by Tom Fletcher
I always want to believe that their role with me is far more personal than them 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 demeanour 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 the lot?’ 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 think 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 advert into the mess hall. Adverts like this are displayed throughout the Tower. Whatever the EPO want us to see, whatever they’re 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 white, clean, 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.
‘Sssh!’ 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, but 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 ca
tches up with our ambition.
You don’t have to be the last women on earth. Visit your nearest EPO cryo-clinic today.
The screens become translucent again, returning the room to its green glory.
‘You think Eve has any idea her mum’s lying in a freezer a few floors below her?’ Jackson asks, as he stands and heads to the now full buffet.
‘Oh, yeah, of course, like she knows that one third of her best friend Holly’s personality is a complete tool,’ Kramer jokes.
‘Crazy to think she’s so oblivious to all this,’ Locke adds.
‘I’m not sure she’s as oblivious as she lets everyone believe.’ I can’t help but get involved in this conversation.
The Cold Storage levels below us take up the majority of the Tower’s square footage. They are full of preserved women, frozen in time, saving their bodies for the future, in the hope that one day they’ll be thawed into a new world where science has solved this devastating puzzle.
‘You ever been down there?’ Jackson asks.
‘Cold Storage? No, why?’ I ask.
‘Just wondered.’ He sniggers, shoving some bread into his mouth.
Locke elbows him in the ribs as we line up to get food.
‘What have you been doing in Cold Storage?’ Hartman asks. I’m not sure any of us really wants to know the answer.
‘I should report you for that,’ Kramer warns.
‘Yeah, go ahead, and maybe I’ll tell Dr Wells what you and Holly do after hours in the studio,’ Jackson calmly replies.
Kramer goes bright red, opens his mouth to say something, closes it again and sits at the table defeated.
‘I guess we’ve all got our guilty pleasures in here. We’re all men when it comes down to it. Same programming.’ Jackson grabs his balls with one hand while carrying his plate of meat in the other. ‘Right, Bram?’
Everyone falls silent and looks at me, waiting for my response. Obviously they know what happened with me and Eve.
‘So who is on duty today?’ I ask, not taking Jackson’s bait. ‘How is she?’
Silence.
The table take quick glances at each other and avoid making eye contact with me.
‘What?’ I ask.
‘Look, man, I hate to be the bearer of bad news,’ Watts says, with an awkward smile.
‘We’ve been given direct orders not to discuss with you anything that happens in the Dome,’ Jackson interrupts, delivering the punchline. I can’t help but notice the slightest twitch of a smile at the edge of his mouth. ‘It’s for Eve’s safety.’
My blood boils. Hartman places his hand on my arm and I realize I’m clenching my fist.
Jackson stares at me, begging me to do it.
I breathe deeply. I’m in enough trouble as it is at the moment. Jackson knows it. I relax and smile. I take a bite of my bread.
‘You know, you gotta control that temper of yours, Bram,’ Jackson says, through his mouthful of food. ‘You’re a real loose cannon, one minute all smiles, the next you wanna throw that fist around. Unpredictable. You know who else was like that? Eve’s dad, and look what they did with him!’
‘Eve’s dad was a lunatic. He got what was coming.’ Hartman joins in the conversation.
‘You believe all that?’ Watts deals in.
Silence falls on the group as the squad shoot him a look. Words can be dangerous in a world where the walls have ears.
‘There’s more to all that than we’ll ever know.’ Jackson breaks the moment. ‘Only those at the top are in on it.’
‘What’s that supposed to mean?’ I ask, noticing the little look Jackson gave me when he said it.
‘Nothing,’ he replies.
‘No, go on, those at the top . You mean my father?’ I ask, defensive of him for the first time ever. It’s a strange sensation.
‘Yeah, I guess. Never really thought about it like that.’ Jackson shrugs. ‘Maybe you know too.’ He laughs.
I take a moment to absorb what he’s suggesting. ‘Is that what you all think?’ I ask the team. ‘That I’m part of some sort of grand conspiracy that ripped Eve away from her family?’
My so-called friends look around at each other and unconvincingly shake their heads.
‘No, man, we know you’re one of us,’ Locke says, but I detect a hint of uncertainty in them all. Like they’ve thought it, even if they don’t believe it.
‘I’m going to finish eating in the dorm,’ I say to Hartman, leaving him to conspire with the others.
30
Bram
I walk for a while. My body moves through the seemingly infinite corridors of the Tower while my thoughts navigate the complex corridors of my mind. So many dead-ends, so many unanswered questions. Eve’s mother and the conspiracies around her death, most of which were born from the interviews her father gave in the weeks that followed, when he was cut off from Eve, before he tried to kidnap her.
