Eve of Man Page 3

  She doesn’t remember any of that, of course, and we don’t remind her. That was another life, before the Extinction Prevention Organization tightened its grip. Before it moved her permanently to the Dome.

  The Dome.

  My mind moves from the water nine hundred floors below me to Eve, five floors above. The Dome is her world. Self-sufficient on every level. If the Tower were a country, the Dome would be its capital.

  Population: one.

  Eve.

  What is she doing right now? Of course she can’t hear the sirens, not up there, but I know Eve. She won’t be sleeping. Her head will be full of tomorrow. Like mine.

  Our dorm shakes.

  An explosion from below.

  The riots have begun.

  Hartman snores. He’s as oblivious to the riots as Eve is, except he doesn’t have the luxury of shock absorbers, motion stabilizers, or the largest suspension system ever created to keep him peacefully dreaming.

  The water inside my transparent canteen ripples as another deep rumble shakes the Tower. Eve wouldn’t have felt a thing. The Dome is constant, always perfectly calm and tranquil. It is never still, though. It subtly ebbs and flows, like a boat on an ocean, allowing the storms—or in this case the shock waves caused by explosives—to pass around it while keeping its precious occupant blissfully ignorant.

  Another explosion. The Freevers must be putting on quite a show tonight.

  I decide to take a look. I climb out of my bunk. As my feet touch the cold floor it emits a soft orange glow so I can see where I’m walking without waking Hartman. The holo-display at my desk illuminates as I walk past, trying to tempt me to work by displaying my most viewed image—a tree.

  I ignore it, and the screen returns to sleep mode. As I approach the dorm window, it senses my body heat and powers up. Funny that we still call them windows. There’s not a single pane of glass on the outside of the Tower. It is a fortress. Our windows are realiTV monitors, repurposed and redesigned for the Tower, made to look and feel like the windows we were once so familiar with. One of the many things around here that my genius father invented. Dr. Isaac Wells. Definitely more genius than father.

  I look out of the window and it shows me thick, dark storm clouds. Default setting: reality. I swipe my hand and a burst of red blinds me.

  “Jeez, Bram,” grumbles Hartman, turning his face away from the light.

  “Sorry,” I whisper, twisting my hand in the air, adjusting the brightness.

  When it settles and the clouds have gone, I’m looking down on what remains of Central, our city, dark red patches representing the colder, more flooded areas. It amazes me that people still live out there. I step closer and look down. It makes my stomach turn every time. I’ve never been great with heights, and this is beyond high.

  Directly beneath my window a hot red glow is fizzing at the base of the Tower. The body heat of thousands of Freevers bubbles like lava. I raise a fist in front of my face and spread my fingers wide. The window obeys and magnifies the view. The lava turns into fire ants as they try to swarm and invade our nest to take back their queen.

  They will fail.

  I gesture again. Now I can see their faces. The red heat of their anger. Some are crying. All are men, of course. Most will never have seen a woman in the flesh. There are some women out there, most of them in female-only safe houses and secluded sanctuaries. The youngest, other than Eve, are sixty-six, the last born before the fifty-year drought. I never met one on the outside when I lived out there. Other than my mother, of course. I hardly see any in the protests these days—most are either too old or too scared. Scared of us. Scared of men. Scared of this world we live in. We are an endangered species now, and women are the rarest of all.

  The window flashes a hot white. The dorm vibrates. It’s not one of their explosions this time; it’s one of ours. Nonlethal, of course: we’re an endangered species, after all. Fear Gas usually does the trick at dispersing even the most determined Freevers, 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 “savior” 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 savior 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 we 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, it gains control of endless resources, unlimited funds to plow 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 little kids.

  “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 two pilots’ 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 anymore. It’s what we train for.

  Sometimes I forget where Bram ends and Holly begins. Maybe that’s what makes me Eve’s favorite. 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. Close in age to 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 preprogrammed 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 makeup 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 in a mating program. 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 fulfill 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, 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 favor of the mission at hand. All the Mothers are. That’s why they’ve come here.

  Her dress swishes around her ankles as she carries 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 conclusions 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 color 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 good-night. 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 anymore…”

  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 bedcovers 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 toward 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 braid similar to the one into which she weaves her own gray-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 makeup, 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 colors 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.