Eve of Man

by Giovanna Fletcher

  Then there are the living arrangements to think about. I wonder if he’d move up here into the Dome with me. It would make sense for my life partner to be at my side, not living out there with everyone else. How wonderful it would be to wake up in the morning and have another person sleeping next to me. A constant companion, not just someone they send in to see me when they’re after something.

  Most importantly, I think about our children. I wonder what they would look like. Would they have his dark brown eyes or my bright blue ones? My curly brown hair or something more like his? Would their faces be square, or round like mine?

  I’m lost in the possibilities that lie ahead. Each question leads to another, and before I know it, the sun is nearing the horizon. Darkness is seeping in to engulf the Drop.

  It’s only when I notice day turning into night that I realize something isn’t quite right. No one has been sent in Holly’s place—not another Holly, not a Mother, not even Vivian. I’ve been allowed out here alone. It’s possible that the incident has caused commotion among the Hollys, but even if that were so, no Mother has been sent to usher me inside, and Vivian hasn’t been out to reprimand me for earlier and banish me to my room.

  There’s been nothing.

  I’ve just been left here to dream. They’ve allowed me to spend longer than ever before out on the Drop on my own. And not just by a few minutes, but by hours.

  A small part of me wants to believe that it’s because they witnessed what Bram and I did and are busy hatching new plans that involve us both. But a larger part of me is worried it means something more sinister.

  A chill creeps over my shoulders and I shiver. Slowly I bring my feet up from their dangling position and pull my knees protectively into my chest. Suddenly I don’t feel so free and light. With my heart full of apprehension, I stand and start back along the walkway into the Dome.

  Wandering through the garden zones, which are usually scattered with a few of the Mothers tending the plants, I pass no one.

  I am alone.

  Moving on to the cafeteria, where I usually have my evening meal, there is nothing and no one. No food, no people. Nothing.

  As a last resort I find myself walking to the last place I ever want to go: Vivian’s room. Knocking on her closed door, I’m greeted by nothing. There is no answer. She’s either not there or ignoring me. Either way, I’m surrounded by nothing but an eerie silence.

  This is how I am being punished.

  I bow my head.

  Loneliness speaks louder than any words of discouragement or disappointment. It hurts more too. Words of annoyance or disbelief I could have shrugged off, but the desolation they’ve left me with is deflating and cruel. Why would they let me fall so far from such a high?

  I fear I already know the answer. It’s to remind me that without them I am completely alone.

  26

  EVE

  I don’t sleep much. Instead the events of the day play over and over in my mind. A moment of total bliss followed by the crushing despair of knowing I’m being punished for experiencing a forbidden joy.

  However naive, I still hold on to the hope that they’ll see sense in my thinking. After all, we’d be working with Mother Nature, not fighting against her. Likewise, they’d have my full cooperation and I’d be happy, not acting like the sulky teenager they’ve turned me into with their bullying.

  Even though there’s so much to think about, I must have drifted into sleep at some point during the night, because when I wake up it’s morning and the sun is shining through my window as usual. For a nanosecond I find myself wondering whether everything has returned to normal. Perhaps they’ve decided they’ve made their point and that I needn’t continue my exile. Maybe they even want to talk through my ideas.

  I soon realize I’m wrong.

  Silence fills my ears, and my bedroom door remains closed, no Mother sent in with my breakfast or to get me ready for the day.

  Nothing.

  My stomach grumbles. After missing dinner last night, I’m hungry. It’s quite an alien sensation for me.

  I wait a few minutes to be sure no one’s coming, but when my door fails to open I decide to get myself ready. It’s a ridiculous notion, my having to rely on the Mothers for everything anyway. It’s not as though they can do it for the rest of my life.

  I walk into my bathroom and undress myself. While I’m removing my nightdress I catch a glimpse of my naked flesh in the mirror. I stop and walk toward it. I rarely get a chance to look at myself in this way. There’s always someone watching, eager to move me along and get me ready for the day ahead, but now that they’re not here, I have the freedom to study myself.

  My eyes trace the pertness of my lopsided breasts, my small waist, and the curve of my hips—all covered with smooth pale skin. Is this what a woman’s body is supposed to look like? Having nothing to compare it to, I find myself wondering if it would be pleasing for others to look at. Does it matter? Yes, because of Bram. I want him to see me like this and enjoy what he sees.

  The thought fills me with an unexpected sadness.

  The fact that I’m standing here alone does not bode well for my dreams. I choke back my tears as I go into the shower. The only place I can cry without being seen.

  27

  BRAM

  So, day one of my suspension sucked. I killed time mainly by pacing the dorm, cursing the situation, trying not to think of Eve but mostly failing. I was glad to get into bed and looked forward to sleep giving my mind a rest. Sleep that appeared briefly, then disappeared.

  I’ve been awake now for three hours and twenty-two minutes. I guess day two of my suspension has begun. Day two of pacing the slick floors of our small room. Not that I can’t leave and kill time in other areas of this vast, city-sized building, but without any idea of what’s happening up in the Dome, without knowing when I’ll see Eve again, I’ve lost my purpose.

