestured to Einar, who came forward, the traces of boyhood now replaced by the bearing of a leader. Einar, barely twelve but mature beyond his years, smoothed his short black hair and began to recount his journey, how under Richard's guidance, he had found his purpose among solar cells and survival strategies.
"Our world endures strife and transformation," Einar told the newcomers. "Yet, amidst these upheavals, we offer sanctuary. We've trained, prepared, and grown—not just food, but a community."
Sólveig then took the floor, her vitality belying her age and captivating the crowd before she even spoke. Dressed in a flowing white gown and spotlighted for emphasis, microphone in hand, she informed the community of the ongoing diplomatic efforts to maintain Icelandic independence and the protection of the Red Zone.
"The unrest across the globe is a testament to what happens when foresight is absent," Sólveig added, her voice clear and unwavering. "Here, we have learned to anticipate, to adapt, to embrace the solace of science, and to honor the earth that sustains us."
Richard took note of her words' ability to calm the fears aflutter in the room, sharply contrasting the frenzied tales of riot and ruin shared by the newcomers. At the close of the assembly, Richard and Sólveig remained to integrate the twenty-two new arrivals, assigning tasks, explaining the sanctuary's rules, and instilling hope.
As the pallid evening light gave the sanctuary a serene aura, Richard returned to the greenhouse. The plant tendrils climbing the structural frames—their quest for light despite the shadows—mirrored their own fight for growth and strength.
Sólveig joined him, her gaze tracing the lines of plants straining towards the dusky sky. "There's much to be done," she said somberly, a clear recognition in her voice of the weight of their responsibilities.
Ignoring the intense evening chill, Richard turned, a resolved smile playing on his face. "Yes, but as you said, we're stewards. This—" He swept his arm toward the thriving ecosystem within the greenhouse walls, “—is proof that we're building something that endures."
Einar soon found them, his youthful eyes bright against the verdant backdrop. He relayed the successful integration of the newcomers, his voice eager for the tasks that awaited with the new dawn.
Standing side by side in companionable silence, the three forged a pact of shared responsibility in this oasis amidst the world's chaos; they were partners in painting this remarkable canvas of resilience and hope. As Richard stood there, his gaze lingering on the fertile results of their labor, he comprehended the vastness of their undertaking—the scarcity and strife of the past overshadowed by the rich promise of harvests to come.
The sun descended behind the towering peaks of Svartsengi, casting a tender orange hue across the multi-faceted scenery of the greenhouses. Richard meandered through the facility, delicately tapping on moisture sensors that controlled the mist system, then stepping through a bulkhead sealed by a touchpad, into a corridor carved deep into the heart of the mountain. There, he chanced upon Luka, whose just-ended shift had left traces on her demeanor, as she made her way to the mess hall. Her cap came off, and her long red hair cascaded down, signaling the shift from professional rigidity to personal relaxation.
Remembering his first night in the sanctuary, where exhaustion had quelled any thoughts of recreation, Richard now saw Luka through the eyes of familial affection—complicated by the unmistakable allure she possessed. But Luka was far more than an enticing figure in the community. She was the arbiter of their collective future, the one who decided which refugees could stay. Daily, the sanctuary's perimeter patrols would turn away boats and rafts, directing them further up the coast, away from the Red Zone. Yet some persisted and were brought before Luka at immigration processing. On some days, none would arrive; on others, the number might swell to thirty. Today had seen the remnants of a large vessel whose crew had succumbed to pirate violence, with only a handful of hostages surviving to tell their harrowing tale.
In moments like these, Luka had to weigh the sanctuary's capacity against the acute desperation of those pleading for asylum, her decisions guided as much by protocol as by her gut feelings.
Richard opened the door for her, admiring once again the tightness of the leather shorts as she passed.
"Is that the only outfit you own?" he quipped. "I don't think I've seen you in anything else. How do you handle the cold?"
"Cold?" She said with a straight face, "This is a sunny day compared to my village back in northern Sweden. I love the warm weather here." She smiled, a fine line dancing on the possibilities of fact or fiction.
