The Enclave

by Karen Hancock

  And then there was all that talk of seeds . . . the serpent’s seed, the woman’s seed, the enmity between them . . . Zowan didn’t understand any of that, but the use of the word seed caught him, because seeds were so important to the Edenites. Indeed, the one story he did understand was that of the Flood, so similar to New Eden’s history of a catastrophic destruction, complete with an ark of salvation. Noah had built only one very large ark, designed to float and to carry two of every animal, whereas New Eden’s six much smaller arks only carried the genetic information of the Earth’s plants and animals, the “seeds” that one day the Edenites would sow on the resurrected Earth. . . .

  It seemed a desperately glorious mission—man’s and Earth’s last hope of survival—and most Edenites embraced it and sacrificed for it all their lives. Now he wondered if it was as much a lie as what the serpent had told the woman about the fruit of the Tree of the Knowledge of Good and Evil. What if the surface was not a wasteland of death and there was no mission? What if New Eden was not an ark of salvation at all, but a prison, as Neos claimed? One where a person’s every move was watched and controlled. Where questions were discouraged and prisoners were forced to say an affirmation of thanks and praise to Father every single day. Where, despite being Earth’s last repository of human thought and history, they were burning books.

  He wondered, too, where his Key Study fragment had come from before it had been tossed into the burn bin. If there were no people left except those in the twelve enclaves, who had either entered with Father from the first or been born there, then who had brought the Key Study? It had to have been one of the Elders, for they were the only ones who could have had access to books Father disapproved of. But why would an Elder bring a heretical book into the Enclave during those last terrible days? And why had it been here for twenty-five years before being slated for destruction?

  The rattle of conversation in the space outside the sleepcell and the soft pat of footfalls alerted him to his fellows returning from their morning ablutions. He turned off the reading lamp, rolled onto his side, and slid the book into its place between the wall and mattress. Shortly, the muffled clang of feet on the ladder outside his cell heralded the arrival of his cellmates. They crowded into the small space, smelling of soap and deodorant, but he kept his back to them and said nothing, listening as they shrugged into their tunics and trousers.

  After a time Parthos said, “The block’s pretty cleared out now, if you want to take your turn.”

  “Thanks,” Zowan said to the wall. He didn’t move.

  “You sure you don’t want us to wait and go with you?” Parthos asked.

  “Yes.” Zowan rolled onto his back and glanced around at his friend. Parthos stood in the doorway, a tall, dark shadow, with Erebos at his side. Both watched Zowan warily. He smiled at them. “Thanks for asking, though.”

  For an awkward moment no one spoke.

  Finally Parthos turned away. “See you at breakfast, then. We’ll try to save you something good.”

  “Thanks.”

  They descended the ladder, passing out of his sight. He waited until their footsteps faded to silence before rolling out of his bunk and heading down to the deserted, water-splashed Sanitation.

  His reflection showed him exactly what it had shown him the last two days: his own face, completely healthy and normal. He didn’t usually spend much time looking at himself, but it struck him now, with the fine blond stubble of his returning hair barely visible, how much he looked like Gaias. In an Enforcer’s robe, with the hood up to obscure his lack of an oculus, he could probably pass for his brother, at least long enough to get into the physical plant. In Enforcer robes he wouldn’t even have to observe curfew.

  In fact, now that he thought of it, Neos had come to him wearing such a robe. And Parthos worked in the Enclave’s laundry room. Perhaps he could put one aside. . . .

  At breakfast Parthos had saved him a place near the back entrance in the crowded cafeteria, and a plate of food, as well. Erebos moved aside as Zowan stepped over the bench to squeeze between them. Helios sat across the table, and beyond him one table over, Terra sat among her screaming charges. She caught his glance with her soulful brown eyes, held it briefly, then looked away, leaping to grab the arm of the small blond boy beside her before he could toss his biscuit at another child.

