Eve of Man: Eve of Man Trilogy

by Tom Fletcher

  The window flashes a hot white. The dorm vibrates. It’s not one of their explosions this time, it’s one of ours. Non-lethal, of course: we’re an endangered species, after all. Fear Gas usually does the trick at dispersing even the most determined Freever, filling them with their most dreaded fear while we watch them run home crying.

  I swipe both hands and the window returns to reality. Storm clouds. Always storm clouds. I look for a moment at what we have done to this planet. Idiots. So this is what happens to a world inhabited by fifty years’ worth of men, generations of boys without hope of a future. They destroy it. Of course. Three world wars and this is what’s left.

  That was all before I was born.

  Before Eve.

  By the time Eve came along this was all that was left for our ‘saviour’ to save. I’m too young to remember anything BE, but I’ve read the Before Eve reports. With no future generation to inherit our world, we abused it beyond anyone’s imagining.

  Overconsumption of fossil fuels accelerated global warming beyond even the most pessimistic predictions. War. Greed. What we didn’t destroy ourselves the weather finished off for us. The most severe weather conditions in our planet’s history , they claim.

  Selfish. It’s in our nature.

  Our saviour has a lot of work to do.

  A thick cloud presses against the window and I can see my face in the reflection, one of my two faces. This face takes me by surprise: it’s the one I was born with. I run my hand over my cropped head, and my scalp tingles as the sensation relieves some of the stress of a day at work. My eyes are dull from lack of sleep. This face is tired. I’m seeing less and less of him, these days, and more of my second face. Her face.

  Holly.

  My work hours have almost tripled in preparation for tomorrow and I’m spending most of my time suited up in the studio or, as us pilots prefer to call it, the Cage. It’s where we step out of ourselves and become Holly, Eve’s best friend.

  Holly still blows my mind, even after all these years. She is truly state-of-the-art. There’s no other technology like her. Of course, when an organization becomes responsible for the most important human on the planet they gain control of endless resources, unlimited funds to plough into developing anything that may have a positive benefit on Eve’s life. My dad’s technology was on their radar for years but I don’t think even the great Vivian Silva could ever have predicted Holly or that she would become so useful. Social interaction with a female her own age quickly became the key to understanding Eve.

  Unlocking her thoughts.

  Influencing her.

  Controlling her.

  There’s no one more influential than your best friend.

  Influence/manipulation. That’s a fine line and Holly walks it, I walk it, daily.

  Of course Eve knows Holly isn’t real. She’s fully aware of her own uniqueness. Most of us would have trouble telling Holly from a real human, but Eve called it on week one of Holly’s introduction, when we were just five years old.

  ‘It’s her eyes,’ I can still remember her insisting. ‘They keep changing.’

  It’s the only flaw in an otherwise perfect program. Nine out of ten people can’t spot it but Eve is perceptive. Holly’s eyes have to be directly linked to the person controlling her: the pilot – me. My father designed her that way: it’s what makes her so lifelike. It’s what makes you trust her. But no pilot’s eyes are exactly the same. Three of us control Holly, and Eve’s worked out our differences.

  Of course we don’t talk about it. It’s forbidden. We never break protocol. When you are piloting Holly, you are Holly. You’re not yourself any more. It’s what we train for.

  Sometimes I forget where Bram ends and Holly begins. Maybe that’s what makes me Eve’s favourite. Why I’m the one she opens up to. That must be why I’m given all the difficult missions. Or maybe it’s because I’m the boss’s son. I dunno.

  I run my fingers across my head again and my mind wanders. I was just a young boy when Dad first created Holly – he practically designed the hardware around me. Same age as Eve, I was the perfect guinea pig for his latest creation. The EPO went nuts for it. It was a real game-changer. His masterpiece. It put his name on the scientific map. He’s like royalty around here now. Shouldn’t that make me a prince? Hardly. We are knights and Eve is our queen.

