From award-winning author Jeremy Clift comes a bold new entry in the Sci-Fi Galaxy seriesâa visionary tale of humanity on the brink and the future of life itself.
Exploring the ethics of DNA manipulation, the politics of AI-controlled ecosystems, and the meaning of identity in an age when memory, consciousness, and biology can all be commodified, the novel is set in a future of ecological decline and interstellar ambition as competing forces battle over humankindâs last viable seed vault concealed beneath the lunar surface.
As Earthâs food systems come under stress, control of the genetic blueprints for survival becomes the ultimate currency. But the vaultâs value goes beyond cropsâit hides secrets about human genetic engineering, buried experiments, and the next phase of evolution.
At the heart of the novel is Teagan Ward, a mother on the run from powerful corporations who see her genetically enhanced daughter not as a child, but a biological asset. Caught between rogue AIs, alien factions, and biotech conglomerates, Teagan must outmaneuver those who would rewrite humanity's genetic future.
Space Vault is a thought-provoking sci-fi thriller about who owns life, what makes us human, and how far weâll go to protect the next generation.
From award-winning author Jeremy Clift comes a bold new entry in the Sci-Fi Galaxy seriesâa visionary tale of humanity on the brink and the future of life itself.
Exploring the ethics of DNA manipulation, the politics of AI-controlled ecosystems, and the meaning of identity in an age when memory, consciousness, and biology can all be commodified, the novel is set in a future of ecological decline and interstellar ambition as competing forces battle over humankindâs last viable seed vault concealed beneath the lunar surface.
As Earthâs food systems come under stress, control of the genetic blueprints for survival becomes the ultimate currency. But the vaultâs value goes beyond cropsâit hides secrets about human genetic engineering, buried experiments, and the next phase of evolution.
At the heart of the novel is Teagan Ward, a mother on the run from powerful corporations who see her genetically enhanced daughter not as a child, but a biological asset. Caught between rogue AIs, alien factions, and biotech conglomerates, Teagan must outmaneuver those who would rewrite humanity's genetic future.
Space Vault is a thought-provoking sci-fi thriller about who owns life, what makes us human, and how far weâll go to protect the next generation.
Lagos, Nigeria, April 4, 2102
Banjo Ade wore the forlorn expression of a man who knew his fate was sealed, his large frame shivering slightly under a loose-fitting, intricately embroidered traditional Nigerian agbada that draped over him and gave him the appearance of a colorful, walking tent. The vibrant fabric billowed around his ungainly body, as he shifted nervously from foot to foot, his wide eyes darting towards the approaching protesters. Beads of sweat glistened on his forehead, catching the light and betraying his inner turmoil, his vibrant attire doing little to armor him against the apprehension he felt inside. The protesters were a ragtag army of destitute farmers and displaced rural laborers, their crinkled sweat-stained garments and tired faces bearing the marks of a wearying journey as they dismounted haphazardly from a convoy of yellow and blue buses and battered trucks that had snaked its way across the bridges to Victoria Island, the upmarket commercial district of Lagos â the largest city on the African continent.
After clambering down, their legs stiff from the long ride, the protesters began to raise their voices, their chants and shouts drifted through the air, along with the occasional honking of passing cars and the distant sounds of construction. The odor of discarded food left out overnight and sidewalk feces mixed with the scent of the early morning ocean air.
The convening crowdââa chaotic but determined sea of disgruntled individuals united in their discontentââwas a mismatched patchwork of restrained fury and frustration. Many protesters carried farming tools, the wooden handles rough and splintered in their calloused hands. The pavement beneath their feet was cracked and uneven as the column meandered slowly along. Their weathered faces and worn clothes stood in contrast to the stylish nightclubs, affluent bars, and high-end boutiques and businesses that surrounded them.
Their target was a white, German-built concrete-and-glass building that housed the local headquarters of West Africaâs main seed distribution company. As they approached, the edifice loomed over them, a symbol of wealth and power that seemed worlds away from their current struggles.
Nearby residents, attracted by the noise, watched as the seething crowd marched down Akin Adesola St before turning right toward the diplomatic quarter. A gentle breeze wafted from the lagoon as hover droids and securitybots armed with tasers and teargas lined up outside what locals called the NIPAH complex.
NIPAH was short for The Network for Indigenous Plants, Agriculture, and Horticulture. Although the company sounded like it was a network of cooperative farmers, NIPAHâs ownership structure was shrouded in secrecy; rumor had it that top people in government and powerful oligarchs owned the monopoly distributor.