  Having earlier noted Gaias seated at a table behind him, Zowan knew his brother was watching their interaction closely. Thus he turned to his plate and, as the others resumed their conversation, wolfed down the eggs, soy bacon, and cheese biscuits Parthos had saved for him.

  He was nearly finished when Parthos leaned against him and said quietly, “There’s talk you went to the surface last Monday night.”

  Zowan froze, half-chewed biscuit in his mouth.

  “That you know a way out of here,” Parthos continued. “And that’s why they’re sending you away.”

  Zowan forced himself to resume chewing and, when he had finished, swallowed hard before turning to look at his friend. “They’re sending me away?”

  “To New Babel.”

  He felt as if Parthos had slugged him in the gut with a two-punch. Panic beat at the doors of his soul, but he held it back with the observation that Parthos didn’t truly know Zowan had been to the surface or he wouldn’t have asked. And the part about his being sent to New Babel had to be just rumor. . . .

  “Is it true?” Parthos pressed.

  Zowan looked at Helios, eating unawares across the table. Then he turned to Parthos, his friend’s dark, handsome face sober. “If it were true,” he said, “wouldn’t I be in the infirmary now?”

  “One would think so,” Parthos agreed. “And I’m guessing that’s why you’ve been waiting until everyone leaves the cellblock each morning before you go down to Sanitation. Fearful of what you’ll find in the mirror.”

  Zowan gulped as panic flared again. Had he been that transparent? A glance at Helios showed he had, or that Parthos had at least confided his suspicions. Zowan had no answers for them. None he was willing to utter in such a public place, at least. Instead he asked, “How do you know they’re sending me away?”

  Parthos shrugged. “I overheard some Elders talking. Father’s coming in today to make the announcement.”

  Father? Coming today? For a moment the room whirled and Zowan had to force himself to breathe. “Do they think I went to the surface, too?”

  Parthos shook his head. “I have no idea.”

  Zowan recalled Neos’s warning about the secret lab where terrible things were done and to which Zowan would be brought if they knew where he’ d gone. But if they knew, why hadn’t they taken him away already? Because they wanted Neos, too?

  Over the Enclave’s sound system, a chime rang softly, and the familiar voice of Elder Sophia announced it was half an hour until the morning Affirmation.

  “When’s Father supposed to arrive?” he asked.

  “In time for the Affirmation. He may be here now.”

  Zowan stared at him bleakly, his capacity for thought frozen in the face of this sudden disaster.

  “They’ll have to have a going-away party, though,” Helios said. “They always do.”

  “Probably tomorrow night,” Parthos added. He gave Zowan a long, intense look, as if he waited for him to realize something important.

  Zowan tilted his head in question and shook it slightly, hoping for a clue. But Parthos only flashed a grim look over his head at Erebos.“We’ll talk more tonight,” he said, pushing up from the table.

  Zowan followed him from the cafeteria and into the mall, where they walked together toward the mouth of the ramping corridor that led up to the Sanctuary of the Glorious Father where the Affirmation was held. Two lines, one male, one female, were already moving past the four-faced statue of Father and up the ramp toward the entrance. Zowan stepped into the line for the men, Parthos, Erebos, and Helios behind him. Terra used to pair with him for this morning entrance, but since her transfer to the crèche,
she’ d had to enter last with her charges. Thus Zowan walked with a girl he barely knew.

  As with all the Enclave’s corridors, this one’s ceiling just brushed the top of his head as he walked. Surrounded by the rustle of clothing and the soft slap of felt slippers on the polished stone floor, they moved slowly toward the open doorway at the top of the ramp, and before long were stepping into Father’s Sanctuary, the Enclave’s largest and brightest chamber.

  Ranks of fat white cement columns of increasing height marched the length of the rectangular chamber toward the altar at the end. There one of the Enclave’s six golden arks stood upright against the wall, framed by twists of golden ivy and bundled sheaves of wheat. Sky prisms pierced the pale ceiling, flooding the chamber with shafts of light. On account of the ark, the Sanctuary was one of the few places in the Enclave where the air was dry and crisp and cool.

