Eve of Man

by Giovanna Fletcher

“Gentlemen, you look like you’ve seen a ghost. Shall we focus on the task at hand? I’d hate for any of you to fall to your deaths today.” She smirks. Her words sober the men up as she walks back down the line and out through the open hatch.

  “Follow me onto the walkway, please, and remember to pick up an Oxynate as you exit,” she says calmly, holding up a small nasal device as her projection steps out of sight, causing gossipy whispers to erupt among the crowd.

  “Walkway? Shit,” I hiss at Hartman. “What’s going on? Has something happened in the Dome?” My heart stops. If this isn’t a drill, if this is a real evac, what’s happened? Where’s Eve? Who’s with her?

  “Don’t stop, you idiot!” A gruff bald man shoves me from behind and I’m thrust farther into the tunnel. “We want to see the hologram.”

  “She’s a Projecta—okay, okay,” I say, getting shoved along the tunnel.

  There are holograms at work throughout the Tower, even out in Central. Programmed organized particles of light that perform menial, nonphysical tasks, glorified computer programs. The more advanced tasks were offered to the remnants of my father’s abandoned Projectant Program. Overseeing the emergency evacuation procedure is obviously too unpredictable to leave to a preprogrammed hologram. It requires a thinking mind. Even if it is an uploaded one.

  We creep along the wall toward the opening, toward the outside. My head is spinning. Why am I here? I should be with Eve right now. I would have been with her, as Holly, if I hadn’t been such a dumbass. I should be calming her, comforting her, protecting her, like I did before.

  Blinding light hits my eyes and stings my retinas. The air in my lungs is freezing and takes my breath away, like I’ve jumped into an icy pool.

  We’re outside.

  “Don’t forget one of these,” Hartman hisses, shoving a small piece of plastic into my hands. I quickly insert the Oxynate into my nose—a small, strawlike tube in each nostril—and feel the cool stream of oxygen begin to flow.

  “Breathe slow. These things don’t last long,” Hartman explains. “They hold just enough oxygen to get you out and down.”

  “What happens if my Oxy-thing runs out?” Jackson yells from somewhere up ahead.

  “Irreversible brain damage,” the Projectant replies coolly.

  “You probably wouldn’t notice much difference, Jackson,” Hartman calls.

  “Keep moving, gentlemen,” the Projectant instructs.

  My eyes adjust and my heart is wrenched to the bottom of my stomach as the sight before me registers with my brain. We’re standing on a two-foot-wide walkway with nothing below us but two and a half miles of air. This isn’t like being out on the Drop. This is real. Shit-scary real.

  Many people are on their knees, trembling their way along. More than one person is vomiting at the thought of what we’re about to do.

  My fingers are stiff as I move along the walkway behind Hartman.

  “Slow down!” I whisper. “I’m a bit light-headed.”

  “Keep up. We do this together,” he says.

  “Gentlemen,” the Projectant calls as she passes us in the opposite direction. My stomach turns as she steps dangerously close to the edge. “Thank you for your cooperation. I now leave you in the capable hands of Ketch, who will guide you through your escape route.”

  We keep moving until we find our spots. Each of us has a small yellow box with our name printed in black letters, bolted to the walkway.

  “Listen up.” Ketch’s voice echoes over the wind, blasting through sound projectors suspended underneath multiple EPO drones that are hovering a few meters away from us. I’ve counted at least twelve in the glances I’ve taken. Looking out at them makes my heart miss a beat.

  “Inside your allocated box you will find your Gauntlet. Please remove it and put it on,” his voice booms, and we all obey.

  I fumble over the lock. Twice.

  “Let me,” Hartman says, carefully nudging me out of the way.

  “Watch it!” I clutch at the railing and drop to my knees, breathless, hearing low laughs around me. The air is thinner up here, and there’s hardly enough oxygen to satisfy my lungs, even with this thing in my nose. This, combined with the dizzying sight that falls away beneath me, sets my head spinning.