  Hartman is still sleeping. He’s taking it well, considering none of it is his fault, but I feel stabs of guilt deep in my gut when I think of how I’ve risked our futures. His snoring is reassuring, though, even comforting. I roll over and peep out from my bunk up at his and see a few wisps of curly brown hair poking out, flapping in the breeze of his breath. Despite all that’s happening, he can still sleep so soundly.

  We are of the lucky elite who live their lives behind the protective walls of this tower. We’re not equipped for life out there anymore, and if we were to lose this…I can’t even think about it. What am I doing, playing with his life like this?

  I’ve had enough of rolling around in my sweat-soaked sheets. I pull them off and slide quietly out of my bunk. I slip on my casuals, still emblazoned with the EPO logo, still uniform but comfortable. If I can find anything to be happy about today, it’s that I don’t have to wear the compulsory navy-blue jumpsuit and boots.

  I walk barefoot to my glass desk, which illuminates as I sit. The paper notes and heaps of files glow from underneath as the system recognizes my face and the holo-screen projects my welcome image, a photograph of a tree.

  I’ve always loved this photo. I don’t know who took it or where the tree is. I reach out and run my hand across the projected leaves and remember the first time I saw it as a boy in my father’s office.

  * * *

  —

  “Are you lonely?” I ask.

  “No!” he snaps. “Holly would not say that.”

  He pulls the visor from his face and rubs his eyes.

  Then something catches my attention. Something shimmering on his desk to my right. My mother’s silver cross on its broken chain. It lies among his files and pieces of broken circuit board, like some strange souvenir of his past.

  “Let’s try this again,” he mutters, not looking at me as he slips the glowing visor back on his face.

  I don’t think. The second his eyes are covere
d I reach out and take back the small cross, not for its connection with any god but for its connection with my mother.

  As the chain slips across the table into my hands the movement awakens my father’s holo-display.

  “When you’re ready…Holly!” he barks, waiting for me to begin the rehearsal for Holly’s new assignment, but I can’t take my eyes off his desk, which is now alive in incredible greens and yellows as this tree of light floats over his work.

  I’ve never seen any real trees, not in Central. Its streets were flooded and the ground was way below the waterline when I was born. There was no green, just concrete and clouds. Gray.

  I begin muttering Holly’s lines, while my father studies the image of Holly, tweaking her programming with magical waves of his gloved hands in the air.

  I reach out to his holo-display and clone the file. The tree is mine.

  * * *

  —

  It’s been my holo–home screen ever since. There for me to look at, to study whenever I please, both as a reminder of the world we destroyed and a promise of what could be again. This giant plant towering triumphantly over a grand brick building in the distance, the natural claiming victory over the man-made. The sun glistens on the leaves in a way I’ve never seen. It’s real. Not like the sun in the Dome.

  I’ve still never seen a real tree. The ones in the Dome don’t count—they’ve been fiddled with, artificially grown to what we consider perfection, but all I see are mutations of their far superior relations. Mother Nature is always one step ahead when it comes to beauty. She’s quite the artist.

  I place the files on the floor, clearing space on the desk in front of me. Something falls out. A photo. Potential Number Three—Koa. I slip it back inside the cardboard folder it came from. I’m not ready for that yet.

  I wave my hand through the tree’s leaves, the glowing greens flowing around my fingers, like we’re connected.

  “Morning,” Hartman croaks behind me.

  “Hey,” I reply, pulling my hand from the screen.

  “Coffee?” he asks.

  “Absolutely.” It’s exactly what I need right now. One of the perks of living in the Tower: they grow coffee here.

  “Can you believe this stuff just used to grow out there?” Hartman says as he loads a coffee pill into the machine. “Totally extinct in the wild now. Shame. No coffee! What the hell do they drink out there?”

  He takes a deep breath and revels in the strong aroma. “Aaaah, God bless science.” He makes a cross with his hands, mimicking the religious symbol for the Father, Son, and Holy Spirit. I chuckle at the lack of a female presence in the ancient gesture to which so many still cling.

  “What’s funny?” Hartman asks.

  “Coffee,” I reply. He returns a confused frown.

  “A powerful plant that Mother Nature took from us, yet we still have it, locked away in this place for our own satisfaction. We study it, experiment on it, consume it, and try to reproduce as much of it as we can for future generations.” He still looks confused. “Remind you of anyone?”

  “The floods came and we built an ark, dude. Welcome aboard,” Hartman says, rolling his eyes at me and handing me a cup.

  My nostrils flare in anticipation of the caffeine I’m about to consume as its scent wafts my way. Okay, maybe those mutated trees aren’t so bad after all. “I love coffee.” I sigh.

  “Yeah, it’s worth not getting kicked out of this place just for this stuff,” Hartman says, knocking his shatterproof mug against mine. “Cheers!”

  “Cheers.”

  We sip and stay silent, savoring the coffee, our unspoken words making us both smile. We’ve been through a lot together.

  The room is suddenly engulfed in a deep red light, and a screaming siren pierces my eardrums.