They murdered her.
My mind recalls his voice from one of the many interviews he gave. Distraught and desperate. A man who’d just witnessed the death of his wife. A man half responsible for creating the most famous person on the planet. Father to the most important human ever to live.
Enough to drive him insane?
Maybe.
I pass two EPO employees, both technicians judging by their navy blue uniforms.
‘Sir.’ They salute.
I nod. I hate the rank system here. The greying men are probably three times my age and yet, because of my job, they are made to salute me, take orders from me even, if that’s what I wish.
I’ve always felt that life experience, age, miles on the clock, stands for some sort of rank, deserves some authority. Not in here, it seems.
As my thoughts settle I realize I’ve walked past the entrance to the wing that holds our dorm. I’ve reached the nearest lift to our living quarters. The metallic ball swishes elegantly upwards past our floor behind vacuum-sealed glass doors, its light reflecting on the polished black floor.
Without thinking, I wave my hand over the sensor to call one to stop. It arrives within five seconds, which still amazes me: there are 1,000 floors in this place.
The doors slide open silently and I step inside the round pod. As I enter, a small beam of light fires into my eyes, scanning my retinas.
‘Good evening, Mr Wells ,’ the automated voice greets me. I can’t stand being called that.
‘Mr Wells is my father’s name. I’m Bram. Just Bram.’ I instruct and the system understands. I have to instruct it like this every day as the EPO refuse to reprogram it to recognize me by my first name, like everyone else does. Damn regulations.
‘Very well, Just Bram. Where do you require me to take you? ’ the voice asks, which I think is its attempt at a joke. I found it funny when I was ten. Eight years later? The joke’s worn off.
‘CS, twenty-four,’ I say. Cold Storage.
The beam of light fires again: the system is double-checking my security clearance.
I wait. The lift has not moved since I stepped inside.
‘Of course, Just Bram. On our way. Would you like to listen to some music on the journey? ’ the voice asks.
‘No, thanks,’ I say, declining the optional entertainment we’re offered when riding alone in a lift.
We descend. My eardrums throb with the rapid change in altitude. Through the transparent walls of my carriage I see floor after floor of the Tower shoot by, each level occupied by enough personnel to fill a town. All male, of course.
Men working in kitchens.
Men working in engineering.
Men working in the research laboratories.
There is a female sanctuary in the Tower, the upper level. The Dome. The Mothers are safe there, protected. It’s an honour for them to live there. I’m headed to the only other place women are permitted within these walls – Cold Storage.
They’re either confined to the Dome, passively keeping up appearances for Eve, or frozen in the basement. If Mother Natu
re is observing us, it’s no wonder she won’t provide us with any more women.
‘CS, twenty-four, Just Bram ,’ the lift announces, as we slow to a stop and the doors hiss open. Cold air floods the lift. It’s refreshing. I breathe in its artifice, savouring the taste of whatever chemicals they pump around here to keep it sterile.
I step into the dimly lit lobby.
‘Hello, young man.’ A familiar face smiles at me through the dark.
‘Good evening, Stephanie,’ I say, stepping towards the reception desk for Cold Storage.
‘It’s been a while,’ she says, flashing me those perfect teeth smudged with the tiniest speck of red lipstick.
‘Busy times. Lots happening, these days,’ I reply.
‘There’s always time for your mother, young man,’ she teases, speaking to me as if I’m still the same boy who walked through the doors to the EPO all those years ago. A lot has changed. Not just for me but for her too.
‘Actually, don’t log me in yet.’ I reach out to stop her fingers typing and she instantly snatches her hands away before we touch.
‘Sorry, I …’
‘No, it’s okay.’ She smiles. ‘It’s just, no one touches us.’
I nod and she places her hands back.
‘I’ll give you five minutes before I log you in, but only because you’re a good boy who doesn’t forget his mama, okay?’
‘Thanks, Stephanie.’ I smile, and she nods for me to carry on.
It must be tough for her down here. Hidden away where no one remembers her. No one questions her existence. I stare down the empty halls ahead of me and wonder what a Projectant would do down here all day. This place doesn’t get many visitors.
It suddenly occurs to me that she must be down here too. Stephanie. The real Stephanie. Her frozen body, suspended in eternal sleep while her mind lives a hundred feet away, sitting behind a cold desk. Some afterlife!
I pass a man walking in the opposite direction. He hides his teary eyes from me as I catch a glimpse at his security uniform beneath his long coat. He doesn’t even glance in my direction, not that it would matter if he saw me. I’m cleared to be down here. Pilots have free run of the Tower for the most part. There are exceptions, of course. We can’t just waltz into the Dome, for obvious reasons, and Miss Silva’s quarters are by invitation only.