The Enclave

by Karen Hancock

  His words were seized and swallowed by utter silence, as even the kitchen staff paused in their chores to listen.

  “Father is wise and powerful,” said Gaias sternly. “He knows things other men do not. Has he not saved us all? Does he not now keep us alive? If we lost him, where would we be? Why would anyone not want to affirm all that he is to us with humble gratitude? We owe everything to Father.”

  Around him others nodded and murmured agreement.

  “The Affirmation is true and is a right thing to do,” Gaias went on. “If a stubborn child, out of the promptings of his foolish heart, refuses to say it, we have every right to force him to do it. For his good and ours.”

  “Andros is not a child.”

  “But he was foolish.”

  Zowan refused to give in. “If we must be forced to say the Affirmation, we have no freedom to truly love Father at all. So what is the point?”

  Gaias snorted. “We have life, Zowan, and for that we owe him love. Freedom to deny it will not change our debt of gratitude.”

  Zowan glanced down the long closely packed tables, the many faces turned toward him full of puzzlement. Did none here understand what he had said? No. There was Terra: he saw it in her soft brown eyes. He suspected Parthos did, too, from the way his clenched fist pressed against the edge of the table at Zowan’s side.

  Zowan returned his gaze to Gaias. “If we have no freedom,” he said, “we can have no real love. And no life.”

  With that he turned and pressed his way between the opposing walls of diners’ backs to the end of the tables, then strode out the cafeteria’s main doors. A rumble of excited conversation spilled after him. He crossed the spacious central square with its four-faced statue of Father standing by the Sanctuary entrance ramp on one side, the mall with its long island of waterfall, running stream, and plantings of fan palms extending away on the other. Taking the corridor to the upper levels, he passed the library and the administrative and security offices, then followed the long zigzagging corridor that traversed the Hydroponics sector, with its low chambers of lighted growing tanks. Finally he reached the shaft that accessed the animal and agriculture sectors and started up the long metal ladder inside it.

  With Zowan’s staff of youngsters all off at their afternoon lessons, the goat barn was deserted except for the goats in their paddocks. On the message board, beneath the chore rotation charts, a small computer screen informed him of the projection for when he might take the goats out for their biweekly dose of sunlight.

  Having learned early on that the goats especially required sunlight to thrive, the Edenites had set up a protected area in a narrow ravine on the Earth’s ruined surface. An invisible energy field helped shield them from the poisonous fumes’ deadly rays. Even then, surface walking was dangerous, for the radiation and toxin numbers varied throughout the day. All trips were timed in accordance with projected and actual readings of the sensors both in and outside of the ravine. Right now the real-time readings were still too high, the safety window predicted to come in midafternoon.

  While he waited, he busied himself with cleaning out the paddocks, hauling the collected droppings to the composters, and dousing the empty paddock with enzyme neutralizer. Then he transferred the goats that would go outside today into the holding chute before the passageway leading up to the surface.

  By the time he finished, the external toxin and radiation readings had indeed diminished into the safe range, so he went to the change room and struggled into the stiff, bulky, brown-mottled protective suit. After securing its hook-and-loop fasteners, he pulled on one of the gloves, tucked the other into his belt beside the brown-lens goggles, and hooked the respirator around his neck. Then he went out to his charges, who waited along the holding chute fence calling for him.

  As he slipped into the pen, they wheeled and trotted toward the enclosure’s far side. When he opened the outer gate, they poured into the narrow, cement-walled corridor beyond, their hoofbeats and eager bleats echoing in the long, dark space. The corridor, barely high enough for Zowan to walk upright, led steadily upward, then leveled off in a series of U-turns before angling slightly downward. The air became noticeably drier and easier to breathe. Shortly after that, the cement-coated walls and floor gave way to damp, raw-faced rock and a muddy track pocked with old, water-filled hoofprints. The goats picked up speed, the kids jumping playfully as they hurried toward freedom, while Zowan labored after them, the mud sucking at his heavy boots.

