The stone has crashed below with a deafening noise, and I expect the Greenshirts to come running. But they don’t react. I’m panting now, crying at my own stupidity, wondering how on Earth I was ever so foolish as to try to go out into the world on my own. I’m not equipped for this. Why, I can’t even make it safely out of the house! What did I think I was going to do? Go to a party? Make a friend? I probably can’t even navigate the streets or figure out how to talk to someone I’m not related to and haven’t known my whole life!
Only a moment before, I’d felt in a panic to escape. Now I’m frantic to get back inside, where everything is predictable and safe. I have to leave in three days. I need to cherish what little time I have. Or so I tell myself. Some part of me still yearns to be out in the city, to defy the fate that has kept me a prisoner all my life.
But no matter how I stretch and twist I can’t find a single handhold above me. I’ve slithered into a trap, and there’s nowhere to go but down.
I try to picture Mom’s face when I ring the chime, and she opens the door to find me, shamefaced, on the wrong side of it. She’s going to be so disappointed in me.
It takes me another few minutes to climb low enough that I feel confident to jump without injury. I push away from the wall and drop lightly. Then I freeze in amazement.
My feet are on ground that’s not inside my house. For the first time in my life, I’m outside. I look down, rocking back on my heels, lifting my toes to see the novelty beneath my feet. There’s nothing special about the ground, really. It’s just the smooth, clean, shining photoreceptive surface that lines most walls and floors in this city, gathering solar energy. But it’s not like anything I’ve known before.
It’s outside! I’m free!
It’s like the very ground is sending electric sparks into my feet, ordering them to move without my volition. I take a step . . . and it isn’t toward the front door. It is away. Away from the familiar. Away from the safe prison. Toward dangerous freedom.
I take another step. My body wants to run, to revel and leap as I do at my most exuberant moments inside the courtyard. But I can’t attract any attention. A third step, and I’m on the public sidewalk. Between that and the road stand artificial trees. I know they look exactly like the real, living trees that once covered the world, thriving even in densely populated cities, before the Ecofail. But they are as false as my new identity will be. They’re just tree-shaped photosynthesis factories, making oxygen for everyone in Eden to breathe.
I touch one, and it is cold and dead.
In a daze, almost in a dream, I walk on, down the gently curving sidewalk of our street. Just three rings outside of the Center, our street is a relatively small circle. The houses are low, no more than two or three stories. Eden regulation keeps the inner buildings low so that the Center will always stand proud and tall. I glance over my shoulder at that structure, a huge emerald dome that stands like a giant faceted eye in the heart of Eden. Although I know it holds offices and high-level workers like my parents, I sometimes feel as if the Center is almost the eye of the EcoPanopticon itself, watching over Eden.
Tonight, I feel as if it is glaring at me balefully through the dark.
I turn my back on the Center, square my shoulders, and walk slowly into Eden.
It’s night, but there are a few people outside, talking to neighbors or coming home from restaurants. I recognize some of them, though I’ve only seen them at dusk or dawn when I peep from my aerie. A gentle glow illuminates them wherever they linger or walk, lighting up before them, darkening behind them once they pass. But no lights come on for me as I go. It is as if Eden is shutting its eyes to me, rejecting me.
All my life, I’ve felt like I’d be pounced on if I ever set foot outside my home. But strangely, the scant handful of people on the streets don’t seem to pay the slightest bit of attention to me. I’m relieved, of course, but there’s a sting to it, too.
Then, unexpectedly, a man emerges from his door, fumbling with his keycard as he moves. He sees my shadow, cast in the light emanating from his house, and he looks up for a fraction of a second, giving me a quick nod and smile before turning back to secure his lock. I’ve moved past his threshold before he sets out, and he goes in the opposite direction.
I’m elated and shaking. My first contact!
But if I’m not careful, someone will notice my difference. I pull my cap over my kaleidoscope eyes and wrap my pale gold jacket more snugly around my body, hunching a bit as I walk. Why isn’t the ground lighting up for me? They might not look directly in my eyes and see that I lack lenses, but eventually someone will notice I’m the only one moving in darkness. I only have two choices: get to a more populous part of Eden, where my darkness won’t be noticed among everyone else’s light, or go home.