Banjo tried to read some of the protestersâ signs illuminated by the early morning light: "Nature, Not NIPAH, Knows Best!"; "We Reject Foreign Seeds! Support Local Agriculture!"; "Farmersâ Rights Over Profit/Greed!"; and "Our Land, Our Crops, Our Choice!".
For about three decades, NIPAH had been Africaâs sole distributor of agricultural seeds marketed by the Global Seed Company Inc. (a vast conglomerate better known as GLOSCOM, based in Des Moines, Iowa). NIPAHâs headquarters was in Nairobi, Kenya, but it had outlets across the region, including a large warehouse and administrative complex in Dar es Salaam, Tanzania, a port city on the Indian Ocean.
Farmers across the region relied on NIPAH for their seeds, but they were becoming increasingly disgruntled by repeated crop failures. Many farmers blamed genetically modified seeds that were effectively single-use and would not propagate. And now they were outside NIPAHâs gates, upset and not afraid to show it.
But instead of sending any of the companyâs higher-ups to address the crowd of angry farmers, NIPAH had sent Banjo, a spokesman who was only authorized to parrot the corporate spin.
Banjo tried not to let his emotions show as he mentally cursed his bosses. Striving for calm, he addressed the motley group. He called for quiet and bit his upper lip.
âGood morning, friends. We are facing some tough times. But, despite various malicious rumors, I want to assure you that our seeds arenât sterile. You can propagate for the season of your harvest. If you canât see results, it must be due to environmental degradation and climatic factors. Our seeds are of the highest quality. However, I want to assure you that we take your complaints seriously. Weâââ
What Banjo was about to say was drowned out in a chorus of boos.
He nervously wiped the beads of perspiration from his forehead. The crowd had so far been peaceful, but Banjo feared things could turn violent at the drop of a metaphorical hat. He was just a PR person ââ he didnât know why the farmers had seen dismal harvests or if the seeds really were bad, as they claimed. That knowledge was above his station. Indeed, he didnât care to know. His job was just to disperse the crowd and avoid an incident. Whatever he said or did to achieve that, the company would back him up.
He waited for the heckling to die down before continuing.
âFriends, I understand your frustrations. I also have a millet farm up north. I planted NIPAH seeds and had a bountiful harvest. I also used seeds prepared from my harvest this planting season. The other planters in my cluster had a great harvest as well, and they did the same thing I did. So I think this has to do with your cluster. Maybe thereâs something wrong locally. We have a seasoned agronomist who will check with you, andâââ
The boos rang out again, mixed with shouts of âLiar!â But it was a shout of âWe want to meet with whoâs in charge!â that made Banjo fall quiet once more.
Among the crowd, a woman raised her hand. She had dark skin, cropped hair, hard brown eyes, and a mouth set in a thin line. The crowd abruptly fell quiet. If Banjo had doubts about who was in charge of these protesters, they had been dispelled. The woman held Banjoâs gaze; it was clear she wanted to say something.
Banjo thought about ignoring her and continuing his speech, but he knew this stern-faced woman could cause him trouble. Banjo idly wondered why the farmers would acknowledge someone like her as their leader. She didnât seem to have either flair or charisma. But he didnât see any problems with letting her speak, so he nodded and ceded the floor to her.
âMr. NIPAH, I have three simple requests for you. First, I would like the location of this phantom millet farm up north where you recorded bountiful harvests. We also want you to confirm or deny that your genetically modified seeds have a DNA sequence infused in them that makes them useless to farmers for propagation after their first harvest. Finally, we want to know why NIPAH sent a mid-level officer to address their customers when the people we really want to see are safely ensconced in their plush offices?â
Banjo shifted uncomfortably, silently cursing again. He wondered how a day that had started so calmly was turning to shit. Of course he didnât have a millet farm up north; he had made it up. He didnât know of any farm clusters up north in fact, but he wasnât about to tell this bitch that.
âMsâŚâ
The woman shook her head. âI donât go by titles, Mr. Ade. Just call me Tandy.â
Banjo took a deep breath. He recognized the tactic. Going without titles made this womanâs minions feel like she was accessible to them, gave them the impression she was fighting for their cause when she was actually fighting for herself and her credit line.
Banjo knew his job depended on how well he handled this matter, so he grit his teeth, gave Tandy a fake smile, and proceeded with his spin.