  The track ended at a solid metal gate, the goats bunching eagerly before it. Here Zowan finally put on his goggles and pulled up his respirator, then with his bare hand pressed the palm-sized activation pad beside the gate. As he pulled the other glove from his belt and slipped it on, the drone of purification fans sounded somewhere in the rock above him, followed by the loud grinding of the gate’s motors. A familiar prickle rushed over him as the steel gate retracted into the ceiling and the goats trotted into the low-ceilinged chamber on the other side, down a short passageway, and out of sight.

  Shortly Zowan emerged after them into a narrow, rock-walled canyon, the outflow of the Enclave’s purification blowers rustling briefly around him as the gate in the cave at his back closed. The goats were already scattered about the ravine, browsing eagerly on its vegetation, so Zowan picked his way down a precarious footpath across ledges and boulders to the narrow pool—Enclave-fed and filtered—that nestled between the rocks at the heart of the drainage. A large madrona tree stood beside it, mottling the pool’s glassy face with shadow. Tall long-leaved willows crowded the upper streambed until they were stopped by the forty-foot rise of sheer cliff that served as the grotto’s upper boundary. Another cliff dropped away from the grotto’s lower end, blocking travel downstream.

  One old buck goat, Nimrod, stood at the lower precipice now, looking down longingly. Overhead, brown, blotchy clouds billowed across the gap between the ravine’s steep sides, driven by the constant winds that scoured the planet’s surface. Shreds of brown-stained fabric fluttered from anchor points at the top, all that remained of the Elders’ initial attempts to shield the area.

  Over the twenty years since, not only had the dust in the air increased, blocking out more radiation, but Enclave engineers had devised and perfected a new system of unseen energy shields. Extending from wall to wall, they had kept the churning dust and its contaminants at bay for over ten years.

  Hampered by his spongy suit, Zowan settled awkwardly on the rock beside the pond. As he caught his breath—the respirator didn’t filter the air fast enough for one to do much more than sit—he watched old Nimrod turn resignedly from the rocky edge and wander off to one of the shrubs.

  And now, freed of his responsibilities, Zowan replayed the day’s events, his anger having subsided to its usual dull burn, flavored by a twist of guilt. Gaias was right: it was Zowan’s fault that Andros had been in the Cube today, but not for the reason he’ d cited. Andros wasn’t the only one to be frustrated by the Elders’ refusal to answer questions. Zowan’s own incessant questioning had four years ago led to his removal from the student guild and reassignment first to the furnace room, and more lately to the goats. Forbidden to enter the library or use the computer stations without supervision, he was allowed to read nothing but his red-bound New Eden Catechism. In it was a detailed account of the beginnings of the enclaves—and New Eden, in particular—as well as a listing and explanation of all the rules by which they lived. Rules for social interaction, for physical safety, for stability of the community, and for religious worship.

  Once he had memorized the book and demonstrated his acceptance of its tenets in how he lived and spoke over a suitable period of probation, he might then be allowed to advance beyond the status of head goatherd. The position seemed deliberately chosen to give him time to read, and to think, while simultaneously protecting others from his bad influence. After four years he should have been well along in his rehabilitation. Instead he was farther away than ever.

  For
during his stint in the furnace room that first year, his most burning questions had centered around the origins not of the enclaves but of the Earth that held them. Did it really make itself as the teachers said? If so, why hadn’t it fixed itself when man had come along and fouled it with his various emissions? Why was it here at all? Why people? Why the cataclysm? Was it all random? Was there any purpose to their existence beyond simple survival? Sometimes the sense of pointlessness grew so acute, he could hardly bear to go on.

  Then one day in the furnace room as he shoveled refuse into the flames, the wind generated by their heat blew back a section of discarded book. Books arrived at the furnace room torn apart at the bindings and stripped of their covers by the refuse processors so they’d burn more efficiently, and this section landed right at his feet. On its front pages, barely readable for the scorch, were the words Key Study, which for some reason had caught his eye. He’ d picked up the fragment, turned to the first page, titled “Genesis,” and read, “Chapter One. In the beginning God created the heavens and the earth. . . .”