I know I should go home. Has Mom discovered my absence yet? Maybe she thinks I’m sulking in my bed and decided to leave me to my thoughts. Maybe she knows what I’ve done, and she’s going frantic.
I should go home, but I turn my steps toward the nearest entertainment circle.
The radial streets that branch out from the Center are usually more bustling, largely business rather than residential. The one I’m walking along is pedestrian only at this point, with a canal running down the center and walking paths on the side. Many of the shops here—mostly clothes, jewelry, and home décor—are closed now, but a boatman poles a cuddling couple along the center of the canal. The waterway in front of the boat looks like mercury, silver and still, until the prow pushes through it. Then it dances like skipping minnows, and leaves an undulating snake-like wake.
Even though the businesses are closed, there are more people out and about than on my street. The traffic all moves in one direction—toward the entertainment circle. Here near the Center, where the rings are smaller, the entire street will be devoted to restaurants, clubs, bars, theaters, and the like. Farther out, in the outer circles, there are no dedicated entertainment circles. By that point, the rings are too huge. The poorer residents out there don’t have the resources to go to the theater or out to eat very often. Still, I’ve heard Mom say that there are plenty of bars out there.
I merge into the crowd, using their light so no one can see I have none of my own. I realize I’m grinning like an idiot, from excitement and from nerves. But still no one notices me. They assume I’m like them, on my way to my own fun, my own friends.
All around me, I see things I’ve only glimpsed from a distance, atop my wall. To my left is one of the towering cultivation spires. It rises high above the tallest buildings in Eden to catch the sun. Inside, I know, a liquid slurry of genetically modified algae moves through sinuous tubes, harvesting sunlight and growing into a substance that fills all of a human’s nutritional needs. It is then shunted to the factories where it is turned into synthetic food that (so I’m told) looks and tastes exactly like the real dirt-grown fruits and vegetables humans used to consume pre-fail. I have eaten strawberries, more or less, though the last true strawberry withered two hundred years ago.
The cultivation spire may be functional, but tonight it is beautiful. The twisting semi-helix of the tubes looks like a sculpture, made only to please the eye. I stop abruptly, looking up in wonder at the massive structure, and someone bumps me from behind.
“Oh, hey,” a boy about Ash’s age says, and I think I see quick recognition in his eyes. I lower my own and turn away. Peripherally I see him shrug and move on.
The brief encounter frightens me. I don’t know if I can do this. A stranger says “hey” and I feel like running away, or taking a swing at him, or curling up in a ball. What’s the right response? I feel my heart fluttering in my chest, and my breath is fast and shallow. The crowd is getting thicker as I near the entertainment circle. Please, I silently beg the mob. Don’t look at me. Just let me watch you, pretend I’m part of the crowd. I feel like if anyone else tries to talk to me I’ll break down completely.
But despite my growing anxiety, my feet keep propell
ing me forward.
The lights in my home circle are subtle and beautiful at night, pale green and mercury-colored, gently swirling to maintain an air of calmness and safety in the elite residential district. Here, though, light is ornament, statement, and above all, glaring, vibrant color.
I’ve seen animated Eco-history vids of fields of brilliant wildflowers, of forests painted red and gold in the autumn, of bright blue oceans capped with foamy white waves. The color of Eden’s most snazzy entertainment circle eclipses them all. The city designers have created a panorama of hues that are dizzying to my eyes. I wonder if they have the same effect on everyone else. Maybe they’re used to them. Maybe they don’t really see them anymore.
It’s beautiful, but a cold kind of beauty. I think of the natural splendors the lights remind me of, the things none of us will ever see. I guess this is the wild landscape of Eden, the human environment until the world heals.
