Eve of Man

by Giovanna Fletcher

  When people slip away to their chores, I wander back toward the Drop, my mind still full of questions.

  “What did you think of Mother Nina?” I ask Holly, sensing her a couple of feet behind me. I slow down so she can catch up.

  “She was one of the good ones.” She sighs.

  “She was the closest thing I had to an actual mother,” I say, looking across to gauge her reaction.

  “I understand that.” She nods, her lips pursed.

  “Do you?” I ask, looking from her mouth to his familiar eyes. I stare into them as hard as I can, willing the shape to melt away so I can see his true form. “What are your parents like? Tell me about them.”

  “My mom is a seamstress and my dad a teacher,” she says, her voice monotonous at the repetition of the same story. “They were quite surprised when they—”

  “I don’t want that answer,” I stop her, frustrated at the continued lie. “That’s not what I asked. What are your parents like? Yours.”

  Her head snaps around to mine, and she answers without skipping a beat. “I had to leave my mom when I was little. My father is…controlling. Our relationship is difficult.” The hurt on her face lets me know she’s telling the truth, not sticking to the rules or the script she’s been fed.

  “I wish I had that.”

  “Seriously? One row with my dad and you’d change your mind,” she scoffs.

  “Maybe. Maybe not.” I shrug. “You share the same blood; you were made from him, created by him…That must count for something.”

  She looks crestfallen and as if she’s about to say more, but as we reach the end of the Drop and return to our sitting positions from earlier, she decides against it.

  “Parents love with no agenda or judgment. I wish I had been born in different times. Then mine might still be with me,” I say, sharing thoughts I’ve never expressed before—a hankering for a love I’ve never known.

  The sound of music from the speakers inside tells me it’s dinnertime.

  “Already?” I mutter, annoyed that I can’t sit here longer.

  Holly gives a little laugh and I realize the joke is on me. It’s dinnertime because they want this conversation to end. Of course they’re listening.

  “Want to come for dinner?” I ask cheekily, glancing at her as I bring my shoulders up in an inviting manner. For all the years Holly has been my best friend, I’ve never seen her eat. It didn’t take me long to understand that her absence from meals meant she was unable to consume food like I can.

  “I have to get back…”

  “Time for me to go,” I say.

  “Yes.”

  “And for you to leave.”

  “For now.” She smiles, making no effort to leave the spot in which she’s sitting.

  “What happens if I don’t go? I’m not particularly hungry anyway,” I say.

  “I’ll be back, Eve,” she says.

  “Yes…,” I say, hoping beyond hope that she will. “Thanks for being with me today,” I add, getting to my feet.

  “Of course,” she says, her eyes blinking slowly as she gives a sad smile.

  “I couldn’t have done it without you. Actually, I could’ve…”

  “Thanks.” She laughs.

  “…but I’m glad I didn’t have to.” I laugh too.

  “I understand.” She doesn’t look offended. “You don’t need me.”

  “Perhaps not, but I like having you around,” I admit, my voice lowering. “You’re not like the others.”

  “Thanks,” she mutters, a smile on her perfect lips.

  I turn and leave as heat crosses my cheeks. I’m blushing. I pick up my Rubik’s Cube from the bowl that’s been placed beyond the glass doors for my belongings, then head for dinner, all the while trying to ignore the fluttering in my tummy.

  16

  BRAM

  The Dome fades in my visor.

  “And you’re clear,” Hartman mutters in my earpiece. I sense a slight wobble in his voice, and the line opens again as though he’s about to say something else, but I don’t hear what it is.

  My head is yanked back violently, the visor ripped from my face. The blue glow from the scanners inside illuminates the hard, creased face of my attacker.

  “Dr. Wells!” Hartman shouts as his silhouette leaps over his control desk in my peripheral vision and bounds across the studio toward me and my father.

  He won’t make it in time.

  The visor comes crashing toward my face faster than I can react. The state-of-the-art technology smashes into the side of my head, showering me with glass. The projectors inside malfunction with the impact and throw shards of light around the room.

  The studio walls shine brightly with the sunset I witnessed with Eve just moments ago, but as my dad’s fist reloads for a second round, the deep reds on the horizon don’t seem so hopeful anymore.

  I hit the floor. It’s still warm from the motors that have been running underneath. I look up to see Hartman failing to hold my father back.

  As his fist approaches for the final time I’m comforted by Eve’s image projected across the ceiling. She’s there to help me through.

  I close my eyes.

  * * *

  —

  It’s dark. I race to keep up with the man I barely know who has taken me away from my life. Too scared to cry. Not in front of my father.

  “You’re lucky to have a father in your life,” my mother’s husky voice whispers in my mind, helping to calm me.

  The Velcro straps on my shoes are unstuck, soaked in the floodwater lapping at the walkway as we approach the mountain ahead. A flash of lightning electrifies the clouds and I suddenly realize it isn’t a mountain: it’s a building. Three enormous letters above the entrance come into view as the lowest layer of thin cloud disperses in a gust of wind.

  EPO.

