Eve of Man

by Giovanna Fletcher

  Our dream of having children began to appear impossible, even though no one could tell your father and me what was happening and why we were having to say goodbye to those tiny souls so prematurely. We gave up hope. We couldn’t risk the same thing happening again and again. My body was considered useless, so my doctor and the team at the hospital wrote me off, like an old car with a faulty engine. We said we were happy not to try again, to leave it there. I couldn’t face another goodbye. I couldn’t face another midwife giving me “that look” at yet another routine scan. I couldn’t bear to go through another fruitless labor. I felt weak, unhappy, and empty. I had to let go of that dream.

  It wasn’t easy, but once the decision was made I felt relieved not to be consumed with longing. Your father and I fell deeper in love, something I’d never thought possible. He loved me in spite of my flaws and failings. He loved ME. We’ve been happy. Really, so very, very happy.

  A month ago I went to the doctor. I was constantly bloated, my breasts were hurting, I was having regular mood swings and was often a little nauseous. A lot of my girlfriends have been going through “the change,” so I’d been putting it all down to that, but I was worried it was something more and wanted to know for certain.

  I laughed so hard when the doctor handed me a pregnancy test—your dad said he heard me from the waiting room. I dutifully peed and headed back to the doctor without waiting for the result. I even handed it to her with an air of “This is ridiculous.” I didn’t expect her to say “Yes, just as I thought” and send me off to be scanned, but that was exactly what happened.

  In that moment I felt fearful and anxious as I collected your father and went to the specialist. Pregnant again. I cried. Your father did too. We were in shock. Then, within seconds, we were laughing in each other’s arms, unable to believe this had happened when we hadn’t planned it. It felt like a gift.

  I held my breath as the technician glided her ultrasound stick over my skin while looking at the screen in front of her. I know I was preparing myself for the worst, because that was what I knew from past experience—all hope and joy eradicated when she muttered the inevitable “I’m sorry.”

  But the stick kept moving and she kept clicking away at the keypad, locking in numbers and measurements.

  The gasp was almost comical. “I’ll be right back,” she said, all fingers and thumbs, the stick wobbling out of her hand and landing on the floor. Your father and I looked at each other in confusion. It didn’t feel like she was about to tell me my baby had died. It felt special. And it was. Five minutes later four other members of the staff entered the room and watched the technician repeat the scan.

  “See?” she said, looking up at them.

  They all turned to me and your father. Their expressions were priceless. Honestly, I’ll never forget those gaping jaws.

  Eventually Vivian stepped forward and introduced herself, then said something along the lines of “Rather remarkably, Mrs. Warren, you’re expecting a girl!”

  Your dad nearly fainted on the spot, but I just cried. Let’s blame the hormones. Instead of sending us home, they asked us to stay in for a few days so I could be monitored properly. Given my history and the fact I’m having a geriatric pregnancy (geri-bloody-atric), I said yes without the slightest hesitation. That was a month ago and I haven’t left since. They haven’t forced me. In fact, it was me who said I wouldn’t mind having regular scans and being taken care of. Plus it’s gone crazy outside. Your dad tried to go home one day to grab some things, but there were floods of people downstairs wanting to talk to him, all asking questions about me and you. The world’s gone nuts. I think we’re happy here. It’s safe, and Vivian’s been a great help in dealing with everything so that we don’t have to.

  So here we are. It’s my eighth pregnancy. I’ve been here before, but this time it feels completely different.

  It is completely different.

  I can’t believe I’m six months pregnant with a girl. I hope this is the start of things changing out there so that you can have a happy and fulfilled future.

  I love you so much already and am doing all I possibly can to get you here safely.

  Love, your Mama xxx

  It’s a story I’ve heard before, but it’s so much better reading my mom’s account of it. It’s heartbreaking yet funny. I wonder if this is how she’d have shared the account every birthday if she were still here. Would she still go on about not having a clue she was expecting me and make me laugh by reenacting the sonographer’s shocked reaction? And would she bridge the gap between Vivian and me? Mom seemed to have been glad of her support, even welcomed it. She didn’t seem bogged down with the pressure of what was expected of her. Instead she sounded like a mother excitedly awaiting the birth of her baby. Another baby she would never watch growing up, as she had dreamed of doing.

  I close the book.

  That’s enough for now.

  18

  BRAM

  I’m feeling better, but I’m still signed off from piloting Holly. The last three days I’ve spent inside that small room in some obscure corner of the Dome have felt more like imprisonment than recovery. I guess it was a prison. I was sent there to keep me silent, to protect my father. Sending me down to medical would have raised too many suspicions. The Mothers were the safest option. It broke protocol, but they don’t ask questions.

  I’m pleased to be back in the dorm, back with Hartman.

  “Dude, it sucked. They’ve not let me leave the dorm,” he explains. “For three days!” He notices my lack of sympathy.

