‘Turner.’ Miss Silva snaps her fingers at the lifeless body hanging from the shackles.
I try to move but my feet seem rooted to the spot. I’m desperate not to be the one who breaks the news that currently only I know.
The news that I am responsible for.
‘Well? Bring the traitor round. We have one memory left and if he still doesn’t speak, we shall go around again,’ Miss Silva snaps.
‘Miss Silva … I’m not getting any response from the device,’ Dr Chaudhury says.
It’s starting.
‘No response? What exactly does that mean? Can we proceed?’ she barks, stepping impatiently towards the black box on the floor.
I see the doctor start to panic: he knows it’s more serious than just a little reboot. The classic switching off and on is not going to solve this.
‘Miss Silva, the datastore appears to be dead,’ Dr Chaudhury says nervously.
‘Anything I can do to help?’ I say, taking a glance at the machine I destroyed.
Be natural, Mikey. Chill.
‘Why have you not brought him around yet?’ Miss Silva snaps.
‘What the …’ Dr Chaudhury whispers, as he raises the shiny cannula in his palm. A wisp of smoke puffs from where it connects to the storage device.
The doctor’s features drop as his head turns to Hartman. Miss Silva’s cutting eyes aren’t far behind and the doctor rushes to the motionless prisoner, ripping off the visor and checking his pulse.
‘What have you done?’ Miss Silva barks at Chaudhury, as he tears open Hartman’s shirt, exposing his bare torso.
The doctor shoves a hand into his pocket, pulls out a transparent film and wraps it on Hartman’s ribs. It instantly makes his skin appear invisible, revealing his heart, deep within his chest.
‘It’s not beating,’ I note, trying to keep up my act.
‘No shit,’ Dr Chaudhury replies, as he puts on two kinetic gloves and gestures in the air. A hologram of Hartman’s heart appears floating in the middle of the room and Chaudhury enlarges it as he takes a syringe from a red case inside his pocket. He plunges the needle straight into Hartman’s chest, using the enlarged hologram to guide it between his ribs, narrowly missing bone and lungs as it approaches his heart.
‘What are they?’ I ask, as dozens of tiny insect-like creatures swarm around his heart.
‘MIDs,’ Chaudhury replies. ‘Microscopic Internal Defibrillators.’
The minuscule lifesavers appear at Hartman’s holographic heart and, within seconds, align themselves perfectly, then –
ZAP!
Hartman’s body jolts violently at being shocked from within.
‘Again!’ Miss Silva barks.
The doctor nods, and the tiny mechanical creatures charge for another blast at restarting Hartman’s dead heart.
Don’t work. Please don’t work!
His body contorts again.
Nothing. Again.
‘Miss Silva …’ Dr Chaudhury says, looking at her feet.
‘You assured me this machine would work,’ Miss Silva rages, her pale face closer to flushing than I’ve ever seen it.
‘Theoretically, Miss Silva, yes, but this is brand-new technology. There are so many risks.’
‘Risks? How dare you blame the technology? This is nothing compared to what we have achieved below. Nothing. You have failed me,’ Miss Silva says, and the soldier at the glass stands to attention.
‘You have failed Eve,’ she adds, and as she turns I see her nod at her soldier. The order.
He launches into action, stepping through the floating hologram of Hartman’s lifeless heart to rip the invisible film from his ribcage.
‘No! Please!’ the doctor cries, raising his hands in surrender as the masked soldier plasters the transparent material on to his chest, making his heart visible.
The soldier raises his rifle and points it directly at the seemingly open chest of Dr Chaudhury, giving him a clear aim at his beating target.
‘Wait!’ I shout, without thinking, but it’s too late.
There’s a deafening crack, like a bolt of lightning, in the cell as the bullet passes through the X-raying sheet, killing the image as it pierces Dr Chaudhury’s heart.
He’s dead before his body hits the floor.
‘Shit!’ I say, placing one hand on my gun instinctively – but who am I going to shoot? The soldier? Miss Silva? Then what? I can hardly step out into the corridor and casually walk past the other soldier who, at this moment, is totally oblivious to the chaos within this muted cell.