  A raised platform accessed by three front steps stood immediately below the golden ark, flanked by two long linen-draped tables. They were set with various sizes of white crystalline singing bowls that the choir would use for the service. Protocol dictated worshipers sit in the order they entered, and today Zowan ended up on the central aisle of a middle pew—the last place he’ d have chosen. Especially today. As he sat down, Parthos, Erebos, and Helios headed to the outside end of the pew behind him.

  Once the Sanctuary was filled, the white-robed choir marched up the aisle in two columns, which split at the front, each side moving around behind their respective tables to assume their places at the bowls. Once in place, they moved their hands around the delicate rims and a long, harmonious chord eased into the silence, calling the Elders to advance in their blue cloaks, with cowls cast back and golden keys hanging round their necks.

  Because of Father’s attendance today, all twelve High Elders participated. They entered in two groups of six, those of highest rank leading. Elder Sophia, with her deep red hair and heart-shaped face, looked a lot like Terra, and Elder Apsu bore a marked resemblance to Andros—tall, thin, gangly, with a long nose, a pocked face, and a perpetual air of melancholy. The resemblance had never seemed so strong to Zowan as it did today. As Apsu walked stiffly by, his jaw clenched, his eyes straight forward, Zowan heard Andros’s voice again faintly: “Come and get me out of here, Zowan! You owe me.”

  For a moment Zowan was so surprised his attention left the procession as he chased after the location of the voice—but as before he did not find it. When he returned to the moment, the High Elders stood facing the tables and the ark. As the bowls’ song turned bright and celestial, everyone stood for Father’s entrance.

  Taller by a head than any of the others, Father was a magnificent man. Beneath an ankle-length cape of golden satin, his white sleeveless tunic revealed bronzed, muscular arms. Golden hair flowed over his shoulders, restrained by a golden circlet on his brow. His blue eyes were clear as water, piercing as eternity, and his bronze features were a study in perfection. He looked so much like Gaias before the oculus, it was uncanny.

  As Father approached, those along the aisle reached out to him, murmuring praises, enraptured by his nearness. Once Zowan would have done likewise, overwhelmed as much by the aura of his presence as by the power of his reputation. Today he stood devoid of feeling, unmoving except as he was jostled by those at his back, pressing against and around him to reach for Father.

  He watched the man draw near, the awe-generating aura sweeping over him with almost aversive effect. As Father’s gaze came forward from supplicant to supplicant, it caught on Zowan’s and held, and though Zowan half expected to see fury blazing in the blue eyes, he saw only a benevolent blankness. The gaze touched him briefly, then moved on to the worshipers ahead, as if Zowan were no more than an extension of the pew. Father walked past him, followed by the last three pairs of Elders, and on to the altar, where he ascended to the platform and turned to face his people. Shimmering in the light of the sky prism shining down on his head, with the golden Ark of Life as his backdrop, he held out his arms as if bidding his supplicants come to his embrace. The worship bowls sang a harmonic tone and the choir led everyone in singing the First Praise.

  On Zowan’s every side, New Edenites wept and raised their hands and sang with unbridled passion. Zowan watched them as if he were somewhere outside the Sanctuary, immune to the emotion and thus able to see as he had not been before. Not just the loss of reason on the part of his fellow Edenites, but the smug superiority with which Father drank it all in. It made the back of Zowan’s neck crawl. How had he never seen that look of amused contempt before?

  The First Praise was followed by the choir’s Chant of Loss and New Beginnings as corresponding images undulated across the Sanctuary’s white walls: a great blue sky, purple mountains, tree-cloaked hillsides; birds and beasts and gleaming white cities; men filling the arks and carrying them into the enclaves. . . .

  The music shifted to a minor key, and the chants grew deep and guttural. Huge waves curled on the walls now, smashing down on those same cities, sweeping away buildings and bridges and roads; boats and carts and flying tubes; animals and people struggling vainly to keep their heads above water.