  I point to the small red mark on my forehead from my father’s beating, which is now little more than some barely noticeable scar tissue, thanks to Mother Kadi’s expert sewing. Of course, if I’d been sent to medical there’d be no trace of anything, thanks to the technology they have access to, but I’ve never been shy of scars. I run my rough fingers over the pale, bumpy skin on the back of my left hand.

  * * *

  —

  I’m ten years old and my father lashes down on my knuckles. My tears don’t stop him.

  “You must never speak about yourself to Eve,” he growls through his clenched teeth. “You are not Bram when you are with her. You are not my son when you are with her.”

  You are not my son.

  You are not my son.

  * * *

  —

  I’m back in our dorm, rubbing my hand. Eve’s not the only one with a physical reminder of her father.

  “Jeez, he hit you hard this time, Bram,” Hartman says, lowering his voice.

  “They all hurt the same.” I shrug.

  A slip of paper slides under the thin gap beneath our door.

  Hartman and I look at each other. An assignment? Are we allowed to get back to work at last?

  “Briefing, tonight, nineteen hundred hours,” Hartman says, reading the single line of typed instructions from the paper. He looks at me and smiles. “I guess we’re back!”

  * * *

  —

  The briefing room is alive with the usual whispered excitement that follows any unforeseen event in the Tower. That Hartman and I have been mysteriously absent for three days has not gone unnoticed.

  “Hey, Bram, I read the transcript from your last session,” Jackson calls over the noise. “Playing pretty close to the line, aren’t you?”

  I don’t give him the satisfaction of an answer.

  “What line is that?” Hartman replies.

  Great, here we go.

  “Getting into discussions about her parents. Your parents. It’s all a little real for my liking,” Jackson says while digging chunks of his dinner from his teeth with a toothpick.

  “Well, who gives a shit about your liking, Jackson?” Hartman fans the flames.

  “Be careful, is all I’m saying,” Jackson warns, not
bothering to look at us.

  “You care about us now, Jackson?” Hartman asks sarcastically.

  “Look, I don’t know where you two have been hiding for the past few days, but I imagine it has something to do with what was said in the last session. No one gets away with breaking protocol so blatantly without punishment. Rumor has it that you’ve been holed up in some ward for psychiatric treatment, Bram. That true? Getting things off your chest about your difficult relationship?” Jackson mocks.

  “And where did those rumors start?” my father says, entering the room behind us. The squad members shuffle in their seats awkwardly, instantly becoming more alert and professional in his presence.

  My heart sinks at the sight of him. It’s the first time I’ve seen him since, and I realize I’m touching my head. I snatch my hand away and shake off the memory.

  “There’s too much at stake to waste energy on rumors and lies. This is not the academy. You are not children. You are young men at the epicenter of the most important moment in the history of our species, and your personal issues are of zero importance in comparison to the challenge we face. Now suck it up and let’s get to work,” my father commands.

  I can’t help but feel that his words were meant for me alone. Suck it up and let’s get to work. That was his apology.

  “Potential Number Three,” he begins, wasting no time as he flashes up an image of a young man we’ve not seen before. “Although Potential is no longer appropriate, as it’s absolutely necessary that this partnership is successful.”

  My father talks us through Potential Number Three’s family history, his genetics, his political value, his fertility, his beliefs and morals. “He has been vetted, cross-checked, analyzed, trained, and briefed down to the most detailed level. He is, if it were at all possible, the most perfect match for Eve we have found to date.”

  “On paper,” I interrupt.

  A few heads turn slightly and shoot me awkward looks.

  “Do you have something to add, Bram?” my father asks.

  The room falls silent.

  “Well, it’s just that…” Suddenly I feel unsure of the words flowing from my mouth. “…that it’s not about his intelligence or genetics. That’s not what relationships are based on.”

  “Go on.” My dad nods.

  “So it doesn’t matter if we fill Eve’s head with how perfectly meant to be this or that one is. She’s a young woman with a mind and a heart of her own.”

  Jackson forces a laugh, which I try my best to ignore.

  “She can’t be controlled like that. After what happened last time, you can’t just shove her into a room with one of these guys and expect them to play happy families,” I finish.

  “Thank you, Bram,” my father says calmly. “That’s why we won’t be asking them to do that. It is no longer an option.”

  The squad listens intently. Seems that everyone is as eager as I am to find out what the new plan is.

  “Things are going to take a more scientific approach from now on. Eve is required to have no emotional relationship with Potential Number Three. She doesn’t even need to meet him if she doesn’t wish to. We simply need her cooperation, her compliance, and the procedure will be simple and painless. If it’s successful she could be pregnant next month, which is the time frame we are currently working toward.” My father has finished, standing in front of images showing various statistics and figures about Potential Number Three’s impressive genetic compatibility with Eve.

  We take a moment to absorb the new plan. The approach we need to adopt to persuade Eve to comply with it.

  “Pregnant within a month and she’s not even required to meet him?” I call out. “Is that the way our future begins? Are those the foundations humanity is to rebuild on?”