  Lightning flashes in the distance. From the way the clouds glow blue I know it hit flood level, charging the water and illuminating Central momentarily. I wonder what Eve would make of all this, if she could see it.

  What must it be like for her, knowing none of it? Up there in the Dome right now, underneath a perfect starry sky. Soon one of a thousand pre-programmed sunrises is scheduled to wake her and she’ll look out over a blanket of soft white cloud. Her belief that the world is peaceful and wonderful will continue; her faith in the humanity she needs to save will be kept alive for another day. That is the purpose of the Dome. That is Eve’s reality. I guess reality is just the world with which we are presented.

  The sirens stop.

  It’s over.

  I return to my bunk, switch on the reading light and reread Connor’s file. Tomorrow is a big day for us all. The first Potential.

  I scan the scientific jargon about his genetic make-up that describes how perfectly suited he is to breed with Eve. It makes it all seem so sterile, so cold. Like she’s some sort of zoo animal on a mating programme. Do I agree with it? No. Is it necessary? Yes. Does my opinion matter? Hell, no.

  My concern isn’t so black and white. Human nature. Emotion. Attraction. Love. There is no scientific formula for that and Eve is, well, Eve. She’s never predictable.

  Eve.

  I realize I’m smiling as my pillow takes me to that unfamiliar place called sleep.

  Good luck, Connor. Tomorrow could change the world.

  4

  Eve

  After a restless night I’m awake to watch the sunrise through the glass of the Dome. Oranges and pinks spread slowly across the sky, declaring a new dawn, the hope of a new beginning.

  The day has come.

  It is here.

  It’s time for me to fulfil the purpose of my existence.

  I look around at my childhood bedroom and feel surprised to see it’s remained as it was the night before – a tower within a tower set within the upper garden zone. Two glass walls give me a glorious view of our greenery, a fraction of the beauty in the world we’re trying to save. I fall in love with it every time I look out – which is the first thing I do each morning from my wooden four-poster bed.

  Yet today that feeling has shifted.

  I’ve woken with a sense of change: I’m on the brink of adulthood, yet my bedroom is just as it was. I’m edging closer to the adult I’m not quite sure how to be. I just know I’ve got to be her and that her responsibilities rest on my shoulders.

  Before long I hear a knock at my door. She’s always standing there within minutes of my eyelids opening, as though she’s been waiting outside.

  ‘Come in,’ I call, sitting up while straightening my silk nightdress.

  Mother Nina steps into the room in the formal uniform the Mothers wear in public – a dark khaki floor-length gown, with a matching shawl draped over her head that hides the long white hair she usually wears in a loose ponytail. At the moment her wrinkled face is visible, but she’ll cover it later. Her tight little mouth, her pink cheeks and slightly hooked nose will be veiled before she takes me in to meet the first Potential, just as we’ve rehearsed. She must not be seen. She must appear invisible.

  ‘Morning, Mother Nina,’ I say, attempting to smile like I usually do, but finding it difficult. This is not an ordinary day, and my tummy is churning.

  The smile she gives me in return is far warmer than the one I’ve mustered. It’s hopeful, which isn’t surprising, as I know she’s in favour of the mission at hand. All the Mothers are. That’s why they’ve come here.

  Her dress swishes around her ankles as she c
arries my breakfast tray to me and lays it across my lap. A healthy bowl of fruit and a mug of peppermint tea. You’d think the importance of the day would cause them to give me something special – like the pancakes with syrup I was allowed on my birthday last week, or the bacon and cheese sandwich I was given last Christmas, but they don’t. Not today. They wouldn’t want a bloated tummy pulling the Potential’s attention from the magic of the moment. Today is all about me being a woman, a perfect one at that. It is a historic event for our population, which comes charged with emotion and pressure.

  I imagine the people will be glued to the news, waiting to hear if the meeting has gone well – or perhaps the event will be screened live for them to witness so they can draw their own conclusion as to whether or not Connor is my ideal match. Then again, maybe they aren’t too fussed. After all, I’m told they have no part in the selection process. I wonder what it must be like for them, having to put all their faith in me. I try to forget that thought.