I’m in the thick of it all now. There’s a club on my right. Strange, exciting music comes from inside, and pulsing strobes in a rainbow of colors. I move past it, slyly peeking in to see people gyrating, their arms raised above their heads as they dance. The next place is a more sedate theater with a marquee promising a sophisticated comedy. I flinch when I see the uniformed usher at the door. But no, his uniform is kelly-green with brass buttons, only superficially like a Greenshirt uniform.
I hear raised voices and for a second I almost break into a run. But it is just a crowd of young people arguing happily about something. They’re shouting, but smiling, and I just stare at them. Until I remember my odd eyes. Then I turn away.
I need a break, just a short respite from all this stimulation. Is there a place where I can see without being seen?
I spy a narrow alleyway between buildings. I know from Ash that these are conduits for cleanbots and ferrybots, the ubiquitous metal robots that zip through Eden. I can see a cleanbot out on the street now, a squat rolling chunk of metal that’s vacuuming up everything from garbage to strands of hair and shed skin cells. It will all be taken to a reclamation center and reused in some way. A sleeker silver ferrybot toots to warn pedestrians of its passing as it scoots along with a delivery box from New Leaf Savory Chapati, which Ash tells me is the most popular takeout restaurant. But so far none of them have ducked down my alley, and I’m safe in the shadows. For the moment.
Eden is all so big, so overwhelming! Here in my nook, though, I can experience it in a sliver, which makes it easier. People walk past, and for a fraction of a second I spy on their lives. It’s just enough, a taste.
There’s a couple arm in arm, their heads bent close. He’s whispering something to her, and as they wink out of sight I hear her laugh. Next comes a larger group, men in identical jerseys, members of some kind of team. I get a whiff of the strange masculine scent of their bodies, and it makes me take a half step forward before sinking back against the wall. Behind them is a giggling gaggle of girls. I hear them commenting on the men in front of them. “Nice teezak,” one says with a leer. Another whistles, low and appreciative.
None of them so much as glance my way, which makes me both grateful and sad.
WHAT’S THE USE of being out here, I berate myself, if you’re hiding in an alley the whole time? Go out into the light and color. Are you really risking your security, maybe your very life, on this adventure, only to spend it skulking in the shadows?
Maybe, I answer myself. I feel pulled in two directions, timid and bold at the same time. I want, desperately, to interact with people. At the same time, I’m nervous and tongue-tied and certain that I’ll make a fool of myself.
What’s wrong with me that I worry marginally more about social humiliation than about being caught by the authorities?
But anger trumps fear—always. I’m still fuming with the injustice of actually being a first child and still being condemned. Just go out there, I order myself. Take what is yours.
I step around the corner . . . and bump hard into the broad chest of a Greenshirt.
I know, even as I react, that I’m doing the wrong thing. Act normal. But I don’t know what normal is. I look up at him, gasping, terrified, my wide eyes staring directly into his, giving me away at a glance.
He’s a new recruit, I think, because for a long moment he just stares back. He’s a lot bigger and wider than me, but he looks awfully young, not much past twenty, with fair, fine hair in a short fringe on his forehead peeking out beneath his helmet. His name is embroidered on his chest: Rook. He takes a deep breath, and his mouth works as if he’s about to speak. I can tell he doesn’t believe his own eyes as they look into mine. He has trained for this, I can practically hear him thinking. But he never thought he’d actually come across a second child.
His hand twitches toward the radio mic clipped to his shoulder, but he doesn’t press the button to call his backup. Instead he says to me, “Don’t move.” His voice is very low.
Like hell I won’t move! Anger is still foremost in the confusing mix of emotions, and I look at him in disbelief. “Really?” I ask. “Is that what I should do?”
Then—I can’t believe myself—I shove him as hard as I can with both of my hands, sending him staggering backward. I whirl to run . . . and find myself face-to-face with a securitybot.
Unlike the small, innocuous helper robots like cleanbots and ferrybots, the securitybots are tall, jointed, angular, slightly primate in their movements and stance. They don’t look like humans—they’re metal and circuits, without skin or expression. But still, there’s a sinister humanity to them. As if a machine tried to make a human and it all went horribly wrong.
