Elites of Eden

by Joey Graceffa

  Now, though, we stand out a bit on the obviously poor but clean and orderly street.

  “What happened here?” I murmur.

  “I don’t know,” Lachlan says, shaking his head. “A little while after you were captured, they sent in construction bots to renovate the neighborhoods, one section at a time. The people were all evacuated, I don’t know where. It happened amazingly fast. There were guards posted at the radial streets to whatever circle they were working on, but I managed to sneak past and . . . Have you ever seen vids of an anthill? It was like that. Swarms of thousands of bots scurrying around, cleaning, repairing, rebuilding. Each circle was done within a week. Then the people came back and . . .”

  “Let me guess,” I say grimly. “They don’t remember how it was? They think this is normal?”

  He nods. “It’s better. Safer, cleaner. No one starves. But . . . why?”

  I have no idea. But the Center is obviously messing with people’s minds again. Part of me is awed that they can change the memories of tens of thousands of people so easily. Most of me, though, is disgusted. And frightened. They made a good thing—helping the poor—ugly.

  The mind, the self, is the most important thing we have. How can a human exist if their basic sense of self is threatened?

  Lachlan takes us through a neighborhood I’m not familiar with. “Whose place is this?” I ask as we take the back entrance into an apartment complex.

  Lachlan gives me a half smile. “A mutual friend’s,” he says, and I can’t begin to guess before we knock on a door and are greeted by a cheerful square-jawed face.

  “Rook!” I cry, and throw my arms around him. When I let him go, he’s blushing. But the second he sees Ash he scoops him up and carries him inside.

  I wish I wasn’t seeing Rook in the middle of terror and tragedy. He’s helped me so many times. I’d love to just do something normal with him—introduce him to my brother, then sit around with him and Lachlan talking about our childhoods, our hopes for the future. I feel like Rook could easily be a dear friend. But right now he’s all business. He disappears into his bedroom and comes back with a bag full of assorted medical supplies and medicine.

  He dumps them on the floor and tears through them. “I don’t know much about these. What does he use? Is there anything here that will help him?”

  There are drugs to stop blood clots, to lower blood pressure, to halt heart attacks in their tracks. There’s gauze that stops bleeding instantly, and salves that heal burns within days.

  “Here!” I cry, seizing an inhaler that I’m almost sure is the same as the one he used at home in emergencies. Fumbling, dropping it twice in my haste, I hold it to Ash’s lips.

  “Come on, little brother,” I plead. He’s conscious, looking at me, and his lips move to take the inhaler into his mouth. I nod to signal, and then press on the button to release the aerosol medicine that will help his windpipe open and his lungs clear.

  But it’s too late. I can see his eyes widen in panic as he realizes he can’t inhale deeply enough to even take in the medicine. In a tragic feedback loop the panic makes it harder to breathe, which causes more panic, until he’s just making horrible retching, creaking sounds as he tries, and fails, to get the tiniest breath into his lungs. His face flushes red, then blanches white as he looks at me with wide, desperate, pleading eyes. Save me, they say.

  Then his head falls to the side, and he stops even trying to breathe.

  “Oh, great Earth! No!” I grab Ash and start to shake him. “Wake up! You have to stay with me. You have to breathe!” My voice falls to a whisper. “You have to try . . .”

  Lachlan grabs the inhaler out of my hand and tries to spray it down Ash’s throat. But it’s too late. I watch numbly as Rook tries rescue breathing, but nothing is going in past Ash’s swollen airway. I know his lungs will still be functioning, barely, but nothing can reach them.

  Unless . . .

  The doctors told Mom about a last-ditch, emergency procedure she could do if Ash had an attack so severe, so quick that medicine didn’t help and the hospital would take too long to reach. A thing to do when all other hope was gone.

  But it is a desperate act, and it terrifies me.

  “I need a knife!” I cry, and instantly Lachlan hands me a folding blade from his back pocket. But it is a heavy knife, dull from utilitarian tasks. I have no doubt that in a fight he could shove it between someone’s ribs, but it won’t work for this. “I need something very sharp and fine. In the kitchen, hurry!”