  The words spoke so directly to the questions that had been plaguing him, he’d slipped the fragment into his trousers. It was forbidden to do such a thing—his Catechism made that very clear. It was also common practice among furnace workers.

  Later he’ d excised a block of pages from that same Catechism and glued the Key Study segment in their place. Since then he’ d read its pages in their entirety—twelve partial chapters, as well as the fragmented commentary that accompanied them on what remained of the lower margins. Read them and reread them with the sort of concentration he should have been giving to the Catechism and never had.

  Some of his intensity was born out of his frustration at not having the entire book. His fragment ended midsentence in chapter twelve, yet its words and stories had only sparked more questions. What kind of book was this? Why had it been designated for burning? Who was this Lord God who was said to have created the world and man and placed him in it? Was He real, or just a character in a story? The pages implied He was real. And deep in his heart Zowan thought they might be right.

  Moreover, if this Lord God was real . . . He might still exist. In the stories He spoke personally with the men who served Him—Adam, Noah, and Abram. Might He still speak with those who served Him? He wondered, too, why no one in the Enclave had ever mentioned Him, or the Key Study story, seeing as how New Eden bore the same name as the garden God had made in the first chapter of Genesis. Surely whoever had given New Eden its name had known of the book. . . .

  For three years Zowan’s questions had simmered and stewed, breeding more and more doubts until his yearning for answers became one with his desire for purpose. For three years he’ d kept them all to himself, fearful no one would understand, fearful of being censured even more than he had been.

  Then came his fateful conversation with Andros—not the one they’d had last night, but the one they’d had six months ago, when Zowan dared to release his questions.

  The brown prison of the ravine disappeared behind Zowan’s remembered images of the darkened Star Garden in which he and Andros had spoken. The chamber’s circular levels rose concentrically around a small fountain burbling on its bottom floor. Screens of fabric, wood, and vines divided the space and provided privacy for those who came to talk or meditate while soothing music played from hidden speakers, and carpeted floors dampened the sounds. Star patterns had spun slowly across the black domed ceiling overhead, re-creating what had once been the night sky as seen from the Earth’s surface.

  It was nearly curfew, and the two young men had sat alone on the highest balcony. Slouched side by side on a thinly padded concrete bench, their backs braced against the cold cement wall, they stared up at the false stars. They’d been sitting in silence for some time when Zowan finally voiced the question: “Do you ever wonder if all is not as the Elders have told us?”

  Andros had regarded him uneasily. “You think they’ve lied to us?”

  “I don’t know. There are so many inconsistencies. Like my goats, for example. Why do I have to put on a protective suit and wear a respirator, yet they are fine?”

  “Aren’t they a hardier species than us? More able to withstand toxins and the deadly rays?”

  “Even if they are, how can they munch on plants that grow in the poisoned air and soil and still make milk that we can drink? Milk is notorious for picking up contaminants.”

  “Isn’t that what Dairy Resources is for with all their filtering and pasteurizing processes?”

  “So they claim. Yet when we are exposed we have to go through days of quarantine, endless scrubbings, those awful purification meds. . . .

  If they went at purifying the milk like that, there’d be nothing of it worth drinking. And then there’s our mission. We’re supposed to be reforming the Earth’s surface and repopulating it, yet most of us have never been outside the Enclave.”

  “The enclaves in South America and Australia have made more progress.”

  “How do you know? None of us have seen them.”

  Andros frowned at him. “Zowan, you’ve been outside the Enclave yourself—”

  “Only in that narrow ravine. And I sure haven’t seen any seeding going on.”

  Andros studied him with quiet concern. “Those are blasphemous thoughts, my friend.”

  “You’re right. They are.” Zowan braced his elbows on his legs. “And if the Enforcers heard us right now, we’d be taken away for readjustment. If I don’t say the Affirmation tomorrow morning, I’ll be put in the Cube. One would think there’d be no need for threats and schedules in getting a truly grateful person to express his gratitude. Yet every day we must listen to the Elders drone on, we must do precisely as we are told, no questions asked, and every day we have to say that cursed Affirmation.”