  “Do only as I tell you,” my father says as a beam of light scans his eyes and a set of heavy glass doors slides open, letting us into a cavernous entrance hall.

  “Good morning, Dr. Wells,” a young woman says from behind the desk.

  I pause at the sight of her. She’s like nothing I’ve ever seen before.

  “Daddy, her face is smooth,” I say, admiring her perfect complexion.

  “That’s enough now. No talking,” my father says.

  “But, Daddy, why is she—”

  “Enough,” my father snaps.

  I keep silent, but I watch the woman with complete fascination. She stares at a computer screen from behind her desk, her fingers typing something on the keyboard. That’s when I notice that her fingers aren’t pressing any keys. They graze the tops of the square letter pads but apply no pressure.

  “Miss Silva is expecting you. You are cleared to ascend to the summit once you are through security. You too, young man.” She flashes me a smile and I see a small smudge of her red lipstick on her teeth. “How old are you?” she asks kindly.

  “I am four,” I reply proudly. She smiles.

  “Thank you, Stephanie,” my father says. “How do you like your new job?”

  “Very much, Dr. Wells. Thank you again,” she replies with the same smile. She’s young. Younger than my mother. I’ve never seen any woman like her before.

  My father walks away. I pick up my suitcase again and scramble after him.

  Security checks everything in my case. Every toy. Every book. Once we’re through, we board an elevator and begin our ascent.

  “Ouch!” I complain as my ears pop.

  “Don’t worry, I doubt you’ll be coming and going from here very often,” my father says, noticing my discomfort.

  “Daddy, the lady. Why was she different?” I ask.

  My father smiles. It’s not an expression I’ve seen on his face many times before.

  “Dif
ferent how?” he asks, seeming genuinely interested in me for the first time today.

  I take a moment to think how best to describe it. “She’s pretty,” I say.

  My father chuckles. “Indeed. Very pretty for a dead woman,” he says.

  “Dead?” I ask, not understanding.

  “Yes. Stephanie, the real Stephanie, is dead. The person you just met was not real, just a projection of reality.” He smiles.

  I don’t understand what he’s saying.

  The elevator doors open and I step into my new home for the first time, but one question pops into my mind: Did I just talk to a ghost?

  * * *

  —

  When I open my eyes I’m blinded by an intense white light.

  It’s cold and my body itches under whatever material is pulled over me.

  “Shhh. I’ve nearly finished, my dear,” a soft voice says kindly from somewhere behind the light. “Must have been quite a malfunction.”

  “Malfunction?” I ask. The voice is female, so I’m not on one of the medical floors. I can only be in the Dome.

  “Yes, the report says that the equipment malfunctioned in the studio during shutdown. Don’t worry if you can’t remember. It’s quite normal for some memory loss after a head injury,” the Mother explains. I can’t work out who she is: her face is hidden behind the light she’s working with.

  “So that’s the spin he’s put on this little accident, is it?” I chuckle.

  “He?” the Mother asks.

  “Dr. Wells. My father.”

  “Well, I’m afraid I don’t have any more information about the accident to give you, young man, but whatever happened, you need to rest,” she orders as she finishes the final stitch on my forehead. She switches off the blinding circular light and I finally catch a glimpse of the fine wrinkles that decorate her face.

  “Mother Kadi,” I say, sitting up slightly so I can look at her properly. Her marble-like eyes have a watery shimmer, reflecting the room. It’s a magical quality, almost enchanting. Her thinning skin radiates experience and knowledge as her lips curl into a motherly smile. Her face is a story, each wrinkle a sentence written into her skin over time, beckoning you to read it, to study it.

  “I thought I told you to rest,” she says.

  “I will. I was just wondering why I’m here and not on one of the medical floors below.” I sound casual.

  “I’m afraid I don’t have the answer to that question either. When Miss Silva gives us an order, we simply obey,” she says calmly, walking toward the door, followed by two other women I hadn’t seen in the shadows. Mothers Tabia and Kimberley. Even unconscious, beaten half to death, a man is not trusted to be alone with a woman. Especially not in the Dome. Not after the Potential Number Two disaster.

  “Rest. Miss Silva will be in to see you in a few moments,” Mother Kadi says as she leaves the room. The door hisses shut and the lock clicks, sealing me inside. She places her hand on the glass and I catch her eye as the glass begins to frost. Just before its transparency fades completely she gives me a subtle, comforting wink. I’m not sure what it means, but it fills me with warmth as my head hits the pillow. I’m trying not to think about what Miss Silva’s visit might entail.

  * * *

  —

  I’m standing on the Drop, dangling my feet over the edge as I look down at the distant city below. My shoes swing back and forth as I watch hundreds of workers study each pixel on the screens, cleaning and replacing them in preparation for Eve’s first day in the Dome.

  As my foot swings back it catches on the bottom of the metallic ledge, and my shoe slips from my small foot, falling into the world below.

  Suddenly it stops, hovering in midair just a few meters below the Drop, caught in a seemingly invisible force field.

  The workers are too busy to notice. I turn to see my father and Vivian speaking at the other end of the walkway—arguing, it seems, from my father’s flushed cheeks.