  Fire.

  “Shit! Is this a drill?” Hartman shouts over the alarm.

  “I didn’t see one on the schedule,” I lie. I’ve not even glanced at it.

  “That’s not the fire siren. Listen,” he says, putting his finger on his lips. We hear the muffled announcement from outside our door.

  “This is an emergency evacuation. Please follow your hosts to your designated evacuation point.” It is Vivian’s prerecorded voice.

  “Shit!” he says, panicked. “Let’s go.”

  I follow his lead, sliding my heavy boots onto bare feet. Our door slides open as we approach it and we are suddenly consumed by chaos. Hundreds of men are moving down the corridor toward us, guided by holographic hosts. The appearance of their virtual femininity has no effect among the EPO employees: we’re all used to seeing these representations of a young female form. We interact with them as we would with any other employee. At least, that’s the idea, but with an emergency evac in the cards, there’s more to be concerned about than EPO protocol for holograms.

  “What the hell?” Hartman says, staring at the commotion as the first EPO employee gives in to the crush and pushes forward.

  “This is not good,” I say as the first men step through the holograms, breaking the illusion. Others follow through the light, and the holo-hosts step aside in defeat, still speaking their preprogrammed emergency script.

  “Slowly follow the strip lighting to your assigned evacuation point. Do not push. Do not run,” they mutter while the men who share our floor scramble toward the exit chutes.

  “I guess we’d better get going,” I shout.

  Hartman and I step out into the flowing river of bodies, trying not to be swept away in the current. Our assigned evacuation point is not the same as theirs. Unfortunately.

  The Tower’s summit is over four thousand meters tall at the pole of the Dome—that’s two and a half miles high. We’re currently pushing through the human crush on our dorm level as we head to our designated escape route.

  “Slowly!” commands one of the holo-officers as a couple of people are trampled along the corridor behind us, the red emergency lighting adding to the panic.

  “God, I hope this is just a drill,” Hartman bellows. “I do not feel like taking the Leap of Faith today.”

  When the Tower was built they had to invent safety features that could get its occupants out and down to ground level if necessary. They tried everything: parachutes, inflatables, small unpiloted aircraft. Eventually two external methods of escape were selected.

  The first and safest are the chutes. Long tubes that drop down the side of the building at an almost vertical angle. The idea is to climb in, close your eyes, and enjoy the ride while you plummet to what you pray is safety as you hit the air cushions at ground level. However, only one person can use a chute at a time. It takes approximately fifty seconds to ride the chute from the upper levels to the bottom. A full evacuation of the building using this method alone would take days.

  The second means of escape is the one we’re currently running toward. It’s what we call the Leap of Faith, and you have to be trained to use it, so only a small percentage of the Tower’s staff are allowed to go near it. Unfortunately, pilots are in that small percentage.

  “Is this a drill?” Locke calls from behind us as we push through a side door leading us away from the crowds heading toward the chutes.

  “Dunno,” Hartman replies as we pick up speed.

  “If it isn’t a drill you’re gonna freeze your nuts off in those shorts,” Locke says, referring to my casuals. He has a point.

  Hartman leads us into the evacuation corridor. It’s already lined with a hundred or so Tower personnel. All male. The women who work and live in here have separate internal evacuation methods, far safer than ours, for obvious reasons.

  “Fall in at the back,” Ketch commands from the far end of the long circular hall. We do as he says. My heart is pounding. A slight breeze weaves through the fine hairs on my legs. Cold air. Real air. Somewhere up ahead a hatch has been opened.<
br />
  “You feel that?” I ask.

  “Cold air? Yeah,” Locke replies.

  “Is this for real? Are we actually doing this?” Hartman asks the guys ahead of us, who must be one of the engineer crews, judging by their stained coveralls and filthy hands.

  “Not sure, but we’ve never known them to open a hatch during a drill before,” the nearest replies, concern mixed with excitement on his face. People love a bit of drama in here.

  A female voice cuts through our nerves. “Please walk calmly and quietly.”

  “Holy shit,” the filthy engineer replies as a young woman comes into view ahead. The unexpected sight of her perfection takes his breath away. She eyes the line, making sure everyone is conforming to protocol. Her black hair is tied back in a tight ponytail. She’s focused, strong.

  “She’s just another hologram, you idiot,” Locke tells the openmouthed man. “She’s not real. They must have put her here to calm us down.”

  “Actually, she’s a Projectant,” I correct him.

  “A what?” Locke says, taking a closer look.

  “She’s not programmed. She’s a real thinking mind,” I say. The difference between holograms and Projectants is subtle, especially at a casual encounter like this, but I remember the program well enough to recognize one. It’s the imperfections that give them away. The nervous tremor of a lip, the slight twitch in an eye; they’re as close to being real as you can get, but, like humans, no one is perfect. This one’s little finger won’t keep still, causing her to grip her hands behind her back to retain her aura of authority: a hologram would never do that. This alone gives her away, if only to me.

  “Out onto the walkway. Single file,” she says as she marches along the line of men with an air of authority that Vivian Silva would have been proud of.