These are the bots that cruise Eden diligently, searching out any kind of violation of the EcoPan directives. Most of the time they police things like waste, or vices that might corrupt the gene pool, or destruction of public property. But they’re also on the lookout for more serious threats, such as members of criminal gangs, or the rumored heretical sects that believe an ancient folklore stating that humans should have dominion over the creatures of the Earth.
And, I’m sure, for second children.
This time I act more sensibly. I duck sharply to the side as the securitybot begins its scan of me. Maybe I was fast enough that it didn’t get a thorough scan. It might not have seen my face. But the young Greenshirt certainly did.
“Stop!” he shouts, and launches into a tackle that misses as I twist away. He catches the securitybot instead and they go down in a tangle of metal and flesh. I don’t pause to thank my lucky stars, but dash off into the crowd. A nearby concert has just ended, and I quickly lose myself in the masses spilling out of the theater.
I’ve been prey all my life, but I’ve never been hunted. Without the practice or natural instinct, I have to think through my evasion. At first it’s easy, and I slip through the crowds that part indulgently before me. Everyone is yielding and polite, because so far they think I’m one of them. I see smiles, and one older woman calls out after me, “Take it easy, kiddo—the party will wait for you!”
But any moment the Greenshirt will have scrambled to his feet to pursue me, and the securitybot will have flashed whatever data he grabbed from me and sent it throughout all Eden. The hunt will be on. And then, every resident will be my enemy.
I think I’ve gotten far enough away that I can slow a little bit. Running is attracting too much attention. My best bet is probably to just blend in with the crowd. Half of the people are about my age, teens or in their early twenties, and a lot of them are dressed more or less like me, in the student uniforms that are the hallmark of every young person whether they’re in or out of class. Each school has its own color, and the outfits—baggy pants, a sleek, tight, stretchy shirt, and in tonight’s chilly weather, a wide-shouldered jacket—mark a young person’s neighborhood and friends instantly. Now they school like garishly colored fish. Ash’s uniform (which I’m wearing now) is subtle and beautiful, the shimmering gold of desert sand to match his school’s name: Kalahari. But the Ma
caws are scarlet, the students at Iris wear a vibrant blue-purple, and the Cherry Blossoms are a strong, sweet pink. I’m glad Ash’s uniform is among the more quiet . . . but I’m glad I’m dressed to fit in.
Cautiously, I sneak a backward glance. To my surprise, I see nothing out of the ordinary. No signs of pursuit, no commotion. There’s no shouting, no flashing lights. Surely the young Greenshirt has alerted his comrades by now.
I keep walking, briskly but steadily, along the entertainment circle. I probably should leave this neighborhood, slipping down one of the radial streets to a new ring. But it feels too dangerous to head directly home. Without a lens implant to scan, they can’t know who I am, who my family is. I don’t dare take the chance of leading the authorities directly to my home.
Or I could branch outward, away from the Center, toward the outer rings. I’ve studied maps of Eden, and I’m pretty confident that I could navigate through the rings and radii that make up this huge city. But simply being in this crowd is incredibly nerve-racking—and these are highly civilized inner circle people who are well educated, wealthy, and polite. As you get farther from the Center, though, the well-maintained single-family homes and brightly lit shops gradually turn to crowded high-rises where the middle class live, and crowded sidewalks where the pedestrians will trample you to get to their offices on time. Or so I’ve heard from Ash, who has only rarely been more than a few circles away from home.
Beyond that, in the farthest-flung outer circles near the desert wasteland, I would not dare to go.
So I stick to this entertainment circle, walking around its periphery, attaching myself unobtrusively first to one group of people, then another, trying to look like I’m a natural part of it all. Could it be possible that there is no pursuit? Maybe I flinched fast enough that the securitybot didn’t get a clean scan, or it was damaged when the clumsy Greenshirt knocked it down. Maybe the Greenshirt hit his head and couldn’t set off the alarm.
Children of Eden Page 4