  I look back down at my floating shoe. I think I can get it. I climb over the railings that surround the Drop and stand on the polished metal, but my sock slips and I fall. Although I’m aware of the illusion, my body still reacts as though I’m plummeting to my death. It’s an awful sensation and I let out a small yelp.

  I hit the screens hard and the ones I’m lying on flicker under my weight. I look up. No one has noticed. The team of lab-coated men obsessively polishing the screens are too preoccupied with their task. I stand and take a step. Then another. I’m walking across the fake sky, each step feeling unnatural as my feet shatter the illusion they are building for Eve. I reach down and pick up my lost shoe.

  “Bram!” a distant voice calls. I look around and see no one.

  “Bram!” it calls again as I slip on my shoe. The voice seems familiar.

  “Bram!” Vivian screams, or is it my father? Perhaps both. I look up and they have seen me. The game is up. I’m in trouble now.

  “BRAM!”

  * * *

  —

  I sit up in shock.

  “Bram!” Vivian Silva is standing at the foot of the bed. “Bad dream?” she asks as I try to calm my breathing.

  “Yeah, one of those that feel real, when you don’t remember falling asleep,” I explain.

  “Those are my favorite,” she replies, running her fingers across the metal bed frame. “Those dreams are the only escape from this reality sometimes.” She looks troubled. I’ve not seen her like this before; it doesn’t suit her.

  “Your father is a complicated man.” She changes the subject abruptly, not looking me in the eye.

  I’ve known Miss Silva since I was a kid, when she first employed my father and we moved to the Tower, but I don’t see her much now. Of course, she’s a busy woman. Being responsible for halting the extinction of the human race has made her the most powerful person on the planet. Governments obey her, royalty bow to her, religious figures fear her. Getting a meeting with her is near-impossible, so spending quality time with me is hardly at the top of her list of priorities. It means I don’t know her like I used to, but I can still sense when something’s not quite right.

  “I know he does things sometimes that are—”

  “Crazy.” I interrupted her, which I’ve never done before. I don’t think many people interrupt her.

  “—out of line,” she continues calmly. “Sometimes his actions are uncalled for, his temper uncontrollable, and the way he treats you can be unacceptable. But he’s trying his best to deal with the pressure we all face. Unfortunately, as his son, you get the physical fallout of that pressure.”

  “Yeah, and I’ve got the scars to prove it,” I say, pointing to the bandage covering my forehead.

  Vivian looks away, as though she’s almost ashamed to see me like this.

  “You know your father better than anyone, Bram. He likes to control things, for life to be planned and predictable. When events don’t go smoothly, when life isn’t the way he planned it, he finds it difficult to deal with. Particularly when that involves you, Bram.” She swipes her hand and audio starts playing. It’s Holly’s voice. My voice, as Eve hears it.

  “My father is…controlling. Our relationship is difficult.”

  Vivian swipes again and it stops.

  I bow my head in shame. Not only did I break protocol, but I criticized my father openly for everyone watching to hear.

  “I imagine those words would be difficult to take from your son,” Vivian suggests. “They are also potentially extremely damaging for Eve.”

  “I know. I’m sorry,” I say honestly. “It won’t happen again.”

  “It won’t. It mustn’t,” Vivian commands, suddenly seeming more like the woman I know. “This is a warning, Bram. Not from your father, from me. I won’t play games with you. I won’t hit you. But if you break protocol again there will be serious
repercussions for you and for Hartman. Is that clear?”

  “Yes, Miss Silva,” I say like a naughty schoolboy in front of the headmistress.

  “Once you have recovered you will be escorted back to your dorm and today’s event will not be discussed with anyone.” She walks toward the door, which swishes open automatically.

  “Rest, my boy,” she says as she disappears into the Dome. The frosted-glass door closes and locks behind her. She’s never spoken to me like that before. Years of running this place have made her cold, but I guess even the thickest ice has cracks.

  17

  EVE

  My step is lighter, yet more determined, on the stairs leading up to my room after dinner. For days I’ve had this heaviness hanging over me, but sending Mother Nina off today and being able to thank her has left me less encumbered with guilt and sadness. Hope begins to regrow.

  The questions that have formed over the last few days invigorate me into moving forward. As does my Holly. I’ve become increasingly aware of how much I value that friendship and enjoy being with her. The knowledge that she is Bram hasn’t drifted far from my mind, so I want to start figuring out what is going on in this building.

  It’s because I’m feeling like this that I go to my bed and reach beneath my pillow.

  I pull out my mother’s notebook, my fingertips stroking the front cover. Opening the page, I reread the first entry, then turn to the next.

  I’ve been here before. Not with a girl, but with a boy. Seven boys, in fact. I’m sad to say that each of your brothers died in utero. I birthed them all and wept while I held their frail bodies in my arms before they were taken from me. I was so heartbroken. The grief overwhelmed me. I’d failed at being a mother even though I never got to do the things that mothers should, like changing diapers, worrying over when to give solid food, or hearing my children tell me they loved me. Instead I got nothing but dispiriting loss.