âTandy, thank you for your questions. Regarding your first question, you know I canât tell you the location of my farm or the cluster for security and privacy reasons.â He fiddled with the microphone in his hands and clicked on a video he had ready. âHowever, I can show live footage of the pilot farm projects run by NIPAH with the same seeds you buy.â
As the images played on the screen, he said, âIn this case, look at how big the corn cobs are. These plants are from second-generation seeds, seeds that came from harvest. Each plant has at least six cobs on them. Which again leads me to ask, why are these farms doing well while yours arenât? Go to farms in Ibadan, Tema, Aflao, Accra, Cotonou, Bouake, and Abidjan. In all these places, NIPAH seeds are used, and in all these places, record harvests have been recorded from second-generation seeds. These locations cut across hundreds of thousands of hectares, at least four countries, and various climatic belts. This is why I wonder if itâs just your cluster having these problems.â
Banjo was getting into his stride, about to show more slides of lush green maize plantations and hectares of dwarf oil palms, but again Tandy raised her hand to interrupt him.
Banjo let out a frustrated breath and gave her a look of irritation. He knew several people in the crowd were recording the exchange ââ if he came across as brash and aggressive, the higher-ups might not like it. So he smiled and held up his hand to signal she should hang on while he finished.
He expected her to insist on speaking, but Tandy instead waited patiently for him to finish, an unnatural calmness that threw him off. He rambled on about seeds and soils before losing his train of thought and finishing his rebuttal rather lamely.
Banjo was beginning to hate this Tandy woman for her unnatural calmness. It was clear she was angry, but she was also in control of her temper.
The moment he stopped speaking, Tandy jumped nimbly over the barricade. All the bots trained their weapons on her and, for a fraction of a second, it seemed as if the bots would mow her down with their pulse blasters. But Tandy calmed her people with a shake of her head, and everyone on the other side of the barrier fell silent. Banjo had no choice but to tell the armed bots to stand down.
Tandy gave him a cold smile as she walked toward him. âPardon me for being a little forward, but when I become invested in a cause, I tend to forget where I am. Since we are showing video evidence, why donât I show you mine?â
Tandy queued up her video without actually asking for permission, and Banjo watched in horror as he saw vast barren fields. What shocked him wasnât the fact that there was video evidence to prove he was lying; it was the fact that he hadnât known the scope of the disaster. It wasnât just in one part of western Africa.
The more footage Tandy showed, the more restless the crowd became, shouting and waving their signs angrily. Banjo began to fear for his safety. The guards were ill-equipped against a mob, and he knew it.
After the presentation ended, Tandy stood on the steps of NIPAH headquarters and watched the crowd impassively. Banjo would have thought sheâd whip them into a frenzy, but she just stood there and watched as the crowd grew restless and the tension grew unbearable. He almost pleaded with her to say something to douse the uncomfortable atmosphere, but he kept himself in check.
Finally, Tandy decided it was time to speak. Banjo watched in amazement as everyone instantly fell quiet. He felt a grudging respect. The woman knew how to play a crowd.
âSir, we thank you for meeting with us, although it is apparent that NIPAH doesnât rate us particularly highly since the ones in charge couldnât even bother to move their asses and meet with the people keeping them in a job.â She paused to look in the direction of a probable camera, her face gaunt and defiant.
âI know we are being recorded, so I will speak directly to them. You have seen our videos. All those empty fields you see are from second-generation seeds, seeds bought from your company. In all cases, not a single seed germinated. We arenât talking about a bad batch; we are talking of a system in place here at NIPAH to ensure that farmers come back every planting season to buy new seeds and seedlings. This has to stop.
âWe are giving NIPAH until the start of the coming planting season to clean up their act, or they will face the wrath of the farmers.â Tandy looked directly at Banjo, then at the probable camera, the threat evident in her eyes. âThat is our message to you.â
As soon as she finished, Tandy walked down through the guards, hopped back over the barricade, and yelled, âLetâs go home, people.â
Like a well-drilled army, the ragtag protesters immediately dispersed.
Banjo knew that trouble was coming.
* * *
A couple of hours later, three diverse groups examined Tandyâs performance.
The first group reviewed the footage recorded by one of the hover droids. This group contained two women and a man. They didnât have a specific role in NIPAH; they were simply called the Committee. No one knew exactly what they did or why they met regularly in a tiny room at the NIPAH penthouse and made decisions that instantly became classified.
As they watched the footage for the third time, the Committee members became more impressed with Tandyâs composure and control while increasingly disappointed with Banjo. One of the women, Dr. Vivien Chinelo, shook her head in disgust as she watched Banjo wipe his brow for the umpteenth time.