  “Zowan . . .” Andros said warningly.

  “Well, it is a curse!”

  “It is needed for unity.” That was the justification they’d received since childhood. With so few people left they had to preserve their unity, and that meant rules not all liked.

  “If we aren’t thinking alike, can we really be united?” Zowan asked. “Why force people to be here if they don’t want to be? If I refuse to say the Affirmation, why not just turn me out of the Enclave?”

  “Because that would be a death sentence.”

  “Well, then, so be it.”

  Andros leaned forward now, too, studying his clasped hands, the long fingers pale and delicate. “ ‘If we don’t live together, we won’t live at all,’ ” he quoted.

  “Yes.” He sighed. “I’m just not sure I believe that anymore.”

  Andros had no response to that, and Zowan assumed it was because he didn’t agree. They’d said no more of it until two nights ago when, back in the Star Garden again, Andros brought it up out of the blue. Far from disagreeing, he’ d taken Zowan’s doubts and run with them, doing his own digging and asking his own questions, most of which had been met with the same evasion or outright condemnation that Zowan had encountered. Unlike Zowan, Andros had known when to stop pushing and had not ended up a pariah for his questions. But in the privacy of his soul, he’ d continued to think and to question and to conclude until he reached the point where he no longer believed the Affirmation, and didn’t know how much longer he could keep saying it.

  Zowan had been stunned by his friend’s revelations. “If you don’t say the Affirmation they’ll put you in the Cube,” he’ d pointed out, in an eerie reversal of roles.

  “Maybe that’s what New Eden needs,” Andros had retorted grimly. “For more of us to refuse and be put in the Cube, so everyone can see how ridiculous and wrong it is.”

  Two days later, this very morning, Andros had done exactly that.

  Now Zowan stared at the rock walls ascending raggedly around him, their upper edges lost in the churning dust. If he’d never expressed his doubts, Andros wouldn’t have been in the Cube today. Yes, releasing them had been a relief, and how wa
s he to know Andros would take them for his own and act where Zowan had lacked the courage to do so? He felt ashamed, in addition to guilty. Not for the first time he thought of removing his respirator, just to see what would happen.

  The sudden rattle of gravel and the clatter of hooves down the hill behind him spun him around to see five of his goats charging wildly toward the precipice old Nimrod had earlier investigated. They veered around at the brink of disaster and stopped in a bunch, staring back up the slope toward whatever had spooked them. Zowan saw nothing but rocks and dust.

  A little spooked himself, he stood and walked upstream to investigate. But though he made a circuit of the pocket, he found nothing suspicious and finally attributed the brief stampede to a combination of moving dust and herd mentality. He’ d come to a stop at the brink of the lower cliff and stared idly at the scattered bones of the goat who had fallen off it last year. Over the months he’ d watched the carcass disintegrate and wondered what exactly had eaten its flesh and moved the bones.

  Gradually his neck began to prickle with the sense of someone watching him, and finally he glanced over his shoulder to see if someone was there. But the surrounding slopes stood quiet and empty, save for the goats. His gaze caught on the dark mouth of the Enclave’s entrance in the hillside above. Was someone watching him from inside it?

  A rush of pebbles on the uppermost slopes drew his eye up to where a man stood at the edges of the curtains of blowing dust. There for a moment and gone the next instant.

  Incredulous, Zowan hurried up the slope after him. But he’ d only climbed twenty feet before the slope’s steepness and the limitations of his respirator brought him to a gasping halt, vision spangled with white sparks. “Hello?” he called, his voice muffled by the respirator. “Is anyone there?”

  He heard only the rasp of his own breathing.

  Suddenly six Enforcers burst out of the Enclave entrance, garbed in black protective gear. Fully alarmed, Zowan jumped, skidded, and fell down the steep slope, landing at the bottom unhurt. As he picked himself up and slogged toward his goats, who had bunched up by the pond, one of the Enforcers intercepted him. It was Gaias.