  I feel the stares of my fellow pilots, obviously not sharing my discomfort with this new arrangement.

  “Any future is better than none at all,” my father says, looking deep into my eyes.

  “Is it?” I reply.

  19

  EVE

  “It sounds so scientific and cold,” I moan, turning to Holly, who’s been lying across the sofa in my room, listening to me vent ever since I left Vivian’s office in a rage ten minutes ago.

  It’s fair to say the encounters haven’t been my main focus over the last week, which is odd for me, seeing as I’ve been working toward them for as long as I can remember. Instead I’ve been preoccupied with thoughts of my parents, Mother Nina, Bram, Holly, Michael, and dealing with the unanswered questions in my mind while trying to understand what is going on. It seems “what is going on” is the successful pairing of me and Potential Number Three, even though we’ve never met.

  As Potentials One and Two have been discounted—I have no idea what they’ve done with Diego’s body and don’t care—I’m stuck with the last option on their shortlist. I wasn’t too shocked by that piece of information, as it seems the obvious thing for them to decide when they’re eager to get things moving. I’ve been told I don’t have to meet Potential Number Three at all. There’d be no roomful of people standing around as we spoke for the first time, no smoke-and-mirrors tactics to vet him. The vital parts of us would come together in a laboratory, the embryos placed later in my womb to incubate and grow.

  I remember Vivian coming to my room two years ago and telling me what would happen after the initial meetings with the Potentials. I’d pick my favorite and would then be permitted to meet him as often as I liked. At the right time, when my body was ready, the Revival would occur. When she revealed what his body would do to mine, I was terrified. “We’ll be there with you,” she said in an attempt to console me, although the thought of the Mothers bearing witness to that act didn’t comfort me.

  Since then plans for the Revival have become more elaborate and detailed, with a week-long ceremony to mark the first stage of the rebirth. During this time I’d come to see the importance and necessity of the deed. No longer am I so bashful at the thought.

  After all Vivian’s preparation, I was surprised to hear her altered plans. Scrapping the ceremony and opting for a scientific route is a dramatic move and vastly different from how I was created.

  “There’ll be fewer variables this way. Less chance of human error,” she said when it was clear I didn’t understand why things were changing. “It’s your decision, of course.”

  “Mine?” I practically choked.

  I didn’t fail to notice the pleasure on her face.

  Now Holly remains tight-lipped. I know exactly what she’s doing. She’s letting me get it all out so she can sweep in and rationalize everything for me once I’m done with my frantic thoughts. She knows there’s no point in interrupting me when I’m like this, as I won’t listen, and I know she must have had a fair idea of what was going to happen in Vivian’s room before I did—so she’s been ready for this reaction. Expecting it, even. It’s no coincidence that I’ve been told about the new procedure on the same day that my Holly has returned after a few days off. It’s all a part of their plan.

  I’ve missed her.

  Him.

  I know they’ve been punishing me by keeping him away and leaving me with the other two for company. It’s Vivian’s way of reminding me that she’s in charge of who comes in and out of the Dome and what goes on here. Mother Nina’s death is no excuse for challenging behavior, not when we’ve been hit by a major security issue and they’ve had to rethink plans that have been years in the making. Vivian is signaling that I have to respect the boundaries they’ve laid out for me, not be so ungrateful or cheeky. And I was incredibly cheeky.

  Asking about the person behind their technology was certainly bold of me. Brazen, even. Going on to admit how much I liked his company was plain foolish on a variety of levels. It was the first time I’ve actually admitted out loud that I know Holly isn’t a real person—although the
y can’t think I’m that dumb, surely. I’m the first and only girl born in fifty years. Who is Holly meant to be if they want me to believe she’s real? Not that I’ve ever cared that she isn’t. It’s never mattered. Like I’ve said before, I’ve always been glad of the company. But now I know that a large part of her is very real. Right now I’m acutely aware that Bram is controlling her and that the only way I get to continue having contact with him is through her.

  I feel disloyal having reached that realization, as though I’m using Holly to get closer to him, but that’s not true. I’ve purposely not asked for him to join me here and tried my hardest not to schedule extra trips to the Drop in the hope of seeing him. I’ve allowed them to control when he’s with me. I’ve managed not to ask after my Holly or point out that things aren’t running according to our normal schedules. I’ve resisted temptation, which hasn’t been the easiest thing to do when I’m starting to see through the cracks.

  I think of my mother and wonder whether I’m wrong to doubt the life they’ve built for me when she was so willing to be here. She put her faith in them and trusted Vivian. She must’ve had good cause to. Plus, I can’t ignore the fact they’re allowing me to make a decision about my future. A decision that’ll affect all of us…

  But then I think of Michael and how he didn’t try to spoil me, of Mother Nina and her husband, and of Bram and Holly, and wonder whether I’ve ever really made a decision or had a true thought, when the facts I’ve been given have been tampered with. My reality has holes in it. I need to start poking around so that I can see things a little more clearly.