Eve of Man Page 4

  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.” Mother Tabia nods, 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 mark on the floor, standing exactly where we practiced 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 show. Nothing else.

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

  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 traveled far: they’ll be wanting to keep everything as controlled as possible, without too many variables added into the mix. Again I wonder what the 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 misbehavior 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 favor 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.

  Ketch has always been the head of my security personnel. I’ve never set foot out of the Dome without him being there. We never speak, of course, but it’s as though I know him, so it’s a comfort to have him with me now.

  He touches the door handle in front of us, pausing momentarily, then standing a little taller.

  The door opens into a sparsely furnished dark room. There are no windows to the outside world, so there’s no natural light. Instead the room is lined with screens, each displaying the familiar logo of the women’s pictorial entwined with a lowercase e. My symbol. My branding.

  Floppy-haired Connor, who is sitting in the middle of the room at a table, leaps to his feet as my entourage and I enter. I’d rather have tiptoed in with grace and femininity, but with so many of us it’s impossible. Ketch’s team and the Mothers line the walls, as they would have rehearsed without me present, and there is quiet once more.

  Silence.

  Expectation.

  Suspense.

  Everyone is waiting for something to happen, for the magic to occur.

  Suddenly I find myself unsure of how to be. Part of me wants to flounce around the room with a welcoming smile, attracting my first Potential with my irrepressible charm, yet a bigger part of me wishes I were one of the Mothers and could blend into the line of women behind me. Unnoticed.

  It seems Connor is also experiencing trepidation. At first he hops from foot to foot, rubbing his palms down his thighs in the navy pants. But when he looks up at me, when our eyes meet, he visibly shrinks. His chest becomes concave, his knees knock inward, and he seems to squirm. He stares at me, his dark eyes wide and disbelieving.

  “You’re real.” He swallows, finding it difficult to speak.

  “Of course,” I reply, my voice sounding higher and lighter than normal, now that I’ve got his pleasant bass tones to compare it with. “It’s such a pleasure to meet you, Connor,” I say, moving toward him.

  “I—I—I…” Looking horrified, he grips the table beside him and bends over, a hand cradling his stomach.

  “Are you unwell?” I ask, my eyes flicking toward the cameras I can see all around us, catching our every move.

  He shakes his head. “I’m fine,” he mutters through gritted teeth.

  Instinctively I place my hand on his slim shoulder to reassure him—it’s an alien environment for us both, and it’s all I can do to offer him comfort. It’s what the Mothers would do for me, yet it doesn’t prompt the same reaction.

  His body convulses beneath my touch, his knees buckling as he gulps for air. Suddenly he throws his head backward as his hands fly to his lips.

  The vomit spatters my face and clothes.

  The stench stings my nostrils.

  The bile burns my eyes.

  I close them, willing the whole thing away. I’m at a total loss as to what to do next.

  “I’m so sorry,” he whispers, his breathing as labored as my own.

  “No. I shouldn’t have…” I’m humiliated.

  “You’re Eve,” he says softly, as though he’s offering an explanation.

  “So I’m told,” I reply, wanting the exchange to be over and wondering what’s taking those around us so long to abort my first encounter.

  While the silence engulfs us, I’m hit with an overwhelming sense of failure. Before it consumes me, I wipe my hands across my face, then rub my eyes. Connor is blurred, but I can still register the horror on his face.

  “Thanks for coming, Connor,” I manage to say, with as pleasant a smile as I can muster, then turn on my heel and head out of the door.

  No one stops me or tries to make me go back into the room. It would be callous of them to do such a thing, given the state of me, but the world is a strange place.

  In an instant Mother Nina is at my side. We don’t say a word as we get into the elevator.

  Back in my room, I can’t look at her wounded face as she helps me out of my stained dress. I try to ignore the sight of her shaking with silent sobs as I shower away the evidence of what occurred.

  I feel for her.

  I cannot shift the foul odor
, no matter how hard I scrub. Likewise, I know I’ll never be able to remove the ghastly memories now that they’ve been etched into our world’s history.

  5

  BRAM

  The corridors outside our dorm are unusually busy for this time of night. News spreads fast inside the Tower. Rumors spread faster.