  Not everyone shares my dislike of heights.

  “Here, get up, you’re making a scene,” Hartman says as he stands over me, offering me my Gauntlet from the box.

  I take the equipment and he helps me stand, but I notice something behind him. It’s the Dome. I saw it from the outside when I was young, before we moved onto the base permanently, but not for many years and never from this angle.

  “Pretty amazing, right?” Jackson says, noticing what I’m staring at. I hadn’t realized he was so close to us out here.

  “Yeah,” I agree.

  “I mean, it’s a pretty elaborate prison cell, but still amazing,” he adds. He always adds.

  We’re standing at the base of the southern hemisphere of Eve’s Dome. It protrudes from the Tower above us, creating its own horizon. I reach up to touch its outer skin, but suddenly the entire surface of the Dome rotates. A gust of wind blows over us, and everyone on the walkway clings to the railings. The Dome’s sensors saw the gust coming and adjusted for it before we felt it.

  “Gauntlets on, gentlemen,” Ketch commands. Then there is the sound of metallic clicks and rusty motors warming up. I place my hand inside the bullet-shaped metallic glove, and its base automatically tightens around my wrist, more like a handcuff than a bracelet. The inner glove is rubberized and has a tight squeeze to stop my hand from slipping out.

  “Sir, these things must be over ten years old. How do we know they’ll still work?” a faceless voice cries over the noise of drone propellers and the wind.

  “That’s why we’re here today,” Ketch replies. There is a pause as the entire group, myself included, takes a look over the edge of the platform we’re standing on at the clouds below.

  “Calm down. You’ll be relieved to hear that this is a drill,” Ketch says, obviously picking up on the vibes from every single one of us standing two and a half miles above the earth.

  I’ve never experienced a release of energy like the one that follows those words. A few people are sick again.

  “We’re testing these today so that should an occasion present itself where you are required to take the Leap of Faith, as I believe you call it, we can all rest assured that even if your faith fails you, your equipment will not. Now, if you’d all be so kind as to place your arms out over the edge and ensure you’re standing at least a meter apart. Good. When you’re ready you may follow the instructions printed on the side of your Gauntlet and activate the blades.”

  I stand immediately and hold out my arm. I want this over with as fast as possible so I can get the hell off this ledge. I’ve read how to activate these things a hundred times or more. When you hate heights as much as I do, you make sure you know how to get down in an emergency.

  I shield my eyes with my free hand and twist the handlebar inside the Gauntlet as if I were revving the throttle of a motorbike. As it rotates I feel a vibration, then some sort of release. The sensation of real moving parts feels dated compared to the technology we use daily in the Tower.

  There is a loud swish, like a sword being unsheathed, as three fiberglass rotor blades shoot out from the side of my metallic glove, along with a cloud of rust-colored dust.

  That’s not comforting.

  “If your device releases three blades it’s cleared for the Leap and will be reset back in your box. If your device releases fewer, well, you can thank your lucky butt that this is just a drill. Your Gauntlet will be replaced with a newer model,” Ketch explains.

  I look at the corroded rust bucket wrapped around my upper arm that just got cleared for use and thank my lucky butt that today is just a dr
ill.

  28

  EVE

  It’s been hours and no one has come for me. I’ve tried my door several times, but it’s remained locked. They cannot come in here. I cannot go out.

  I’m being segregated, kept in isolation. Imprisoned.

  It’s crushing. I know they want to break me so that I succumb to their will and curb my own desires.

  I’m foolish for having any hope for a future with Bram.

  While I’m experiencing a growing fear of what’s to come, my enforced hunger is causing my emotions to fluctuate. I’m becoming increasingly irritated at my lack of control over my own destiny and angry at their unwillingness to listen.

  I sit, wait, and think.

  Don’t they know they should never leave me to think?

  * * *

  —

  I must have fallen asleep, because suddenly I wake up to sunshine pouring into my room and the click of my door unlocking. It should fill me with joy that I’m being freed from these four walls, but it doesn’t. Instead I feel my jaw clench and my nostrils flare.