  Rook is halfway there before I call, “Wait! And a tube, a straw, a baster—anything hollow. And alcohol!”

  He’s gone, with a look of frenzied determination, and I count the seconds. How long since Ash took his last breath? How long until it is too late? Past a certain point, his brain will be damaged, his organs will begin to fail from lack of oxygen. A minute longer than this, and he’ll be gone.

  It feels like forever, but it can’t be more than a minute before Rook comes back with a slim, sharp paring knife and a long fancy straw twisted in a figure eight, the kind they use for tall, fruity drinks. In his other hand he has a bottle of anisette liqueur. Low proof, but it will have to do.

  “Open it,” I command, and when he hands me the open bottle I pour it over the knife and straw.

  I don’t let myself think about what I’m doing. I just force my body to go through the motions. This isn’t Ash on the verge of death. This isn’t his pale throat I’m slicing into.

  I feel along his skin, finding the bulge of his Adam’s apple, the dip below, and the smaller lump of cartilage. The dip is where I must cut. Steadying my hands, I press the knife into his flesh. Too gently! His skin dips beneath the point of the blade, but the knife doesn’t make an incision. I remember another time when I wasn’t tentative or timid with a knife. The time I opened a Greenshirt’s throat before he could kill Lachlan. So much blood . . .

  I can’t be timid. I can’t hesitate. Steeling myself, I press harder, and see his skin part in a fine line, half an inch wide. I cut half an inch deep. I remember what my mother told me. Just a little bit too deep, and his windpipe could be severed.

  I pinch the wound from the side, making it gape open. There’s hardly any blood. Then I slide the straw in, angling it down. If only the obstruction is up high. If only his entire windpipe isn’t swollen shut. I say a silent prayer to the Earth before I blow gently into the straw. It feels like the air is moving into his lungs. I pause, and blow again.

  Three more breaths, and he begins breathing on his own, sucking narrow streams of life-giving air through the twisty straw.

  He’s alive. For now.

  ASH IS WHEEZING through the straw. His eyes are closed but I don’t think he’s actually unconscious. I think he’s exhausted.

  I am, too. Physically and emotionally drained.

  “Lark . . . ,” Lachlan begins.

  I shake my head. “Not yet.” If I have to talk about her loss right now, I’ll break down. I have to keep the last reserves of my strength—physical and emotional—to help Ash.

  “Rest a little while, and make sure he’s stable,” Lachlan suggests. “Then when he can walk we can bandage him and make our way to the Underground.”

  I nod, and smooth the hair away from Ash’s pale and clammy brow. Rook goes to get us some water. “What did you find out there?” I ask in a low voice. I want to ask the crucial question: did you find my forest? But that is too blunt. I can’t bear a no, so I make it open ended and wait.

  “I found sand,” he says. “Sand, and heat, and death. Oh Rowan, I’m so sorry about Lark.”

  I stare at the floor, trying to push the emotion away. I’ve managed to stay strong so far, to help Ash. I told myself I wouldn’t mourn for Lark until I was alone, until Ash was safe in the Underground. But my grief is so overwhelming I can’t fight it anymore. The tears begin, but they’re quiet o
nes.

  This is my fault. All of it. Ash’s trauma, and Lark’s death. If I hadn’t led them on this suicidal mission into the desert . . .

  No, the blame started long before that. I became responsible for all this tragedy the moment I poked my head over the wall of our family compound. If I’d just done what I was supposed to and stayed hidden, I would never have met Lark, never put her at risk. Ash would still be a student with an impossible crush on his best friend. Mom would still be alive.

  I start to sob at last, the sorrow for Lark joining the great ocean of things I mourn. Even stronger than the sorrow is the guilt I feel. Lark would still be alive if it wasn’t for me.

  From the corner of my eye, I see Lachlan move as if to hold me. He stops himself. I can tell he feels helpless. He’s a fixer. He wants to take whatever is wrong and make it right. Or better, at least. But there’s nothing he can do for this pain.

  “Tell me what you need, Rowan,” he says softly.