  As the images changed to the flickering orange flames and belching smoke of the Inferno that was now their world, the choir sang of death and then rebirth. They would bring back the life. The Father would show them, and they would do it. And one day, all that was lost would be regained.

  During the last lines of the song, Enforcers marched up the aisles, center and sides, to take their stand, their watchful eyes ensuring none would shirk his duty. Gaias, of course, positioned himself alongside Zowan, watching boldly as the Affirmation began.

  “Our Father who walks among us, wise and holy are you.

  Your kingdom has come, your will be done,

  Now and in the age of awakening to come.

  Strengthen us against temptation

  Deliver us from the evil of selfishness

  Bring us together in unity to make our world home again.

  For you are the answer and the strength and the only righteous

  one forever.”

  Having said those same words every day for eighteen and a half years, they’d become a chain of meaningless syllables Zowan could recite by rote. Which was exactly what he did now, all his awareness focused on Gaias—who watched him so closely—and on the hard, hot knot of bitter anger that had formed within his heart.

  The official portion of the ritual completed, Father now addressed them regarding recent events, assuring them that New Eden’s atmospheric integrity had not been breached, that all the damage created by the power failures had been repaired, and that despite the problems, they must keep their focus on their very important task, one entrusted to only the best and the brightest. Some of those best and brightest he would honor today.

  He called up a man who had worked hard to restore the power after Monday’s blackout, then another who had labored twenty-four hours straight to ensure the Enclave’s seals were indeed secure against the outside toxins. Third was the block leader who’d held his poise under pressure and kept his people calm and safe.

  Finally he called up Zowan and, after introducing him to the gathering, announced, “I will be taking him with me when I travel to New Babel on Sunday.”

  Babel, Zowan thought irreverently. That’s a name from the Key Study stories, too.

  “They have had illnesses there, and need skills such as Zowan here can provide,” Father was saying, his hand warm on Zowan’s shoulder. “He will do an important service there in furthering our glorious—”

  Suddenly another’s voice overlaid Father’s, strong and firm and compelling: Go from this place, Zowan. Go from your people, and from your Father’s rule, to the land which I will show you. Come out of the darkness and into the light. . . .

  Father was still speaking, but Zowan hardly heard him; the voice was so close and clear the speaker might have stood in Father’s place.

  “But how do I get there? I don
’t know how to get back to the physical plant without getting caught,” he murmured.

  The voice did not answer. Instead, the memory of being alone in the tunnels following someone with a light flashed into his mind. And with it came the inexplicable assurance that if he obeyed this command, he’d be shown the way to go.

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Midmorning Friday, Cam was surprised to look up from his work at a tentative tap on his open office door and find Lacey McHenry standing in the doorway. The last time they’d spoken was yesterday afternoon, when he’ d told her bluntly that Swain was playing her, and she had not been happy with him.

  The remark had been as much impulse as calculated risk in hopes the truth might startle her out of the cocoon of euphoria Swain’s promises had spun about her. Perhaps it had worked, for she did not seem angry now, though she was unquestionably agitated. As often of late, some high emotion had flushed her cheeks, the rosy glow making her dark eyes luminous and drawing attention to her high cheekbones and long elegant neck. Realizing suddenly that he’ d been staring at her far longer than was polite, he averted his eyes and waved her in, unnerved at the intensity of his attraction to her.

  She surprised him further by closing the door behind her and stepping toward his desk. “I probably shouldn’t even be here,” she said, “but with Dr. Viascola closeted for the day, I decided to take the risk.”

  With Swain still in Guadalajara supposedly meeting with Manny Espinosa, his Inner Circle had announced at breakfast that they would be in an all-day meeting on the ninth floor and unavailable until late afternoon. Though Gen had made sure to tell Cam they’d be back in time for the unity meeting.

  His eyes fixed on the small manila collection bag that McHenry now held out to him.