  I can’t.

  I push the tray of food away from me. I can’t eat right now anyway. Not with my insides cramping.

  ‘Thank you,’ I say, as Mother Nina hands me a plastic cup containing my morning pills, the first batch of the day: my daily dose of vitamins. There are five tablets, which vary in colour and size. I tip them into my mouth and swallow.

  ‘Are you not going to eat anything?’ Mother Nina asks, the earlier joy turning to apprehension as she notices the untouched tray. Her dark eyes shoot me a look of dismay.

  ‘Not hungry,’ I say sheepishly, picking up the peppermint tea and taking a sip.

  ‘But you must eat, Eve. You need your energy.’

  She looks panicked and I feel sorry for her. Mother Nina has been my main caregiver for as long as I can remember – she was here long before Holly arrived. My childhood memories are peppered with images of her. Her kind face has always been the first to greet me in the morning and to offer the final goodnight. Her duty is to keep me fed, clothed, healthy, educated and happy. By not complying with her offer of breakfast I’m making her fail in her first task on the most important day of my adult life.

  Her worried expression forces me to pick up my fork and pop three pieces of chopped pear into my mouth. My throat constricts and I gag, yet I continue.

  ‘Thank you.’ Mother Nina bows, relief flitting across her face. ‘And perhaps some banana? You know how privileged you are to have such food. It doesn’t grow outside any more …’

  I sigh, but fork some into my mouth. Mother Nature has cut out bananas as well as girls. I’m pretty sure Mother Nina only says such things to spur me into eating. It’s a regular tactic she employs.

  ‘Good girl.’ She smiles, picking up the tray and placing it on my bedside table – she’ll be hoping I decide to graze on it later. She turns back to me with her hands on her chest. ‘We’re all ready when you are.’

  ‘Then let’s begin.’ I half smile, taking another gulp of my tea, then throw back the bed covers and head to the bathroom.

  My feelings about today are complex, although one thing is clear: I want to get through it as painlessly as possible. I want it over with. I’m not being dismissive of what’s planned: my whole life has been gearing up towards these encounters – but they’ll be easier to deal with once I know what I’m walking into. Now it’s the unknown. Today’s will be the worst of the three meetings.

  Once I’m showered, several of the Mothers venture in to help. Mother Kadi, petite at just over five foot, works on my hair. Her tiny hands – marked with tattoos from her previous life – work their magic. She gives me a plait similar to the one into which she weaves her own grey-streaked black hair. It loops across the front like a band, taking hair away from my face, but the rest is left loose in waves. Mother Kimberley assists Mother Tabia with my make-up, handing her a variety of brushes and pots so seriously that I feel as though I’m on an operating table – in a life-or-death situation. Mother Kimberley is the youngest of the Mothers at sixty-seven, and the only one to have flaming red hair. Her personality is usually just as bright, but not today when Mother Tabia is bossing her around. I’ll lovingly refer to Mother Tabia as the strict one but she’s nowhere near as cold as Vivian, although she takes pride in having been chosen to report back to those in charge. I know this is so because the others clam up whenever she’s around.

  Mother Tabia’s hand moves across my face, buffing, dabbing and stroking, expertly accentuating my finer features and diminishing my flaws.

  Everyone is intensely focused on doing their jobs to perfection. They have played a huge part in my upbringing but now I sense disconnection in them because today is about so much more than raising a little girl.

  One by one they complete their tasks and leave.

  I slip out of my robe and stand in my underwear. Today I don’t get a say in my outfit. It was designed many months ago specifically for this occasion.

  I’m not in a shapeless sack, like the dresses the Mothers have been ordered to wear. Instead my womanly form is celebrated in a cream A-line gown with a scoop neckline and short sleeves. It’s floor-length, like the Mothers’, but the skirt is beautifully swishy. The bodice is beaded, and a diamanté belt fastens around my waist, making it look tiny. I turn from side to side to take it all in, then slip my feet into the pink ballet pumps Mother Nina has placed on the floor in front of me.