  Lark, I want to say. Mom. Safety. Security.

  “Time,” I say at last. How many meanings that word has. Time, as in space to process and heal before I have to talk about her loss. Time, as in more with her. Time, as in why didn’t you come sooner, Lachlan?

  I dry my tears. There’s still work to do. “You found nothing, then? No sign of the forest I saw?”

  He shakes his head. “But that doesn’t mean it’s not there. How far out did you run the day of the earthquake?”

  “It felt like less than a mile, but it could have been more. I don’t know.”

  “I couldn’t make it a mile. The suit started to fail, and I had to turn around. I didn’t see anything.” His voice is gentle. He doesn’t want to hurt me with the truth. But he knows he has to tell me. “I made it maybe three-quarters of a mile from the bean trees. If there had been a forest a mile away or a little more, I should have been able to see it.”

  “Not if there’s some kind of camouflage, or shielding technology,” I say, grasping for any possibility. The bean trees have mirror tech so no one from inside of Eden can see them even though they tower all around the border. Every cell in their artificial surface reflects an image of the exact opposite side, so that no matter what angle you look at them from (from far away) they are invisible. Maybe there’s something like that at the edge of the desert, so no matter how close you get you can’t see beyond it to the rest of the world until you actually cross the boundary.

  “It’s possible,” Lachlan says. “But for now I think we have to accept that we can’t prove it. We can try again, when things are more settled. Now isn’t a good time, though.”

  I look at him narrowly. “You don’t just mean until Ash is safe, do you? There’s more going on.”

  “Yes, but I shouldn’t talk about it.”

  I feel my anger rising. “After all I’ve done, all I’ve been through, you can’t tell me what your big plans are? Don’t you owe me that much at least?”

  “It’s not that I don’t want to. But . . .”

  “Oh, I know. The Center might still be in my brain. You can’t trust me.”

  “I trust you completely, Rowan,” he says. “I don’t trust them. I don’t entirely like what Flint is planning, but if it works, it could mean an incredible change. And if it gets discovered before it is put into action, it could compromise the entire Underground. We’ve been safe down there for generations. I can’t do anything to put it at risk.”

  I think of Rainbow and the other kids, the trusting second children who would be killed or maybe experimented on like I was if they were discovered. “I get it, Lachlan, I really do. It’s just . . .”

  “I know. You’ve lost so much. You want to fight, too. Believe me, I know.”

  After that we wait in silence until Ash comes to. He has a moment of panic when he can’t breathe normally, but once he figures out what I’ve done he slowly calms. When he can walk, Lachlan bandages his throat in such a way as to make the straw less noticeable.

  “Thanks, big brother,” Lachlan says as he hugs Rook tight.

  “I’ll come with you,” Rook says. “It might be easier traveling with a Greenshirt. Anyone gives you trouble, I can always badge ’em.” He flashes his open, affable grin.

  “If you don’t mind,” Lachlan says.

  Rook punches him playfully on the shoulder. “Mind? Get real. I . . .”

  He’s interrupted by a beep, and checks his com. “Bikk, they’re calling me in to work. I’m not supposed to be on duty for another two days. Want me to call in sick?”

  “That’s okay,” Lachlan says. “We should be fine.”

  Rook looks uncertain, biting his lip, then he nods. “Okay. Whatever you say. Hey, when you get a chance, bring this lady over for dinner. I’d say invite me to your place, but . . .”

  Lachlan laughs. “It’s not that I don’t trust you . . .”

  “I know, I know.” Rook gives me the tiniest peck on the cheek. “Good to see you again, Rowan. Take care.”

  “You too, Rook. And thanks.”

  And then, very slowly and carefully, we make our way back to the Underground.

  By the time we get there, Lachlan is carrying Ash again. It attracts stares, but we don’t have a choice. It would have been better to make the descent by night, but I case the side streets for half an hour, making sure no one is around when I finally beckon Lachlan. We lift the grate and I slide down first. A moment later Ash slithers down, and I pull him out of the way before Lachlan comes right behind him. Strangely, there are no sentries on duty along the passageway through the cave system.