‘At ease, soldier,’ Miss Silva commands, and he returns to his post at the frosted glass, his breathing made faster by the thrill of the murder he just committed.
‘I’d been growing tired of his failures for some time,’ Miss Silva adds.
I feel a little dizzy. I thought I’d seen the darkest side of the EPO but this is beyond anything I could have imagined.
I slowly move my hand away from my weapon. I don’t want to give him any reason to shoot me.
It’s clear Miss Silva suspects nothing about Hartman’s death, making the Pacify Glove, now back on my belt, feel heavy and obvious again.
She steps over the doctor’s body to Hartman and leans close to his lifeless head. ‘What did you know that was worth dying for?’ she whispers, as though contemplating his next move.
‘I guess we’ll never find out now,’ I say, feigning frustration.
Miss Silva shoots me a look I’ve not seen before. It’s smug. Devious. She reaches into her pocket, pulls out a holo-pad and taps a command.
What the hell am I meant to do now?
What would Ketch do?
He was always the man with the answers. The man who’d make things happen. Got shit done. Maybe that was what he was to Miss Silva.
‘Miss Silva, shall I have the bodies taken care of?’ I say, trying to sound loyal and appear helpful, but mostly to get this night over with.
‘You will do no such thing,’ she says, then allows a silence to fall over the two dead bodies between us.
Now what?
She waits. Calmly.
Suddenly silhouettes of people appear through the frosted glass wall of the cell. Two people. One of them obviously Miss Silva’s second soldier. The second?
I remove my gun.
The soldier raises his at me.
‘At ease. I ordered him here,’ Miss Silva explains. He waves his hand and the glass obeys, defrosting instantly.
The soldier doesn’t lower his aim until I re-holster my weapon.
Through the glass I see the new person she summoned. He is dressed in an unusual pristine white lab coat that hangs like a robe over his square frame. He carries a leather case in one hand, which must be heavy, judging by the way he holds his shoulders unevenly.
‘Who is he?’ I ask.
‘He is one of a small group of specially trained surgeons. Dr Wells calls them Cardinals,’ Miss Silva says flatly.
Them? There’s more? And what has Wells got to do with these surgeons?
Miss Silva motions with her hand and the door obeys, revealing the seams of the thick doorway for this Cardinal, allowing him inside. He is older, with a strip of grey hair that sits like a crown around the back of his bald head.
‘I believe the one in restraints has some valuable information which he failed to reveal before his departure. Would you please retrieve it?’ Miss Silva instructs. The Cardinal nods.
‘Retrieve the information?’ I ask, my heart sinking. Can he do that?
‘No, Turner. His entire mind,’ Miss Silva replies, stepping aside for the Cardinal to access Hartman.
I stare at Miss Silva for a moment, trying to figure out what the hell that even means. His whole mind? He can retrieve a mind?
The Cardinal reaches within his white lab robe and removes a silver sphere, a remote like the ones the security soldiers had. He swipes his hand over it and Hartman’s restraints flip his body horizontally as though he is lying on
an invisible stretcher.
‘Cause of death?’ the Cardinal asks, aiming the question at me, his voice flat and emotionless.
‘Unknown, but he was connected to that datastore and midway through a memory transfusion,’ I explain, trying to keep up with all their terminology so I sound like I know what the hell they’re doing.
I see his eyes flash to Miss Silva at the mention of the torture device.
‘It must have malfunctioned or something, I dunno. It all just cut out. I guess Hartman did too,’ I add.
Okay, chill out, big mouth, before you say something you shouldn’t.
‘There is an operating theatre in the Dome. I can make it available to you immediately if …’ Miss Silva suggests.
‘There is no time. His mind is already decaying at this temperature. We must begin the removal here,’ the surgeon says.
Miss Silva sighs.
Remove what?
‘Very well. Do what you must,’ she orders.
What the hell?
I step back as the Cardinal removes his surgical tools from within his white robe. He unrolls a small mat containing a selection of stainless-steel instruments perfectly tucked inside the compartments.