  “Apparently he didn’t last five seconds in the same room as her before showing her his breakfast,” Hartman blurts. I roll my eyes at him. I know what happened. I was watching live in the gallery, where Eve’s movements are monitored twenty-four/seven. I watched as Potential Number One blew his chance at saving the world. The now-infamous Connor, a.k.a. Puketential Number One.

  I might have found it funny if it weren’t for the years of work, thousands of hours of research, and an unthinkable amount of money that were wasted in a few seconds.

  Events like this are hard to conceal in here. They travel from the Dome to the ground faster than the elevator, and some version of today’s incident will be whispered through the streets tonight.

  Of course, a fabricated photo is now being broadcast across all public realiTV stations to keep up appearances. Connor’s and Eve’s perfect smiling faces projecting progress. To quash any rumors. Besides, any glimpse of Eve looking happy keeps the Freevers at bay for a while, perhaps long enough for the EPO to come up with a plan for Potentials Two and Three.

  “What’s your old man going to say, then?” Hartman asks as he chucks a handful of his favorite mini cheese crackers into his mouth, wipes his greasy hands on his tight-fitting jumpsuit, and picks up his notes on Eve’s behavioral patterns since the meeting with Connor. I’ve skimmed them, but my instincts know more about Eve than her ECG can tell me. I’m ready for tonight’s emergency briefing.

  “He must be pretty pissed off, right?” Hartman continues when I don’t reply.

  “Yeah.” I shrug. “So what’s new?”

  Our dorm door swishes open automatically, the signal for us to leave. Our room floods with the raucous voices of my fellow pilots. Here we go.

  “Bram, is it true?” Jackson barks as we gather in the corridor. “About Connor?”

  I don’t answer.

  “Aw, come on. You can’t keep this from us. You can’t have special privileges and not share the juicy stuff.”

  The whole squad cracks up as we walk down the metallic corridor toward the briefing room.

  Jackson’s always given me shit about my situation. About being the boss’s son.

  “I’m sure we’ll find out what happened in a few minutes,” I say calmly, knowing they’re all aware that I was in the gallery, watching. Pilots aren’t permitted there, but security turns a blind eye to Dr. Wells’s son.

  “Okay, I see. Same old story with Daddy’s boy, isn’t it?” Jackson teases as he speeds up to walk next to me. “Keep all the inside knowledge for yourself. Don’t want any of us getting closer to your precious Eve.” He winks. The squad laughs. He’s such a dick.

  “I don’t know why they don’t just scrap the Potentials, open up the Dome, and let us all have a go at her. One of us is bound to—”

  My fist connects with his jaw and Jackson hits the floor. Hard.

  Shit.

  I shouldn’t have done that. It was automatic.

  The whole squad has stopped, and before I know what’s happening, Jackson has my throat in his bear-sized hand and slams my face against the steel-plated wall.

  Ouch.

  Oh, and now I can’t breathe.

  This is going well.

  I can’t feel the floor under my feet anymore as he lifts me into the air, and I feel the blood struggle to pass through the veins in my neck under the pressure of his grip.

  I instinctively try to pull his hand away, but his fat fingers feel more like biceps, and my own hands flap uselessly as the color fades from my vision. Don’t faint, Bram. Don’t faint.

  “Jackson.” I hear a voice cut calmly through the chaos. “If you’d be so kind as to kill my son quickly so we can get on with the more important task of saving humanity, I would very much appreciate it,” says my father, Dr. Isaac Wells, before turning his back on us and entering the briefing room.

  Jackson gives my neck one last squeeze, then drops me into a heap on the floor. I’ve never felt so grateful for oxygen.

  “That was stupid,” Hartman whispers as he grabs my elbow and helps me up.

  “Yeah,” I agree, and we follow the squad into the darkened room. Thanks, Dad.

  We take our seats at the back left of the briefing room. Same seats we’ve sat in for years, slightly elevated so we can see over the heads of our colleagues.

  I try to nurse the feeling back into my neck and catch a glimpse of Jackson rubbing the inside of his stubbled cheek with his tongue. At least I hit him hard.

  “Good evening, gentlemen—or not so gentle, it would seem.” My father flashes me a look over his frameless spectacles as he takes his position at the lectern in front of Squad H.

