He learned that there is a weekly show held in the lobby, a children’s dance show. Perhaps like the one he had watched in the moments before he won the Omega Lottery. Occasional theatrical productions. This was the first article, and there were interactive videos which he watched. There had been a new imprint of The Omega Manifesto delivered, and the Renunciation Booths had all had their software updated for optimal voice recognition. After several times reading through the news he had to put it down for a while. He sat like a fairground dummy, the Control Panel clutched in his lap. It was like real life. It was like normality. On page four it had been reported that should anybody wish to return their copy of The Manifesto in exchange for a new one, they should attend the library on Wednesday 16th. Seventeenth floor. Page six: the latest crop of apples was doing well and should be available by the end of the month. Preparations for Sunrise Day were progressing well. Volunteers were requested to attend the Citizen’s Hall on the thirtieth floor in order to discuss the celebrations to be held this year. There had been three deaths this week and the funerals would be held on Sunday morning. All are expected to attend. Ten in the morning. Main Lobby.
Afterwards he pulled the card out from the control panel and set it back down on the tray. He stared at it whilst he ate the food, and then watched the television home screen, filled by the black omega sign and the words Providing Your Future. He was thoughtless for a while, his head over-stimulated, as if his brain had overheated. Reboot. If he discarded the recent past, the ten years of incarceration, the nuclear war, the fact that he had been tattooed like a prisoner held in a concentration camp, the information in Omega Today could have been lifted straight from his old life. Perhaps not his exactly, but definitely his old world. It read like his university newspaper, or perhaps a village newsletter. It was about community, the events designed to bring people together, connect them, and build bridges between different groups. There was something happening above him in the upper levels, something he had never seen in Delta. He could imagine them now in their little rooms, helping out a neighbour, speaking to a stranger in the corridor, arranging to meet up and talk about the latest kids’ dance production or Sunrise Day, whatever that was. He looked up to the ceiling and it too looked back at him, its face without features, as if shrouded, viewing the immigrant confined to the sublevels. What would they make of him up there?
In that moment it would have been quiet enough to have heard the footsteps of a dormouse scuttle across the floor. He was alone, with nobody he knew or recognised in the surrounding rooms. Silence. It reminded him of the room in which he and Samantha stayed in Paris, tiny and soundproofed. It was perfectly claustrophobic, and even the sound of the rain striking the dormer window poking out from the mansard roof couldn't be heard. He had only been able to tolerate a minute of it, and flung the windows open in search of air and sound, his head hanging out becoming drenched by the huge droplets. They lay naked in each other's arms, the rain the soundtrack to their afternoon. When hunger called they went out, ate croque monsieur, sipped coffee that was too strong and took photograph after photograph, and afterwards they.....
The photograph. Zack sat upright, his hands smoothing out the place on his trousers where pockets should have been. He had forgotten the photograph, left it in his overall pocket as if it was insignificant and didn't deserve his thought. He raced to the door, pushed it, pulled at the window through which he couldn't see. He would have tried the handle, but again he remembered after he reached for it that there wasn't one. His last remaining photograph of Samantha, and his connection to Leonard, was lost.
If he had reacted differently when Samantha called him on the morning the war started, reacted as he was supposed to, he wouldn’t have survived. He had made the journey from his office to her apartment many times; rush hour, lunchtime, night time before the last train. He would have had time to get there. There, he had said it again. When he had time. When he thought he owned it, that it was his, and something to command. But in this instance it was true. He would have had time to take the Jubilee line, change at London Bridge and ride it to Old Street. Even if he had lingered a bit, a last minute attack of nerves, he would have made it. He would have had time. When she opened the door, her face red and puffy and as terrified as his, he would have reached out and taken her in his arms. He would have wrapped one arm around her waist, one around her head and said the three simple words that always meant more to her than anything else. I’m with you. The bombs would have fallen as he held her in his arms just like that wet day in Paris, and everything would have felt as possible as it did back then. In those moments there would have been no sign of disaster, no sound as the bombs fell. They would have known nothing of the war, the death that lingered, or the excuse of an existence when that promise remained unfulfilled. They would have died together, all three of them. Just as he hoped his parents had lived their last moments. Together. Just as it was supposed to be. Those who love each other, united in death.
He lay in the fresh sheets on the comfortable bed, again questioning if he deserved this new chance. He loved his parents and yet hadn’t spoken to them in over two weeks before the war began and ended in a matter of hours. He had lost Samantha before the bombs came by discarding her dreams and their child. He reminded himself that he had tried hard during the last ten years to be something good. Sure, he exploited the system, but he hadn't been doing it for himself. He traded things that people wanted, that they needed. He had cared for Leonard, hadn’t he? He had tried to help him, be his friend. Or maybe it had just been a way of pandering to his own selfish needs, a way to make himself feel better. If he had really cared, would he have left him alone in Delta? Would he have walked out on him? If Leonard was right and the dawn was coming, then one day soon their light-deprived eyes would wake from sleep. Zack didn't know how he would be able to look upon Leonard, knowing that in order to escape, he had chosen to abandon his only friend.
