The image of the outside world as seen from Delta Tower filled the windows. The sense of claustrophobia was immediate, and Zack shook his head. Simon restored the glass so that it showed the reality of the clear, sunny day. He understood now that Leonard's hope for the future was based upon nothing more than a few faulty pixels or a glitch in the programming. There was never any sun or light shining through those clouds. Simon was smiling to himself, satisfied by how easy it had been to win Zack over. He set the control panel back down onto the cupboard.
“The Lottery?” Zack asked.
“The Omega Lottery is about hope, Zachary. People need to believe there is a chance of a better life. It is only human to strive for something more than what we have.”
“So I guess I should consider myself lucky.”
“Zachary, the Lottery is not random. You are a civil engineer. You are young. You were one of the best in your company. We selected you. We brought you here so that you too can play your part. We need you to help us. To help us rebuild. We need your knowledge. But your reward is not the chance to live here in Omega Tower. Your reward is not a comfortable bed, clean clothes, or fresh food. It is the chance to be a founding part of the future for all citizens of New Omega. Your rewards are to be part of the new beginning. Our renaissance.”
Life had been preserved here. Protected. How, exactly, he still didn't understand. But he was being given a chance to become one of the creators of the future. He was being given a chance to rebuild. He was being given a chance to improve people's lives, create the future, make right the past wrongs. He was being given a chance to become something he never was in his previous life; a person who stands up and takes responsibility. Here he was being given the chance to be the person he was supposed to have been in the old world, but even without the war would never have become. By being part of that, by creating life, perhaps he could forget what he had once so selfishly destroyed. He heard Samantha's words playing over in his mind. Say we'll do it one day, Zack.
Zack straightened his white tunic, and sat up in his seat. “What do you need me to do?”
Chapter Twenty One
As Zack heard the knock at the door, his eyes burst open like the ripe fruits of summer which he had eaten at dinner the night before. The taste of strawberry was still on his lips, sweet and rich, like summer in a bowl. There were eight chefs working under what many in Omega Tower considered limited means, but for Zack the quality of the food had improved beyond recognition. Porridge was still served in the restaurant at breakfast, but it was tasty, seasoned with sugar, and served with the option of toast, fruit, or cereal. Zack had asked where the fruit was coming from, but he hadn’t received any definitive answers. Some suspected that Beta Tower was producing it, considering their proximity to the wetlands. There were some who chose not to eat it, believing there to be a high risk of contamination. There were still those it seemed, even in Omega Tower, that didn’t feel the risks were entirely negligible. These were the people who stayed indoors. They refused to venture outside, even though numerous studies had been completed which all suggested the air quality and pollution levels were acceptable.
There were others who didn’t question their life anymore. They began their sentences with the word ‘listen,' and always seemed to implore one to see sense. These were the people who posed the argument that there were no other towers growing food for Omega Tower, and that no such population would accept such unjust conditions. Listen, why would they produce such wonderful food, only to accept it being sent elsewhere. There would be an uprising, they would say.
Uprising. That's what people in Omega Tower thought was possible in the other towers. That if things were so bad there would be a rebellion. But Zack wondered who they expected this revolt to be against. And where would people rise up to? In Delta Tower there was a commonly held belief that without The Republic of New Omega and their way of life, there was simply no way of life. Oxygen came from Omega via Alpha Tower. Food came from Omega via Beta Tower. Water came from Omega, at least if you were in a tower other than Delta. What were people supposed to rise up against? The provision of life? The ability to survive? There used to be a phrase that people would say when others made rash, unjustifiable decisions that left them worse off than when they started. Don't bite the hand that feeds you. But what if the hand that was feeding you was feeding everybody else first, leaving you with nothing more than the scraps? Should you still refrain from biting it, or reach out and fight for something more?