  I feel like a child.

  “I’m sure you’ve all heard the news about the disappointing result from Potential Number One—Connor Dobbs.”

  He gestures with his hand, and a video file from the meeting flickers to life on the realiTV monitor behind him. The pilots all watch what I saw happen earlier—Connor sitting nervously in the cold, soulless meeting room. Whispers and giggles flutter around the room as we watch the footage. It’s like being back at the academy.

  My father doesn’t even blink.

  On the screen, Eve’s security detail bursts through the door and then she appears, practically floating into the room in her white dress. I’d never seen her in something like that before today.

  The room falls silent at the sight.

  That’s the problem.

  Even we pilots who see Eve on a daily basis are dumbstruck at the sight of her. Her hair. That dress. Those eyes. Eve. She’s mesmerizing.

  The room watches Connor struggle before the inevitable moment, but none of my fellow pilots are laughing now. I guess we’re all protective of Eve. A new natural instinct. Apart from Jackson. He’s still just a dick.

  My father waves his hand and the footage stops. “As you can see, we have a problem,” he says. “These Potentials aren’t like you and me. We constantly see and interact with Eve, so we are relatively immune to the effects of female presence, but most of these young men have never seen a woman in the flesh in their entire lives.” His brown eyes scan the room and observe the faces now attentively staring at him. His graying hair curves backward as if floating on invisible waves as his head darts between us, his team of six—Locke, Jackson, Kramer, Watts, Hartman, and myself, all sworn to obey his commands.

  “Can you imagine being told you’re potentially going to be a mate for the savior of humanity? All those emotions, those fantasies and nerves building up in you. Then imagine how it would feel coming face to face with her for the first time.” He motions to the screen, and Eve’s photo appears, her flawless skin glowing in the light as her image rotates. “It’s no surprise that someone might have a physical reaction, and we should have foreseen it.”

  “So where do we come into this?” calls Locke eagerly from the front, voicing the question on everyone’s mind. “We just control Holly. We’re not even permitted in the room when the encounters take place. What can we do?”

  My father smiles and removes his glasses.

  Cue story.

  “Do you know how I invented Holly?” he asks, and I immediately know where he’s going. The squad glances around the room. “Bram, why don’t you tell your fellow pilots?”

  Thanks again, Dad.

  “Holly was designed as Eve’s social—” I stop as Dad interrupts me by holding up his hand, pausing me like I’m one of his screens.

  “Before that, Bram. How did I invent the technology—or, b
etter than that, why?”

  I sigh. I can’t believe he’s making me say this. “To satisfy the desires of men,” I say as professionally as I can.

  The room laughs.

  “Well, that’s partially correct. My technology has been sold for explicit uses in the past. How else could I fund my research?” my father says.

  Squad H applauds and cheers him in jest.

  “That’s right. My dad, the virtual pimp,” I add, and the team cracks up.

  “I designed a hologram technology so real, so lifelike, that it could convince even the keenest observer of its authenticity.”

  The room falls silent, ready to listen.

  “Imagine the most highly skilled surgeon in the world able to operate on someone from the other side of the planet just by interacting with a hologram of the patient. That was what my technology could do. It required the hologram to be so precise, so exact, that to tell it apart from a real human you would need to run your hands through its light. It was from this technology that I created the Projectant Program.”

  “Projectant Program?” Locke asks. I can’t believe he doesn’t know this stuff. They’ve all been in here too long. My father studies his glasses and cleans each lens with a single swipe as he considers delving into the program he was forced to abandon.

  “The Projectant Program.” He sighs, his mind somewhere wonderful. “Not computer-controlled holograms but projections of real personality, using real thoughts of real humans.”

  The squad listens intently. At one time these ideas were like wild science fiction and people thought my father was insane, but his Projectants actually worked.

  “Back before most of you were born, my Projectants were a serious consideration for what the EPO called Existence Extension. The idea that our minds could potentially continue to exist without the need for a physical body meant that the human race, in some form, would never become extinct. The female sex didn’t need to die out if their minds could live forever.”

  Mouths hang open.

  “But that was all BE,” he says, bringing himself back into the room. “And before all of you.” He chortles.