Sleep took him but it remained fitful and twisted, like a blanket wrapped around his agitated feet. By the time he woke to see the same green-eyed blonde peering over him, he felt worse than when he arrived. His head hurt as if a mallet had struck him between his eyes. He was sweaty and tired, as if the last twelve hours had been nothing but a dream.
“Good morning, Mr. Christian.” She was smiling widely, to the point that he was able to tell even through the face mask she was wearing. “Breakfast is served. I came in last night to collect your dinner tray and you were fast asleep. Didn't hear a thing, did you?” She placed the tray on the small coffee table, every muscle of her body alive with energy, riddled with electric shocks. She picked up the card which contained the copy of Omega Today. “Did you read it?” she asked, holding it up. “It’s not really protocol to bring it, but,” she said, her eyes wandering absently into fantasy, “I always think it must be so exciting to get here from The Barrens, that it’s nice to know what’s going on above ground. Don't you think?”
“From the where?” he asked, pushing himself into a sitting position.
“From The Barrens. I must say you look remarkably different up close. Did you read it?” She stared at his face, taking in the details, her gaze running over him like a scanner.
“You gave me that?” he said, pointing at the glass card.
“Yes.” Her eyes betrayed the fact that she felt pleased with herself. Young and naive. Everything must be wonderful now, right? But she was a rule-bender. If he wasn't supposed to have it and she had given it to him, then maybe she could help him in other ways. “Did you read about Sunrise Day? They are planning a huge event this year. The children are making costumes already and there is a real atmosphere in the air, our good President. Oh yes, there will be music, food.” She leaned in a bit closer. “There might even be wine,” she said before straightening herself. “Not for us, of course, but for the rest. It’s the principle of having it. That’s what they say. Can I see it?”
“See what? Hang on a minute. Who says?” Zack sat onto the ed
ge of the bed, pushing the covers back. His skin was so itchy it felt as if it was alive. She looked at him with sympathy, as if he had just found out he had a disease; cancer, or something else nobody ever wants to hear.
“The Conservators. My good President, you have so much to learn. For me, it’s like I’ve never been anywhere else, but you! Well, you have two lives to renounce. But don’t worry, you’ll manage it all. I'm sure. Otherwise you wouldn't be here. I wanted to see your tattoo.” She placed the card onto the wheeled trolley before throwing him a hopeful glance. He held out his right wrist.
“Was it from yesterday?” he asked as she stared at his wrist, her fingers poised as if she wanted to touch it but didn't dare.
“Yes,” she mumbled, her attention directed at the number and the triangle. She broke her stare to glance at the edge of the bed. She sat down, smoothing her white dress out from underneath her. “I’m not supposed to mention this either, but,” she paused, giggling, “happy birthday.” It was as if she had met her celebrity hero.
“How do you know?” he pressed, reaching out to her. As he touched her arm it woke her up from her trance and she jumped up from the bed. She was flustered, like a cat trapped in a cage, eager for an exit. She had said too much, the realisation of it like a tidal wave sweeping across land where it had no right to be. She grabbed her trolley and began pushing it away, the plate on top almost licked clean. “Wait, I need your help. I have lost something,” he said jumping from the bed. But he tripped on his shoe, and by the time he corrected his footing she was already at the door.
“I’ll see you at lunchtime, Zachary,” she said, scuttling away. “I will be serving you the soup of our good President.”
Chapter Eighteen
Over the next six days he studied the room extensively, looking for signs of another person. A secret note, a lock of hair. A fingerprint on the mirror in the bathroom. He found nothing. In the hours between meals he wondered if he had been forgotten about. Had it been a trick? Did they know about the water rations? The First Creed. No citizen of New Omega shall steal from another. Punishable by denunciation. The monotony was broken only by the regular arrival of meals and drinks, his only connection to the outside world. He was starting to feel like a captive animal, but in captivity you are at least aware of the world beyond the walls. There is an idea of a better reality to crave. It was then that he began to wonder why he had come here. He had never questioned winning the Omega Lottery, and he had willingly stepped in their van, drunk their drinks, eaten their food. He had succumbed to their testing and removed every strand of hair at their request. But he couldn't deny that even with the heaviness of his submission weighing on him, he felt safe. He was under their care, and that was something. He believed in them, these Conservators, whoever they were. He found faith in their protection. He didn't question what the bringer of dinner wanted. It had taken very little time for him to learn how to take again. To be provided for. But he was starting to believe that he deserved something better. Was dinner late? Was there not a book, a movie, something to enjoy, that they could have provided him with? Was it not time to go above ground? Entitlement, it seemed, was easily reignited.
He watched an insane number of hours of channel zero, which he had learnt early on was a live stream direct from the lobby of Omega. Occasionally it used to play in Delta too, but only ever in short sporadic bursts, and only when there were enough Guardians on duty to quash any signs of unrest. There had been instances, signs of resistance that he remembered. Uneaten food, failure to work, refusal to leave your quarters. People tested the barriers. They wanted to believe that they still had some power, the freedom to make a choice. Human rights, people used to call them, in the old world. Zack watched the lobby from his clean bed in ISOLATION ONE, the residents of Omega Tower walking left and right without any particular purpose. Some people stopped and chatted, found humour in conversation and friendship. The walls were clean, and at one point he even noticed that somebody wheeled in a vacuum cleaner.