The noise had been swelling since the early hours of the day. The children had been pulled from their beds early that morning. Zack had heard laughter and excitement streaming through the corridors, and when he heard his neighbours moving around outside his room he got up to see what was happening. In his door there was a small glass panel with a silver lever attached. Flip it to the left and you see in or out, depending on your perspective. Flip it to the right and there was invisibility. He flipped the lever left and peered out. There was Sarah, her hair neat and slicked into place with a comb and some water, fresh from the tap. Then two men, Swedish looking. He hadn't met them yet. Beyond them, a mother was ushering along her child, dressed in a yellow leotard, the skin painted with golden streaks. The little thing skipped along like a bird, fledgling arms flapping at the edge of a nest about to take its first flight. Zack wasn’t sure if it was a boy or a girl. All the children had short hair, just like the adults. Looking in. He was definitely still looking in. Perhaps they all were.
Zack had slept intermittently after that, off and on people used to say. But he had never really understood the concept of being ‘on or off’ sleep, like he could be off or on a drug or a chair. Maybe it was ‘in and out’ that people used to say and he just couldn't remember. When he couldn't sleep Zack would sit on the floor, cross-legged like a child, his knees pressed up against the window. If you looked straight down with your head angled so that your eyes were as close to the glass as possible, then you could see down to the next level. He had seen a man walking by his window yesterday, oblivious to Zack's presence. If you lay on the floor and angled your head upwards there was nothing to see but sky because as the tower rose it narrowed. In such proximity to the glass it was even possible to hear the wind when it grew strong, racing past as if it had a purpose. As if it was trying to tell him something, maybe about where it was trying to go. Was it being pushed or pulled, or moving where it wished? Zack knew that it was air moving from high to low pressure, spinning around it. It just did as it was supposed to, like a law, a rule, something to be followed. Spinning.
Zack jumped up from his bed as Simon edged the door open, his chest drenched in sweat. He told himself that he just couldn't get used to the heat. He ignored the possibility that it was nerves. Droplets ran down his face like tears from invisible eyes, his cropped hair, which had started to grow back, slicked to his forehead. Today would be the first moment that he would stand before his new community. There were still people that hadn't seen him. For some he was still a rumour, like the shattered roof of Delta. He had been preparing, or being prepared, for the Presentation Ceremony, during the course of the last week, in the same way that preparations had persisted throughout the night. They had even manicured his nails, tested out different shades of foundation underneath his eyes to make him look healthier. Florence, the makeup artist, had called him an impossible task. But Simon had insisted that he look healthy. It was expected.
“It’s early, I know. But it’s time,” said Simon. The morning had the feeling of a holiday or a celebration. He remembered being woken as a child when the sky was still the deep blue of night, when the day smelt fresh and remained untainted by people or machinery. His father would have packed the car, the boot and the spare seats piled high with enough equipment to sustain them throughout their camping adventure. They would travel for two hours before the sun rose. The road was theirs, as if they were the only people in the world, and Zack would force himself to wake up to watch as the night gave way t
o the day. The silence would be interrupted by the milkman and the whirr of an electric engine. The birds would chirrup in the sky as the first rays of sun broke through the clouds. Zack’s father would pull alongside a field and they would breakfast with a picnic eaten from plastic bowls, drinks taken from plastic cups. There was little chatter, and instead Zack would sit with his parents and watch as the sun broke through the clouds, the rays refracted through drops of morning dew on the sharp blades of grass. They would stay there as a family until the sun breached the horizon, waiting, his father would say, for time to begin again.
“I’m ready,” Zack said, as if on autopilot. In reality he was far from ready, his cheeks redder than last night's strawberries, his skin slick with sweat. His white tunic had taken on a damp, grey colour, a puddle of fluid spreading out from the middle.
“You know, Zachary, we can have somebody talk with you about these nightmares. Would you like that?” He pushed the door closed and walked towards the wardrobe. Simon pulled out a set of clothes, white, neat seams pressed into the trousers to run down the front of the legs like train tracks. “It's about time we started with the Relocation Therapy, anyway.”
“No, thanks, Simon,” said Zack, taking the clothes from him as he rose from the bed. Simon didn't seem the least bit disturbed by remaining in the room during personal moments such as dressing. Yesterday he had even followed Zack into the bathroom. Zack took the coat hanger and drew small circles with his finger, and even though it seemed to fluster Simon, he obliged by turning around. “I don't need to talk to anybody, thanks.”