âWhat kind of negotiator shows this much weakness? Look at how he stands helplessly while this woman takes over his stage. She walks through a cordon of guards and steals his podium, she uses his projector to turn the tables on him. Look at how shocked he looks when she starts to show barren fields. Whose side is this idiot supposed to be on? I donât understand how GLOSCOMââand NIPAH, in particularââtask these incompetent idiots to do their jobs. They could have just released a statement and got it over with.
âWeâre going to have to embrace this Tandy bitch, and make sure we whittle down her influence on the farmersâ groups; sheâs the glue that holds them together. If we donât discredit her, our own monopoly will be tenuous at best.â
The other two nodded several times. There were rarely divergent views among the Committee members because their only interest was the perpetuation of GLOSCOMâs dominance across the globe. Most of Africaâs farmers had already accepted that they had to buy seeds every season. The east and western African regions just had to see the light. If GLOSCOM could get Tandy on their side, that could be a reality.
The second group that reviewed Tandyâs performance on the steps of NIPAHâs headquarters was no less sinister than the Committee, though their goals were different. Instead of convening in a plush penthouse office, the group of nine met at an abandoned farm on the outskirts of the city of Ibadan, about one hundred and twenty kilometers north of Lagos.
Much like the Committee, this group also met in secret and came from diverse backgrounds. However, it had only one purpose: Ending the NIPAH monopoly once and for all. How that was to be accomplished was something to be decided now. The choices: a prolonged political campaign through the press in support of the Green Dawn Collective or else a shock campaign of violence and confusion during a coming solar eclipse designed to force the company to fold.
âItâs clear this Banjo is just a distraction. They will not change unless they are forced to,â said one of the collectiveâs leaders. âItâs time to put an end to their greed and humiliation.â
Others murmured assent.
The third group observed from a Tritan scoutship inorbit high over Earth. The cosmotic drive thrusters of the Arcturus Pathfinder 4 strained to hover long enough so that they could assess the topography and ecology of the region..
The gangly observers aboard the starship analyzed the scene, their rust-colored exoskeletons gleaming under dim console lights. Their hooked mandibles clicked in quiet deliberation. Through the bridgeâs reinforced viewports, the fields appeared to be barren. Data showed exhausted soils and repeated crop failures.
Perched in her command chair, Captain Calytricx Draevenâs twin-elbowed antennae flicked in agitation atop her elongated, heart-shaped head. Currently on a mission to scout for a new Tritan homeland, she studied the holographic star map projected before her, its shifting constellations reflecting in her large, protruding eyes. Around her, the crewââa mix of seasoned Tritan explorers and cybernetically enhanced specialistsââworked with silent precision, observing the data from the location below.
The place appeared to have little promise.
âNo prospects in the vicinity here,â said the chief data analyst. âTime to move on. Maybe other parts of the planet are more promising.â
In an instant, the mysterious vessel vanished into the void with a flash of metallic brilliance.
In Space Vault: The Seed Eclipse author Jeremy Clift has produced an interesting story as contemporary as today's exploitation of genetic manipulation. We worry that this science, while it may bring incredible benefits to mankind, is also a potentially disastrous exploration into a future we may not be able to adequately understand or control. In Space Vault, Clift shines a light on the very real possibility that in the wrong hands, even something as seemingly innocuous as producing seeds for "better" crops could be turned into a dark and foreboding enterprise. The intrigue is amplified by the presence of influences from outside earth's habitat, and spins the characters into an intergalactic rivalry and warfare.
Additionally, a "spiritual" aspect is brought into the mix with the introduction of an ecosystem on an alien planet that combines ecology, a mystical crystalline power source within the planet, and even a priestess who channels this power into a sort of protective shield for the aliens against the attack of their rivals. This spiritual connection is given some secular respectability by several of the characters who approach this same power from a more neutral scientific perspective.
The character development of the story was well done and the plot was engaging, if at times a little difficult to follow (especially in the latter chapters). The idea of a genetically induced method of controlling populations was fascinating, while at the same time, on another planet, life faced severe stress for some of the same problems. That connection seemed a little fuzzy to me. Meanwhile, on a third planet, a more sinister race ruled by a seemingly god-like A.I. intervenes in the affairs of the other races with an existential threat that is somehow miraculously avoided by the small band of saviors from the other two worlds.
The plot and the nature of the "spiritual" aspect of the story seemed a little too similar to other recent cinematic sci-fi themes with trees connecting together to empower a planetary ecosystem and priestesses who oversaw this connection.
Nevertheless, the story was entertaining and worth a read for those who enjoy sci-fi with a bit of a twist of intrigue, suspense and danger.