  They’ve left me alone for over twenty-four hours and it’s my turn to play them at their own game, asserting my own authority.

  “Morning,” Mother Kadi sings as she wanders in. It’s as if I haven’t just been released from isolation.

  I catch sight of the tray in her tiny hands as the smell of cooked food wafts over to me.

  “Brown-sugar porridge. I made it myself,” she proudly tells me when I fail to turn over and sit up so that she can put the tray on my lap.

  My mouth waters. I know how tasty her cooking is. I bet they’ve been talking about what to bring me first. The Mothers know all my likes and dislikes. Part of me wants to consider this offering a thoughtful gesture. A bigger part doesn’t.

  Of course, I feel for the Mothers. I know they were following orders yesterday. I know it must have been awful for them to see me punished in that way, but happily or not, they went along with it and betrayed my love for them.

  I always want to believe that their role with me is far more personal than their simply fulfilling the requirements of their bosses—after all, they are the closest I have to a real mother. But mothers don’t abandon their children. They fight for them. Perhaps the Mothers are closer to them than they are to me. Not knowing who I can trust means I have to stand my ground against them all. And that includes darling Mother Kadi, with her inked skin, whose cheerful demeanor usually fills me with such joy. Today I’m dead to it.

  “Eve?” she coos softly.

  I don’t reply. I just stare at the blue skies outside.

  “I’ve got your vitamins too…” Her voice is wobbling and she sniffs.

  I hear her suck air into her lungs and wonder if she’s getting tearful. A lump forms in my throat. I try to listen harder to see if she’s okay, although I don’t contemplate turning over and doing as she asks.

  “I’m going to leave it here.” Her voice is firmer and stronger now and I hear the tray being placed on my bedside table. “I’ll be back in a few minutes for your shower,” she says, leaning across me and adjusting the sheet so that it covers my shoulders. Under the fabric I feel her hand reach down and give my arm a tight squeeze. Quickly, she turns and walks away.

  It dawns on me that she genuinely cares and that the brief contact was her only way of communicating with me because we are being watched.

  Of course we are.

  It’s not me against them; it’s us against them. Whether that’s just me and Mother Kadi or me and all the Mothers, I’m not sure. But it’s comforting to know I’m not on my own in my feelings. The unity steels my nerve.

  I won’t be eating that tray of food and I won’t be conversing as normal. Not today. Maybe not even tomorrow. I’m going to become mute. More than that, I want the Mothers to know I’m not sweeping my treatment under the carpet. I need them to see me and know that I’m not a meek young girl with no claim to her own life. If I have to starve myself to death to hammer the point home, then that’s what I’ll do. Although I doubt things will go that far. They’ll let me have Bram. They will.

  Fired up, I climb out of bed in the clothes I threw on yesterday and walk straight to my first lesson. Dirty clothes, unwashed body, and bare feet—if this is the only way I can rebel, so be it.

  29

  BRAM

  Hartman has persuaded me to eat in the mess hall.

  “It’ll be good for you to show your face,” he says as we walk. “They’ll only be making shit up about you if you don’t.”

  They make shit up about me anyway, so that’s not a compelling reason to sit through dinner with Jackson. The real reason I’m going along with this new, more sociable approach is that since they’ve restricted my access to her daily reports, it’s the only way I can get information about Eve.

  “Well, look who’s decided to grace us with his presence,” Jackson announces as we walk into the mess hall, a decent-sized room with high ceilings and a long buffet counter that hasn’t been filled yet. For some reason they painted the walls green: light green at the top and a dark green border. It’s meant to be calming, but it gives off more of a medical vibe, which I’ve always felt makes the food taste worse. That’s why I eat in the dorm most days.

  “Jackson, gentlemen.” I nod at everyone as we take our seats at the end of the bench. “Today was interesting,” I say, trying to take part in conversation from the get-go.