The lobby had captivated him for the first couple of days. Occasionally he would spot a face that he recognised, and the game became to count the number of sightings of anybody he saw on more than one occasion. He counted four occurrences of seeing one blond-haired man, but then he got confused with another and lost his certainty that it was the same person. That was when he flicked to channel 100. It was deceptive because there were in fact only three channels. Zero, which showed the lobby. Zero one. The Manifesto. And one hundred. What he saw was blinding, like a thunder bolt between the eyes. At first he wasn’t sure what it was. His pupils flinched, contracting as the near-fluorescent light filtered out from the screen. He could almost feel the warmth by the time he had worked out what he was looking at. He looked around to the wall-mounted clock, the same style as was in the van in which he arrived, and saw that it read five o’clock. The morning, he supposed. He was wide awake as if it were the middle of the day, even though he knew it couldn't be because breakfast hadn't been served. He looked back to the colours on the screen, subtle changes occurring like the slightest twist of a kaleidoscope. As his eyes adjusted to the light he realised that what he was looking at was the sky, a beautiful and honest sunrise, a moment that screams that the world is alive.
He watched as the colours diminished, leaving behind nothing but a tropical ocean of hazy blue, interrupted by a smattering of white cotton wool-like wisps of cloud. He watched that whole day as the patterns shifted. He ignored breakfast and lunch, and he would have ignored dinner too if the girl who brought the food tray hadn't nudged him. She was called Elana. For Zack the Sun had risen again, and it didn’t matter to him that it wasn’t real. Eventually the day fell into the arms of night, succumbed to its demands with humility, understanding that it is merely a part of something larger. It is not whole on its own. For the first time in so long there was something other than the perpetuity of existence. With the rise and fall of the Sun there was movement in his life. From now on he could be pulled awake, and eased into sleep by the shadows of night. With the ticking rhythm of the world, his life was reborn. He remembered one of his father's sayings; every day is a new day. A new opportunity to get things right. A chance to wake to a fresh start.
“Mr. Christian?” Zack’s eyes flickered open, unsure at first who was peering over him. Sleep had pulled him deeper than the darkest ocean crevasse when Dr. Watson opened the door. Six days had passed, but Zack had counted none of them. His days in Delta Tower had been reduced to one long continuum, and when he tried to think of it now, or of the people, he found there was nothing concrete to which he could cling. Knowing that he had spent ten years of his life stuck in there like that was the only thing worse than actually being in there. To begin counting days now seemed so pointless. “Mr. Christian, it has been six days. And I have good news.” Zack watched as Dr. Watson’s eyes scoured the room, finally making contact with the breakfast plate. “You haven’t eaten your breakfast today, Mr. Christian. Come on now, you really must get up.”
Zack was about to tell Dr. Watson that it must be the leftovers from the night before because nobody had arrived during the morning. But as Dr. Watson pulled away the silver plate topper to reveal a tray of scrambled eggs on toast, and, if he wasn’t mistaken, a slice of bacon, he knew food had arrived again without his knowing.
“Not local, I can assure you, but nevertheless good.” Dr. Watson flashed his wide obnoxious grin and pulled the covers back from Zack’s body. Zack’s automatic reaction was to recover himself, an instinctual Delta-driven fear of the cold. But as he did so he realised that he was actually a bit sweaty, clammy like a baby. Zack stood up, much to the delight of Dr. Watson. He sat down at the table and began to eat. Dr. Watson touched Zack's arms, prodded him a little, before sitting on the edge of the bed.
“I have good news. No,” he stopped himself, looking to the ceiling for inspiration. “Excellent news.”
“Which is what?” Zack asked, his eyes glued to a half-hearted attempt by a
wispy cloud to block the sunlight. Channel 100 had been playing continuously ever since Zack had discovered it.
“You, Mr. Christian, are a picture of health. Turns out that you didn’t have scabies, and indeed that was a patch of eczema on your hands. So you won't be needing this.” Dr. Watson picked up the tube of insecticide and seemed disappointed at the fact it was still full. He dismissed his disappointment and worked another smile loose. “Your blood results are acceptable, and the x-ray of your chest was as clear as the glass on level seventy two.” Dr. Watson seemed amused by his own joke, allowing a chortle to escape him, a joke that Zack didn’t understand or share. “Anyway, you won’t know what I mean by that, but you soon will. Today, Mr. Christian…” he waited, the rest of his sentence hanging off the tip of his tongue like a slick of oil waiting to drip away, “you are going above ground.”
Zack stopped mid-mouthful, placed the fork back down on the plate. He turned to look at Dr. Watson. “I’m what?” he mumbled as he tried to swallow the mouthful of food.
The Dawn: Omnibus edition (box set books 1-5) Page 17