  When we finally enter the vast crystal chamber, Lachlan is near his end. His knees are shaking, and his voice is ragged when he calls out to anyone who can hear him, “We need help!” When he puts Ash down—a little more roughly than he intended—I see his hands are shaking, too.

  People rush to our aid. “We need a doctor,” I say. “We need Flame!”

  But before anyone can properly help us, Flint shoulders his way through the crowd, the ever-present Adder at his side. He looks furious. I spring up with my hands on my hips before he can utter a word.

  “No!” I say loudly and firmly to him. “Whatever you have to say, it can wait. Right now my brother needs medical help.” Around us, a crowd is gathering. I can tell they are anxious to help us but don’t quite dare pass Flint.

  “You bring trouble wherever you go,” he says to me in a voice filled with contempt. “And you lead our people astray.” He glances at Lachlan, who for the moment looks too exhausted to care. “How dare you steal our resources, risk the life of a second child, defy me, all to chase some delusion that was planted in your cerebral cortex? We took you in, Rowan. We risked a lot to save your brother, and later you.”

  I stifle a near-hysterical laugh. “You let Lachlan try to rescue Ash because you wouldn’t mind if he was killed! He’s the only one here who stands up to you. And it was Lark who saved me when I was at Oaks and didn’t know who I was. You’ve done nothing!”

  He looks at me grimly. “We let you live. I’m beginning to think that was a mistake.”

  “Please, just help Ash,” Lachlan says, rising unsteadily to his feet. “We can argue and play power games later, but right now he needs a doctor.”

  “Well now, I don’t know if I feel inclined to help your big brother, Rowan,” Flint says, folding his arms across his chest and smiling unpleasantly. “What is he to us, after all?”

  I hear grumbles from the crowd, which has swollen to at least a dozen. “But it’s Ash,” I hear someone say. “Help him,” another murmurs. They look confused, upset. This isn’t what the Underground is about.

  “We help our own,” Flint says, steel in his voice. “He’s a first child. He’s not our problem.”

  Iris steps up out of the crowd. “We took him in, Flint,” she says. “We made him our problem. He needs us.” She
forces her way past him and bends to examine Ash. “We can’t just care about second children, Flint. We have to care about all children if we want humanity to survive. All children, and all people.”

  Flint doesn’t even have the decency to look ashamed. “We’ll help your brother, and then he’s out of here. Second children first—that’s the way it has to be. He and that busybody friend of yours, Lark, have to go by dark.” He doesn’t even notice she’s not with us.

  Hearing her name sends a stab of pain through my heart, but I hold firm. “You can’t kick Ash out. The Center will find him. They’ll put him in prison. He won’t survive!”

  “Not our issue. From now on, only second children are under our protection.”

  I take a deep breath and finally say it. “Ash is a second child. I’m the firstborn.” I tell them how my mother was carrying twins, how his respiratory abnormality made it necessary to pass him off as the firstborn. I hear gasps, murmurs of sympathy.

  Not from Flint, though. “Then come nightfall, you both leave. You’re no longer welcome in the Underground. Not after the trouble you brought to us.”

  “What trouble?” I ask.

  “We caught a trespasser trying to break into the Underground.” Before I can ask what that has to do with me, he turns and stalks away, and as he leaves I hear him say, “Help the boy, then send Rowan to the interrogation chamber. She has a lot to answer for.”

  I try to tell myself all that matters is that Ash gets help. Interrogation chamber? I vividly remember my first moments in the Underground, feeling like I was drowning with a soaking wet bag over my head, while Flint hurt and frightened me. It was a test to make sure I wouldn’t break if I was caught, to see if I could be trusted. I guess I still haven’t proven myself trustworthy. Me, and whatever else besides me is lurking in my brain. What’s going to happen this time in the interrogation room? Is it for the trespasser . . . or for me?

  Ash first. Iris is directing people to help him up, and two of the stronger men scoop him up. Before they take him away, Ash’s eyes flutter open. He holds out a hand to me, and I ask the men to wait.