  ‘Gosh …’ she breathes, her hands covering her mouth as she straightens and looks at me.

  There are moments when Mother Nina feels less like my first maid and more like my mother, or at least what I imagine a mother to be. This is one of those moments. Pride colours her face. She cares about me.

  And, for that, I love her.

  I turn to the mirror and see myself in my special dress. I marvel at the effort the Mothers have put into this version of me. Made up. Made better. Improved. I don’t recognize the woman before me but, rather, everything she symbolizes. She’s not me. She’s theirs, and this is part of the show they long to see.

  The Mothers have poured their love and time into me.

  Please, let it not be in vain.

  It’s time to meet the first Potential, and move one step closer to survival.

  As I walk out of my room all of the Mothers are waiting expectantly. They gasp, voicing their admiration with tears in their eyes, and shaking their heads in disbelief that this day has finally arrived.

  ‘Feels like only yesterday I was getting ready for my first date,’ weeps Mother Kimberley, sniffing into her sleeve.

  ‘Certainly reminds me of my youth,’ whispers Mother Kadi, her wise eyes filling with memories from a time I’ll never know.

  ‘Very beautiful,’ nods Mother Tabia, curt yet kind.

  I chuckle as I wave away their compliments. With a nervous wobble in my step, I walk through them and hit my marker on the floor, standing exactly where we practised in rehearsals. They fall into formation around me, Mother Nina standing to my right, the others branching out, giving me wings. I hear the fabric of their dresses rustling as they cover their faces. Only their eyes may be on show. Nothing else.

  Once there is silence I lead us into the lift. As soon as we’re all inside, the doors close automatically, my tummy somersaulting as it lurches us downwards.

  For the most part I’m held in the Dome upstairs and people come to me, but men are forbidden. I’ve never even seen the male security team in our safe haven. I’m told temptation is an evil that many fail to resist. I’m frequently warned about it. Apparently it’s best for men and women to be kept apart so that the risk isn’t there. They give me the Mothers and Holly. Seeing anyone else is a treat – especially real humans under the age of sixty-five.

  When the doors slide open we find a small security team waiting to escort us the rest of the way. Their presence tells me we are away from the Dome, although I doubt we’ve travelled far: they’ll be wanting to keep everything as controlled as possible, without too many variables added into the mix. Again I wonder what t
he people are being shown.

  I don’t recognize the space around me, but I know the faces of the men standing to attention. I’ve spent hours piecing them together from what I’ve seen in my peripheral vision. Talking to or looking directly at them is strictly forbidden, of course. I’ve been told it could give the wrong impression to pay any attention to them, or their focus on their task might slacken. Their duty is to serve me.

  ‘He’s waiting,’ barks Vivian Silva, as soon as she spots us, as though we’re late. I know we’re not but perhaps it’s her own impatience or apprehension over the meeting that is causing her irritation … Or she might still be annoyed over my misbehaviour on the Drop. I wonder how long she’ll make me grovel for it. She never used to be quite so stern or unyielding. We were closer when I was younger but things have become strained between us over the years.

  Vivian marches ahead, gesturing for us to follow. The security team divides into two – half walking in front of me, the rest behind the Mothers. Vivian stops abruptly outside a closed door and steps aside.

  ‘I’ll be watching,’ she says, glancing along the corridor to where a door stands ajar, allowing me to see the many screens depicting various angles of the room I’m about to enter. As I expected, I shall be watched. It has to be documented. If Connor and I have a future together, today will be the making of history: the footage taken will be shown again and again to future generations. Our story will be sacred and cherished, or used as a stern warning to ensure the same doesn’t happen again.

  I take a deep breath and my muscles loosen a touch.

  I give Vivian a nod – I could’ve done with being in her favour today but instead she seems to be viewing me as a child who’s ruining her hard work. I want this to go well as much as she does.