The idea of talking about his feelings with a therapist, or dressing in front of another person was all a bit unfamiliar. He had spent the last ten years covered, not even spending time with his own naked body. He had become shy, and since his first day in Omega Tower he had avoided viewing his soft, underdeveloped muscles in the full length mirror covering one wall of the en suite bathroom. He had caught sight of himself a couple of nights ago, just in passing. He had developed a paunch, a little food belly that protruded out. His skin hadn't had the time to accommodate the food yet, and he was like a gerbil, all the stored food in his cheeks, waiting for the digestive systems to work again. He had been troubled by a constant stomach ache and constipation. “But I might need to see the doctor about this.”
Simon turned around to see Zack stretching the material of the clean tunic over his abdomen, the shape of it like a large egg. Simon began to laugh.
“What's so funny?” Zack asked.
“Don't worry about that,” he said, his words stuttered and interrupted by giggles. “It'll work its way out eventually. It takes a while for the bowels to wake up.”
“How long?” Zack groaned. “It's starting to become painful.” Simon walked to the door. He held the handle a while, softly like you might hold a child's hand to cross a road without traffic, before turning and winking at Zack.
Simon didn't answer. Instead he just said, “We have a lot to do, and first stop is pre make-up exfoliation. Shall we?”
***
From behind a screen Zack watched as a compere dressed in a brilliant white suit, probably Daley Cartwell but he couldn't be sure, was addressing the crowd. Zack craned his neck to see past the screen. Children sat on their knees in the front rows, the white marble floor covered in a multitude of fledglings dressed in yellow and orange. Some blue. Behind them sat the adults. Rows of cropped hair dressed in white; tunics for the men, short sleeved dresses for the women. Zack couldn't focus on what was happening beyond the screen, but he could just see Daley Cartwell, if that was who it was, running across the stage. It brought much laughter from the crowd.
Zack compared his clothes. Identical to everybody else, except for Daley Cartwell and the Conservators who were sat in a segregated and inaccessible area to the side. He had lost count of how many times he thought he recognised a face, only to realise that the same face stood behind it and to the side. Looking at the people in rows reminded him of a trip he made to Auschwitz. He had wandered the corridors, room after room the same: some filled with human hair, some with reading glasses, and some with shoes sealed behind glass screens. But in the corridors hollow eyes stared back at him, row upon row of photographs. Sometimes there was defiance in the face, a puffed out chest, or a clenched jaw. Sometimes it was fear. But in most he remembered seeing something else. Disbelief. Emptiness. People reduced to shadows without explanation or understanding.
“He is so good at this, our good President,” Simon whispered into Zack's ear.
“What? Who?” Zack was distracted, hypnotised by the similarity, how everybody looked like a version of the person next to them, and how he too looked the same. He had never questioned it because they had told him it was the right thing to do. You're not accountable if you are passive. That's how people lied to themselves, once. “What are you talking about?”
“Daley. He is really good at this. I bet you loved watching him whilst you were stuck in Delta Tower.”
Zack didn't answer, and it didn't bother Simon. He wasn't paying any attention. He wasn't interested in Zack's opinion on Daley Cartwell. He just wanted to offer his own. He was lost in admiration. Zack was still looking past Daley Cartwell at the people, the copy-and-paste spectators clapping and laughing in the right places, the children perfectly still. Who were they? How had he become one of them? Some of them were standing on the escalators, some of them on the mezzanine floor above. The lighting was soft, like the glow of a baby’s nightlight. Zack had no doubts that some of the crowd were fighting sleep. But Zack wasn’t. He was wide awake, alert and wired for his part in the production. Because even though he didn't understand how he had got here, he wanted to know.