  “I’d totally have jumped if they wanted someone to test it,” Jackson claims, stabbing a butter knife into the table in the gaps between his fingers. Something he’s obviously not very good at, judging by the spatter of thin scars on his hands.

  “Would you have jumped before or after you threw up over the side?” Locke jokes, and Jackson flushes, then shoots him a death stare.

  “On a serious note, did you hear that more than half the Gauntlets failed?” Watts asks, pushing up the frames of his black glasses that constantly slip down his greasy nose.

  “More than half?” Hartman asks in disbelief.

  “Yup. At least half of us on that ledge would have taken a giant Leap of Faith to our very abrupt deaths, had yesterday been a real evac.” Watts uses his hand to demonstrate, slamming it down on the table. “Splat!”

  “Damn shame they didn’t get you to jump after all, Jackson,” I joke.

  It gets a good laugh.

  “Why don’t they just replace all of them?” Jackson asks, ignoring my jibe.

  It’s a good question.

  “The chances of there being a catastrophic emergency that requires us to leap from this building with those ridiculous things is about one in eleven million. When you think about the resources it takes to replace every Gauntlet and maintain them, you can see why it’s not a priority at the moment,” Watts explains. He’s always been good at keeping up with the politics involved in running this place, plus he loves a statistic. “Then again, they thought the Titanic was unsinkable.”

  “The what?” Jackson asks.

  “Never mind,” Watts replies, rolling his eyes.

  “Hey, what about that Projectable thingy they had down there? Ain’t seen one of them out and about before.” Jackson is still fiddling with the butter knife.

  No one replies. Then I notice all eyes are on me.

  “There aren’t that many, from what I remember my dad saying. When the program was abandoned, there were a lot of debates about what to do with them,” I say.

  “Debates?” Watts asks.

  “Yeah, well, they are conscious minds, after all. Is it ethical to just switch them off?” I ask, not expecting an answer. Squad H thinks about it for a moment.

  “So what happened?” Kramer says.

  “They stopped creating them and dispersed the existing Projectants among the population.”

  “Jesus! There
are more of them out there?” asks Kramer, fascinated.

  “This is typical EPO bullshit. Shoulda just turned the things off. Soft bastards.”

  “But they think they’re alive, right?” Kramer says, totally getting it.

  “As far as I know.” I shrug.

  The green walls fade and the realiTV monitors that line them flicker to life. They blast an advertisement into the mess hall. Ads like this are displayed throughout the Tower. Whatever the EPO wants us to see, whatever it’s trying to push on us, is repeated throughout the day at regular intervals on all public realiTV monitors, not just here but throughout the entire city.

  You are the last women of our species, a mature female voice says, over a beautiful setting sun. Her voice never fails to make the men fall silent.

  Your bodies are the most valuable asset we have for the future of the human race. Locked away inside your body could be the answer to a new generation of young women, but technology hasn’t developed the key…yet.

  If only we could freeze time.

  The sun sets.

  Well, now we can.

  The screens plaster the same image multiple times across every wall of the mess hall and on the thousands of screens up and down the Tower. A clean, white, high-tech room full of silver tubes.

  Your body can be frozen, perfectly preserved as it is, here inside the Tower until technology finds the answer. When we do, you will be revived, revitalized, re-energized, and we will be equipped to start this new future, mothering the daughters we deserve.

  “Can’t be many left to freeze,” Jackson interrupts.

  “Shhh!” Kramer throws a spoon at him to shut him up.

  We all watch the screens. Reflective cryo-tanks, all with their lids sealed, housing the bodies of frozen women, their hearts beating inside at a rate of one BPM—Beat Per Month. Time not so much frozen as drastically slowed down.

  One tank at the end sits open, inviting. It beckons the viewer to step inside, through the billowing dry ice.

  Should your time come before you’ve decided to freeze your remaining years, we can still preserve your valuable body and use it to shape our future once technology catches up with our ambition.