Inside his leather case I see an icebox beneath the wires of a surgical drill.
I try not to stare. I don’t think my stomach can take seeing whatever he is about to do so I avert my eyes to the ceiling and listen instead. Still trying to take it all in.
I catch words between the piercing whines of the drill and the cracking of bone.
Scanning. Connected. Analysing. Decoding.
Words I’ve never heard in surgery before – not that I’ve ever been around an operation, let alone one on a dead guy.
‘I need absolute silence,’ the unorthodox surgeon demands. Miss Silva, her soldier and I reply with our cooperation.
I stand for the next twenty minutes, glancing intermittently at the brutal procedure.
‘I have a clear map. Removing now …’ the Cardinal says, finally breaking the silence.
‘Good,’ Miss Silva replies.
I’ve never seen a human brain before. I shudder as he places it in the icebox.
‘Removal complete. The rest cannot be done here,’ the Cardinal says.
Miss Silva nods to her soldier, who reaches into his armour pocket, pulls out another glass disc, identical to the ones the pilots’ memories were on, and hands it to the Cardinal.
Soon he will have Hartman.
His mind, his thoughts … his secrets.
‘I want it all. On there,’ Miss Silva says.
The Cardinal nods.
‘Turner.’ His cold, calm voice jerks me back into the moment, and somehow the sight of the two corpses seems fresh, more shocking than it had just a few minutes before.
The way the Cardinal steps over Dr Chaudhury’s body, as though it wasn’t there, makes my blood boil. I kneel at his side and gently close his glassy, staring eyes.
‘Miss Silva, are we to emulate this one too?’ the cardinal asks, noticing me at the body.
‘No,’ she replies. ‘I have no use for it.’
It? IT? Is she referring to the doctor? His body? His mind? It? Miss Silva is more malevolent than I’d ever imagined. Is this what power does to you?
‘Turner, you are to escort the Cardinal. No one is to see or hear you,’ she instructs.
‘But, Miss –’ the Cardinal objects, a frown creasing his smooth forehead.
‘Do not interrupt me!’ Miss Silva explodes. ‘You cannot travel alone and unarmed carrying that information. I am satisfied with his loyalty now.’
I’m stunned.
‘You are to escort the Cardinal and the information he is carrying. If anyone tries to stop you, shoot them on my authority. Do you understand?’
‘Yes, Miss Silva,’ I reply.
‘Miss Silva,’ the Cardinal interjects, ‘you cannot mean him to go inside –’
She cuts him off with her raised hand.
‘Turner is to escort you to the core. You are to leave them at the gate.’ She directs the order at me.
I don’t have a clue where that is or what she’s talking about!
‘Excuse me, Miss Silva, where am I to escort him exactly?’ It comes out more apologetically than I intend.
I become aware of eyes on us. The Cardinal is staring at Miss Silva and me, waiting to find out what she will say.
‘The Cardinal will lead the way, Turner,’ she says. ‘You wouldn’t believe me if I told you.’
23
Eve
There’s a knock on my door. I roll over in bed – Bram isn’t here.
‘Bram?’ I call through the dark.
‘Eve? It’s Saunders,’ comes the unexpected reply, causing a heaviness to land on my chest. He’s the first visitor I’ve had – where the hell are Chubs and Bram?
Calm down, Eve, I tell myself.
‘I have something for you,’ Saunders whispers, through the wooden door.
‘Oh?’ I say.
‘I know it’s early but I saw Chubs and Bram on their way to breakfast and thought … Well, I owe you an apology. For the other day.’ I hear him take a deep breath. ‘You’ll like it,’ he adds.
‘How do you know I will?’ I ask, sliding out of bed and throwing on yesterday’s clothes – they’re already damp.
‘I know a lot about you.’ He chuckles, ‘Remember?’
‘You did,’ I remind him. He’s irritating me. I instantly regret my bluntness when he doesn’t reply. Our last encounter left me feeling sick with guilt. ‘Thank you,’ I mutter.
‘You haven’t seen it yet,’ he calls.
‘But you know I’ll like it.’ I’m deliberately kinder. The last thing I want is tension between us.