Seated at the dining table, they received their modest rations—cabbage, seaweed-vine, potato, and a modest helping of sheep meat. A small serving of apple juice accompanied the meal, likely sourced from a preserved cache, as fresh fruit continued to elude their cultivation efforts. Butter, sheep's milk, and volcanic salt, however, were a comforting reminder of the resources they had managed to secure in abundance. The table had abundant amounts of each.Seated at the dining table, they received their modest rations—cabbage, seaweed, vine, potato, and a modest helping of sheep meat. A small serving of apple juice accompanied the meal, likely sourced from a preserved cache, as fresh fruit continued to elude their cultivation efforts. Butter, sheep's milk, and volcanic salt, however, were a comforting reminder of the resources they had managed to secure in abundance.
Luka segmented her potato into four, mashed it with her fork, and topped it liberally with butter and salt. Biting into it, she glanced up at Richard, the weight of her day etched into her expression.
"Evening, Richard," was her simple greeting, as she pushed a rebellious lock of hair behind her ear - a tiny act that revealed the freckles accenting her features.
"Tough day at the gates?" Richard inquired gently, reaching across the table to offer his support, his hand enveloping hers.
"The 22 you met today...they were the lucky ones out of 60. I sent the rest further along the coast to Reykjavik—let them make the tough calls. Three were denied entrance because I couldn't understand their language. Doesn't seem right that they suffer because I haven't learned their language," her voice faltered as her form seemed to shrink with the burden of her responsibilities.
Richard's hand tightened as he reassured her. "It's that very empathy that's consuming you which makes you so well-suited for this task. It may not always feel right, but you're helping maintain our sanctuary's balance. We can't take in everyone—not yet."
"It feels like a knife, at times," Luka admitted, her posture a silhouette of the day's toll. "When a family spins you the tale of their ingenious journey, escaping war zones and navigating collapsed societies to reach us... it makes me question our own criteria for acceptance."
The bright overhead LED bulbs in the mess hall, much more intense than necessary, were meant to convey a sense of stability and brightness in these dark times. However, under their glare, every line of worry prematurely aging Luka's face was laid bare.
Richard spoke with a patience borne from a deep sense of community, "The resourcefulness of those we do accept may be what helps keep us going in the long run. Those bold enough to innovate may find ways to extend our reach further, faster."
She gave a small nod, the beginnings of appreciation touching her lips. "I try to remember that. But confronted with such vast need, our help sometimes seems a trifle."
"You and what you feel are vital—the very pulse of our humanity," Richard offered, rising to help her stand. "And you're not alone in this."
Luka conceded, accepting the helping hand, and together they cleared their trays. As they stepped into the corridor, she veered awkwardly towards him, a clear indication of her need for comfort. Richard, strategically acknowledging the gesture while steering the conversation elsewhere, said, "I know what you're feeling, and I'd be lying if I said I hadn't thought about it too. But you know Dad... He wouldn't be happy. Árni, though... Refreshing and unattached, that's right up his alley. Seek him out. He'll treat you right and leave you alone afterward."
As the darkness of night settled over Svartsengi, Richard paused to take in the view. The greenhouses, a sprawling constellation, were not mere structures but the very heartbeat of their community, pulsing with promise and life. The day's tough dialogues seemed a far echo against the tranquility housed within these walls, where productivity matched the calming atmosphere.
It was Ji-Yoon's genetically modified seeds that had sparked this revolution, each coded for optimal nutrition and resilience. Now, his greenhouses thrived as an endless sea of green, a testament not only to their own survival but as a beacon of hope for others—even as far afield as the battered regions of Seoul, South Korea—their seeds a lifeline offered amidst the chaos.
Lost in thought, Richard ambled between the rows of bountiful harvest, contemplating crop rotations and the bountiful reality made possible by the integration of vertical farming. As he moved through the crowd of newcomers, assessing the skills and stories each brought to the sanctuary, a pallet of voices mingled with the rustling leaves.
Back in the community hall, where strategies were wrought for a future abundant and bright, the tables were littered with maps, calculations, and schedules—each notation a deliberate stroke towards a dream shared.
Finally alone in his quarters, Richard lay in contemplation of what had passed and what lay ahead. Sleep found him with ease, while outside, the greenhouses cradled the dreams of nearly a thousand souls—dreams nestled deep within the green and promising embrace of Svartsengi.