***
Daley Cartwell turned to look at Zack, and Simon nudged him in the ribs. Zack stood up and moved out from behind the screen. The crowd began clapping and cheering. They were alive with energy, and it pulled him in as he walked forwards on the stage. Some were on their feet, some clapping their hands above their heads. Daley Cartwell, who had been speaking non-stop up until now, angled the small headpiece microphone that he was wearing a little closer to his lips. In a cotton-soft voice he said, “I give you Mr. Zachary Christian.”
The energy was deafening, rattling in his ears like thunder. The main lights were still soft, but Zack had been cast into flood light. The last of the stars were still twinkling in the sky, but he couldn't see them anymore. His eyes wrinkled and he recoiled, his hand rising like a shield to his face as the light shone onto him. He thought back to the day of the lottery, the crowd in Delta Tower on level twenty five. As his joy increased the life of the crowd had been snuffed out by a blanket stitched together by lost hopes. But here, there was no such change. Here the flame of life burned, never more evident than in the array of painted children scattered at the shore of a sea of white uniforms united in their pleasure.
Zack's eyes began to relax, and his muscles unfolded themselves. Daley Cartwell pulled the microphone away from his lips and whispered to Zack.
“Relax for the sake of our good President.”
So he did. He smiled, like he had practiced with Simon only yesterday. He held his hand up and waved. The crowd loved it. So he waved a bit more, and soon he found that he felt better, and the waving didn't seem forced anymore. He was in. Now they were looking in. As the crowd settled and took their seats, Zack cleared his throat, his pulse racing. Βut not from fear. He began the speech that they had practised.
“Citizens of The Republic of New Omega. It is with great pleasure that I stand here before you today in front of our good President. You have bestowed upon me a great honour through my selection to live as one of you in your community here in Omega Tower. I stand here before you today, not to preach, but with humility and thanks for your belief and support.”
He paused and the crowd applauded again. For many it was their first glimpse of the man brought here from Delta. He was in some ways, a celebrity. This was his fifteen minutes of
fame. The cheering quietened and he continued.
“There is a great task upon my shoulders. A responsibility in depth such like I have never felt before in my life. That responsibility is to you, one and all, as the citizens of Omega Tower. A responsibility to build. A responsibility to develop. To help our world grow.” He paused for breath and took a sip of water which had been placed before him on a glass lectern. His speech was scrolling on the integrated autocue. But the words had become ingrained on him, and he didn't have to think about them. He thought about adding in his own, but perhaps it was unsafe. Stick to the script, he reminded himself before resuming his speech. “It is a responsibility to bring forth a new era of freedom through strength and determination, a characteristic you have all shown, and which I must now prove that I too possess.” He swallowed the saliva from his mouth, licked his dry lips, his tongue catching on the chapped skin. His pulse was still beating fast, but he knew it was slowing, and he was starting to get into his stride.
“I arrived here from Delta, from a shadow of life that I am sure at some point you have imagined as you looked to the east. Many of you will see my tower as you look outside your window before you sleep at night. Many of you will be thankful that it is not you that has to live there, and be thankful for your place here, where it is warm and clean in Omega Tower. And I want you to know that indeed you should be. Life in Delta is hard. It is so hard that an extra blanket, no matter how threadbare or dirty it might be, can provide a small ray of hope for the person who sleeps underneath it. Life is short. For some it is so short that they are born into a cruel and cold world, and leave that same world without ever having a chance to feel the possibility of life. For some, it is a punishment for crimes that they committed before. Crimes which went unpunished in the old world.” He had added this bit in. He had agreed it with Simon, but they were his words. He stopped, took a breath, swallowed again. Daley Cartwell got closer to him, his arm wrapped around Zack's shoulders. His fingers gripped him. A supportive pinch. Because connection helps. Having somebody, even somebody you don't know, helps. “But for every citizen of Delta Tower it is better now. ‘Why?’ you may ask. Because their story will be told. No longer will they feel like the forgotten citizens of The Republic of New Omega. No longer will they feel like their future is one without worth. I will tell their story, and build a better life so that we may all once again live as free, united citizens.”
The Dawn: Omnibus edition (box set books 1-5) Page 20