Saunders is so emotional. I remember that from when he was Holly, childlike and bashful, and the memory transports me back into the Dome. He was the most fun Holly. His heart was on her sleeve, which meant I knew just how invested she was in every moment with me. Someone like Saunders wouldn’t be able to fake that delight.
‘So … can I give it to you?’ he asks.
‘Of course!’
I open the door of my room to see Saunders wearing the beaming smile I’d predicted, a vast contrast to the cloud that had fallen on it the last time we were together. In his hands is a little box, his fingers cradling it against his chest.
Suddenly I’m nervous. Whatever he has must carry some sort of importance. I thought it was something silly – something to apologize for his crappy attitude towards me. Seeing him looking at me so expectantly, with a charged energy that zaps from his body, makes me think otherwise.
‘Come on in,’ I say. I step aside and open the door wider. My own olive branch and attempt at an apology. Our conversation has bounced around my brain since our last meeting, leaving me to question my words and how they must’ve hurt him. It hasn’t made me feel particularly good.
‘Oh, I …’ He hesitates. He glances down the corridor. Unlike Bram, Saunders is evidently more cautious about entering my room.
‘Come on,’ I say, managing not to laugh while grabbing hold of his arm and pulling him inside. ‘Take a seat,’ I say, pointing at the desk while pulling across an armchair so that I can sit next to him.
I see him glance at something across the room and cringe when I spot yesterday’s bra hanging from a lampshade – I’d been trying to dry it out. Not an easy feat when everything here is permanently moist and soggy. ‘It’s just a bra,’ I explain, as though he’s asked a question.
He nods, his lips pursing. He coughs and shifts in his seat, then reaches out and brushes his fingers over the top of the box, which he’s carefully placed on the table in front of us.
‘So what is this?’ I ask.
‘Since your birth you have been observed.’ He starts with a theatricality that tells me he’s definitely practised. ‘Even before that, when you were still cocooned in your mother, you were being transmitted for all to see. News o
f your arrival shattered the despair and gave a glimmer of hope to –’
‘Saunders!’ I laugh. You’d think I’d be used to people talking about me in this way, but something about it makes me feel uncomfortable. Or maybe embarrassed.
‘Too much?’ he asks, stopping mid-speech.
‘Yep.’
‘I take your point,’ he says, giving himself a shake as though he’s trying to relax. ‘Okay, the short version. From the moment the human race knew you were on your way, you’ve been talked about. As they watched whatever the EPO had to offer – your first tooth, first steps, first word – you became the star of the most intense realiTV show ever created. Those moments have been on repeat for as long as I can remember. We’ve all seen them, but they’re highlights from your life, even if you don’t necessarily remember them.’
‘I don’t want to see me in that Tower,’ I say, the thought of watching my gullible self sitting up there making me feel sick.
‘I understand that. With things the way they are I can understand how the Tower must seem to you now. But there was so much love. There still is. I want you to know that. It’s so easy for things to get tainted …’
‘Mother Nina and Mother Kadi.’
‘Exactly. And others,’ he says, sliding the box across the table so that it sits just inches away. He swipes a flat palm over the top, the motion causing light to fan out. A screen instantly appears. ‘Ever since I was a little boy my dad had been recording and collecting whatever he could. Clips of you up there, interviews, pictures. All important moments of your life.’
‘Is he down here?’
‘He died six months before I made it out of the Tower,’ he says, with surprisingly little emotion in his voice. ‘They didn’t tell me.’
‘I’m sorry.’
‘He was your biggest fan,’ he says, as though he hasn’t heard me. ‘I’m pretty sure he would’ve been down here as a Freever, had it not been for his disability. I would have been his carer, but he gave me to the EPO. Knew I’d be useful to them, and you.’
I think back to how old we must’ve been when I first met his Holly. He was one of the originals, which would’ve made us incredibly young. How difficult must it have been for him, and the others, to leave their parents and live in a strange place? I didn’t know any different, but they were plucked from their homes or offered up, like a sacrifice.
The Eve Illusion Page 14
